Totem 2017 - Gannon University

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

2017

Totem is Gannon University’s annual student-produced literaryart magazine containing poetry, short stories, prose, artwork, and photography submitted by the students, faculty, and staff of Gannon University. Totem strives to highlight the creative talents of those in our university community by sampling a diverse range of artistic media and perspectives.

All work is judged anonymously and on the merit of the individual work, and the work of the Gannon student is given first priority throughout the process. Totem is published in early spring of each year and is distributed free of charge throughout the Gannon campus.

Submissions can be delivered to the English Department or the Totem office, both located in the A.J. Palumbo Academic Center, or emailed to totem@gannon.edu by the end of the fall semester.

No part of this magazine may be reproduced without written permission of the artists and writers whose works appear.

Gannon University 109 University Square Erie, Pennsylvania 16541-0001 814.871.5886 www.gannon.edu I

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Totem 2017

Totem 2017

CREDITS Editor Leigh Tischler Marketing Editor and Totem Pink Starburst Julia Fulton Assistant Editor Veronica Kowalski Advisor Berwyn Moore

General Staff and Assemblers Nicole Borro Augusta Deacon Isabel Foltz Kelsey Ghering Ryan Hamilton Angela Jeffery Yasmin Mamani Ally Owens Elizabeth Rodriguez

Creative Director Andrew Lapiska Poetry/Prose Judges Kathryn Kapp Berwyn Moore Becky Schmidt Art Reviewers Nicole Borro Isabel Foltz Lizzie Gauriloff Kelsey Ghering Heather Gilmartin Douglas King Berwyn Moore Ally Owens Elizabeth Rodriguez Penny Smith Leigh Tischler Jennie Vaughn Madelyn Zurinsky

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Totem 2017

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS More thanks than I can express in words are deserved by the following people.

Berwyn Moore for her loving dedication to the process of Totem and her patience with me through it all— without your gifts, the wall of awards in the Totem office wouldn’t exist, and the Gannon community wouldn’t have an outlet for its creative voice.

Andrew Lapiska for his diligent work interpreting my nebulous dream for Totem and Patrick Celline for translating it all into three dimensions.

Ryan Hamilton, freshman marketing major, for his beautiful painting, “Summer Dreams,” that graces the cover.

The gifted writers and artists of Gannon University whose work appears in these pages—for their varied and impressive creative ability and the bravery to share it.

Everyone who entrusted their work to this year’s Totem, whether their work was accepted or not. These contributions are the spirit and lifeblood of Totem.

The editorial staff: Veronica Kowalski for her support and flexibility and Julia Fulton for being Totem’s one and only pink Starburst. The general staff and assemblers for doing the glamorous work and being good sports about it.

The prose and poetry judges, Kathryn Kapp, Berwyn Moore, and Becky Schmidt, for dedicating the time and considerable energy to sift through more than 100 pages of submissions.

The art reviewers, Douglas King, Berwyn Moore, Kelsey Ghering, Lizzie Gauriloff, Jennie Vaughn, Ally Owens, Heather Gilmartin, Elizabeth Rodriguez, Isabel Foltz, Nicole Borro, Penny Smith, and Madelyn Zurinsky, for taking the time out of a busy day to consider the art submissions.

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Totem 2017

Totem 2017

EDITOR’S NOTE When it came to designing Totem, I found myself trying to fill sizable shoes. The editors of yesteryear have proven capable of marrying practicality and creativity.

The child of such a union is a Totem whose design reflects the creativity inside.

The binding that I selected is known as a “gate binding.”

This style of binding made me think of our own dear university, the very community that Totem is designed to represent. Upon my arrival as a fresh-faced first year student four short years ago, I was brought to the Gannon Arch to take the obligatory class photo.

Gannon’s very own gate.

As an English major, my brain has been hardwired to find symbolism and beauty in everything. Sometimes this can be overwhelming—it can take a long time to smell all the flowers. But sometimes it comes in handy— like when you have to come up with the design for the Totem front cover.

A gateway is a container. It is built to hold in the contents of whatever it’s put in front of, to be an entrance, an invitation, and a starting point.

About the judging process: My staff and I took great care to select the written and artistic works that are published in Totem. All work was judged anonymously on its literary and artistic merit.

The judging panel for the written work consisted of an undergraduate student, a graduate student, and a faculty member, who were not permitted to submit their work to Totem. The authors’ names were removed and each piece was assigned a log number. After reading and rereading the submissions, the judges met and discussed each submission one by one to choose those that best represent the university. For the art, we invited a mix of students and faculty members to score their choices of work, which also had the names of the artists removed.

We’re grateful to every artist and writer who submitted their work this year. We encourage those whose work was not accepted for this issue to submit it again for future issues. Our submission pool is open to all students in all majors, to faculty across the disciplines, and to alumni.

Totem serves these functions as well. This gateway contains the soul and creativity of our rich community.

Consider this book your invitation, and dive in.

-Leigh Tischler, ‘17

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POETRY 2 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 18 19 20 21 22 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 34 35 36 37 38

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TO THE MULBERRY TREE Ross Gay THE MORNING AFTER I REALIZED YOU DID NOT LOVE ME Sara Borro RUNS IN THE FAMILY Kelsey Ghering PALA PALA KD RIDING THE “E” ON A SATURDAY MORNING Lizzie Gauriloff RECIPE FOR CHRISTMAS EVE Bethany Lewis OLD WOMAN Prakash Subba ASTORINO BOTTLING CO. Kelsey Ghering TREE OF LIFE Emily Larimer LOITER Kate Robb SNAPSHOTS OF A SUMMER DRIVE Jeanette Long A DAY LIKE ANY OTHER Angela Jeffery ARE ACTIONS STRONGER THAN WORDS? Robin Quick SHARING SANTA Lindsay Brewster LOVES CLASH KD MY FIGHT Roman Denisyuk A CLOSET FULL OF MEMORIES Elizabeth Rodriguez THE RAINSTORM Zach Aszalos A RANT AGAINST THE MAN Josiah Leach RUNNING THROUGH MY MIND Angela Jeffery I DON’T BELONG Roman Denisyuk WAVES OF WORDS Morgan Behr THE SOLEMN SENESCENCE OF A SAILOR Kyle Rodewald A LETTER Kelsey Ghering EGGPLANT Julia Fulton WADING Stephen Craig SEASONS OF HAIKUS Melissa Daltner WE WILL BE BETTER Kate Robb ABANDONED AT AIRPORTS AND ADVENTURING ABANDONED AIRPORTS Madeline Rowley UNWRAPPED Carol Hayes THE WISDOM William Driver THE HOUSE THAT GRIEF BUILT Angela Jeffery FOR THE PROBABLE KILLER OF EDWIN DROOD Karalyn Headley

Totem 2017

Totem 2017

ART 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67

MUSIC FOR MILLENNIALS Olivia Burger SERENITY Samantha Griswold LEAFY Maggie Rutkowski HORSESHOE POND REFLECTIONS II Andrew Lapiska STEPS BEACH, RINCÓN, P.R. Andrea Rodriguez SUMMER DREAMS Ryan Hamilton AWESTRUCK Heidi Noyes TRANQUILITY Morgan Pelinsky ATLANTIS AQUARIUM, PARADISE ISLAND, BAHAMAS Andrea Rodriguez ABANDONED BEAUTY Maggie Rutkowski VARIETY STORE Andrew Lapiska IN BLOOM Ashley Rega ALONE IN THE UNIVERSE Katie Galgozy GRAND PRISMATIC sara Borro THE WOLF Katie Galgozy LETTING GO Samantha Griswold PLAYA PEÑA BLANCA, AGUADILLA, P.R Andrea Rodriguez QWERTY Maggie Rutkowski OCTOBER WALK Samantha Griswold CHROMO-CHAMELEON Ryan Hamilton CONTEMPLATION Andrew Lapiska PEACE-LUCK-HANG Ashley Rega SUNSET DREAMS Mohammed Obaid Alotaibi BLOTCHES AND BLOSSOMS Ryan Hamilton ZOOLÓGICO DE MAYAGÜEZ, MAYAGÜEZ, P.R Andrea Rodriguez STOPPING BY THE WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING Anthony Esposito SEARCH FOR THE LIGHT santosh Bhusal SOMETIMES THEY SEE IT COMING Garret Roth

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Totem 2017

PROSE 70 72 77 80 84 85 86 88 90 92 94 96 98 102

A BOY SCOUT, BLOW TORCH, BONFIRE, AND A BIRCH TREE Julia Fulton WHITE AND YELLOW ROSES Sara Borro AND IT WAS GOOD Jeanette Long THE AMULET Zach Aszalos THIS BIRD HAUNTS ME Kaylee Luchansky MAGNETS Nicole Borro LETTER TO A FOUR-YEAR-OLD Leigh Tischler MY LAST LEGAL MEAT Elias Kerr EIGHT MINUTES UNTIL LANDING Morgan Cratty HANK WILLIAMS JR. JUNIOR Julia Fulton I MET SOMEONE Leigh Tischler IS MY HAND ON THE MENU? Molly Ramich PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE Leigh Tischler CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES

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Totem 2017

POETRY

Ross Gay

TO THE MULBERRY TREE Everyone knows it’s good luck if inconvenient when a bird shits on you but even moreso good luck if the bird shits on you when you’re plucking gold currant tomatoes sweet enough to make your bare feet lift just so off the ground and the beetles beneath scurry and giggle and as I move to gobble one mouth agape and swooped in a grin at once the shit slurries half in and half on my sun-warmed chin which forgive me jiggles me from my reverie for I am only human swiping the slurp of turd from my mouth only to see it is mostly purple the goop seedy and gelatinous and when I see the bird pitching his swill from the branch above I know that yes this shit is mostly berry from that most prolific of trees which some numbskulls call a weed because it’s so prolific and not, they say, particularly

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useful, these same some call insipid the mulberry’s flavor which I think means tasteless or bland but given I detect swirled in the shit the sweet of the thing insipid doesn’t fit the bill but rather most likely describes the sex life of the describer but why should I get personal defending a tree’s honor mostly I’m happy the birds feast on the top-most branches of these tall trees and leave be for the time being my blueberries and soon blackberries and grapes and these little tomatoes though to be sure it is a certain glee as spring gasps into summer and the lowest branches shimmer with their simple booty which I must jump for and sometimes high which I will not, probably, always be able to do, for jumping and grabbing at once like this a soft thing is hard be gentle she said emerging from the dugout beneath the mulberry tree where the big kids gathered

Totem 2017 | POETRY

and we mostly rode our bikes by fast so as not to be snatched to the ground and pummeled or worse for they were teenagers but I knew this early July morning they would be nowhere to be found and the tree would be burdened with a crop begging to be loosed on my ice cream she wiped her eyes and yawned and put on glasses and there was in her hair a small sprig of grass and she was barefoot laughing and filling with me slowly my bucket eating a few when it was full giggling at the small burst of juice one made on her chin and behind her beneath the tree there was a filthy blanket and a pack of cigarettes and tinfoil wrappers crumpled and shimmering and the frayed remnants of a rope and seeing me seeing into the terrible future she put softly one hand on my chin and the other in my hair turning my head away from what wreckage waited in there and back into the leaves, which too I will do to you,

so that none of us will ever die terribly, but stay always like this, lips and fingers blushed purple, the faint sugar ghosting our mouths, beneath the tree inside me, which is the same tree now grown inside you: the three of us snugged in the canopy on our tippy-toes, gathering fruit for good.

“To The Mulberry Tree” from Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude. University of Pittsburgh Press 2015. Used with permission of the author.

Totem 2017 | POETRY

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Sara Borro

THE MORNING AFTER I REALIZED YOU DID NOT LOVE ME I will always remember you in the mornings, drinking coffee, drenched in sunlight and my finger prints.

I will remember how desperately I wished the rim of your cup was my lips, and that you needed me as much as you needed the caffeine.

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

Kelsey Ghering

RUNS IN THE FAMILY I’m leaving in three days to count pills, fill bottles with Prilosec because the OTC stuff doesn’t get a discount.

Tear labels to warn people of dizziness and the acid from grapefruits.

(What is it about cholesterol meds that they can’t take down a grapefruit?)

“You’ll have to think about what you want eventually.”

This isn’t a Hallmark movie, Brian. Oftentimes my parents’ pulp is much stronger than me -You can still visit at the pharmacy.

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KD

PALA PALA Buea, Southwest Cameroon Soppo is in the arena Nkosamba the referee is here too Clad in his traditional tracksuit He will tell who wins or not We too are watching for the winner We gathered from all corners Ready to watch the wrestlers Lock hands while the njimbi plays To their movements Ndenge the cat moves with agility Putting down every challenger The women dance in his victory While the maidens eye him with lust Our own champion, Njie the cat, Dances to the njimbi’s rhythms Waiting for his turn to thrill the crowd So we wait to dance in his victory The star fight, the girls come Will Etonde fight this time again?

Soppo’s champion forever Ndolo from Bokwango has moved On to the world stage, here she started It’s pala pala time and the songs Celebrate the victors and the vanquished At the end of it all, everyone Is a winner as We go home Young boys eyeing the maids To woo after, the winners more chance, As couples are made forever I too was once a wrestler Pala pala time is here and now

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

Lizzie Gauriloff

RIDING THE “e” ON A SATURDAY MORNING To my left sits a mother.

Her white t-shirt and grey sweatpants splattered by the sticky fingers and clumsy hands of the three children around her.

The dark circles under her eyes telling the story of her late nights and early mornings.

She speaks quickly in a language that rolls off her tongue like a child on a slide.

The youngest boy replies, “But Mom!” while she continues to speak words no one else understands.

To my right sits a young girl,

maybe six years old, trying to talk to a stranger, but he won’t take out his headphones.

Her pigtails and leotard mean nothing to him as he stares straight ahead with a stoic frown.

In the back corner of the bus sits a man.

His overcoat tattered and torn.

He says nothing and does nothing, but he watches.

He watches as passengers come and go.

With no destination of his own.

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Bethany Lewis

RECIPE FOR CHRISTMAS EVE Soften dried mushrooms in water and cook them in sauerkraut juice for soup.

Simmer it on the back burner.

In the biggest pot full of water, boil bags of pirohi in batches.

As you carefully swap them out, carefully cut open the bags and carefully let the pirohi fall into warm crockpots.

They’re hot.

Don’t rush.

Slice lots of onions.

(Don’t forget the onions.)

Get a pan, melt lots of butter.

Drop in the onions, piling them high, and cook them down to golden softness.

Don’t drop onions too near the dog.

Don’t trip over him, either.

Find another pot.

Melt more butter.

Grab a wooden spoon.

Sauté sauerkraut until it looks right.

(Then check with Baba just in case.)

Change the water in the big pot.

Bring it back to a boil.

Boil bobiki briefly, then scoop it out.

(Imitate Baba’s technique.)

Dump most in a roaster with the kraut.

Put some in a bowl with butter.

(Poll the house–how many eat sauerkraut now?

Proportion accordingly.)

Say grace: “Bless us, O Lord” and “Baruch ata Adonai Eloheinu.”

Serve soup, then bobiki and kraut, then pirohi.

Joke about the story where the father takes another drink: read only once and soon lost when Kevin’s wife of 30 years was his girlfriend, but referenced every year since.

Dip nut roll, apricot roll, poppyseed roll in honey.

Crack walnuts.

Oldest to youngest, blow out a candle and use the smoke to forecast the year.

Get very specific.

Try not to laugh too hard.

Takes all evening.

Serves 11, with leftovers and memories.

Second Place Gannon University 2016 Poetry Contest, Undergraduate Category

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

Prakash Subba

OLD WOMAN Jhapa, Nepal Oh, dear old woman, what do you see?

Fear of death or joy of tomorrow.

Oh, dear old woman, what do you feel?

Ache in your heart or peace in your mind?

At the edge of time, Do you think of yourself like a sun that is about to set?

Or like a new morning sun that is about To shine again?

Your legs are tired, aren’t they?

Your body wants to rest.

But your mind wants to travel And your heart wants to be refreshed.

Your feet want to touch the soil of the beach Your fingers want to touch the flowing stream Your eyes want to see the mountains And your nose wants to smell the daffodils.

Dear old woman, I hear your mourns I see your tears and hear your heartbroken cries Your prayers of lamentation in the middle of every night.

Dear old woman, don’t give up You’re still breathing, you can endure a bit of pain For the reward you are going to get, Maybe not in earth but unerringly in heaven.

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Kelsey Ghering

ASTORINO BOTTLING CO. Half bottles of Rolling Rock sound glassy toasts toward the family.

It took me 20 years to figure out why Papa always brought out six packs at holidays, and the same amount of time to gratefully accept the bubbles for giving Christmas dinner the halo of an unscathed Nativity set and garland running the staircase that my five-year-old self remembers.

I’m a very behind and a little buzzed as I follow Aunt Susie on our Easter hike to the city overlook.

Sam asks where city hall is and I tell him to look for the mirrors.

Being above the town makes the buildings look like chess pieces, but illusion of power is not a bitter I want to taste.

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Grandma’s boots are too big around my ankles as we skid around mud puddles on the way back.

I can still taste the California wine no one else would drink, and I hope my brothers can’t still smell it.

The virgin Mary is peering at us from someone else’s grotto as we reach the moss-covered rocks that almost serve as a fence.

It’s like someone took pieces of their favorite mountain and dumped them at the edge of Grandma’s yard.

My mouth is dry as my brothers race up the hill to the front door.

Aunt Susie jokes that she’s hungry again.

I tell her I could use another drink.

First Place Gannon University 2016 Poetry Contest, Undergraduate Category

Totem 2017 | POETRY

Emily Larimer

TREE OF LIFE (October 7, 2016) Oh, dear old woman, what do you see?

“When it is scarred,” you began, and I thought of myself as I was wounded in my body, mind, spirit.

“The tree never heals,” you said as we stood in the forest, sunlight filtering down through the leaves.

I could hear the river rushing by, flowing, gurgling.

I was aware of everything, all around me, but it all seemed so surreal.

It was like a dream, except in waking.

I had to distance myself from the cold,

hard facts— that I was so damaged, so hurt, so abused, used, misused, mistreated, cast away.

I was that tree.

I was broken.

I was scarred, but I had to keep on living.

“But,” came that vital word, the word that can hold life or death.

From your lips came words of redemption, the mantra I took to my heart, so I could heal: “As the tree grows, the scar gets smaller.”

Totem 2017 | POETRY

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Kate Robb

LOITER

Have you ever noticed how sometimes the moon loiters, even when the sun has already risen to the sky?

There is something beautiful about that.

I’d like to know what the moon is thinking when he chooses to hang unwavering, even when he knows he does not belong.

Maybe the moon understands that together he and the sun have a unique opportunity to unite and light up the vast sky in simply the most breathtaking way.

Or maybe the sun politely asks the moon to leave, but he decides that for a few moments, he would like to show the sun that she can share the spotlight.

And maybe once the sun realizes the attention that together they have drawn, she will ask the moon to come back, to make this a tradition.

Why can’t we all loiter like the moon, even when we do not believe it is our chance to shine?

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

Jeanette Long

SNAPSHOTS OF A SUMMER DRIVE Driving down Springcreek Road, I watched the golden fields fly by And counted telephone poles, Even though I knew sometimes it made me sick To focus on one thing.

Looking from the back into the rearview mirror, I spied on my parents living their separate lives in front of me Driver and passenger, Unaware of just how much I could see.

Wetness beaded on mom’s upper lip Caught in the fine hairs While dad’s brown scarred hands turned up the radio And John’s cool voice reminded us of Rocky Mountains.

I longed for crisper air Over the smell of cigarette smoke And collective family sweat.

Dad pointed to where he used to hunt, Back when he was a boy, “No higher than a grasshopper’s knee.”

He flicked ashes out the open window As we drove past the tree He perched in when he killed his first doe.

The backseat was sticky on my legs The vinyl slick from my sweating thighs.

The car was growing warmer with memories That had nothing to do with me.

“Remember my old Trans-Am?” He asked her in a low voice, Placing his worn hand on her leg.

He gestured down a passing dirt road Then winked at my mom twice.

I shifted in the backseat An intruder in their shared memories.

Alone in my rear seat cocoon I did not pay attention when Mom changed the station, Her favorite one out of reach.

The twang of a guitar from the Oldsmobile radio Prompted you both to smile.

And you sang together, not very well, With your faces glowing orange in the setting sun.

The lyrics poured out of tune from open mouths While mom tapped the beat on her steering wheel.

The singer’s wail grew as he sang of love lost Love gained, and love returned.

And though I tried to sing along I didn’t know the words and didn’t try too hard.

Because I saw the way Mom looked, While Hank’s lyrics pushed and prompted the Two back into simpler times.

Her eyes bouncing back and forth between the road, my father, And a time without me.

Their hands clasped, They couldn’t help that they were still in love.

The song ended and night settled in As we pulled into the driveway.

Hands went back to their respective laps And eyes focused back on today, Gathering purses, bags, coats and keys.

I unstuck myself from the plastic seat and walked Towards our home—the place where three people made a family.

My parents sat in the car a few moments longer Dad lit another cigarette, a glowing beacon In the dark car, a shadow of the former sun.

Honorable Mention Gannon University 2016 Poetry Contest, Graduate Category

Totem 2017 | POETRY

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Angela Jeffery

A DAY LIKE ANY OTHER March 16, 2001 It was a day like any other The twins were turning six Birthdays come once a year Happily At least when you’re young There was sun and there was snow Because that is March in Erie It isn’t anything Really We just endure it until summer

Fifteen years is far away But there are days Even now Honestly When it seems like last week Mom, dad and my sister at the door (My sister had to drive them) “It was bad. Jimmy’s gone.”

Unfathomably My brother taken from me

There was a party planned Decorations, a cake on the table A knock on the door Sadly The knock no one wants to hear

The Pennsylvania freak snow storm The one we just accept Wasn’t benign that day for my family Illusory Control suddenly slipped away

Still, it was a day like any other Others have experienced it And many more will Regularly Because that is life

Yes, it was a day But it was unlike any before or after At least for me Prospectively Nothing will ever quite be the same

Death and life go hand in hand I don’t know the endgame I am left in the tension Routinely It is a day like any other Or . . .

It seems that way sometimes in my mind looking back on it Retrospectively I can detach myself from the scene

So, truthfully, it was...

A day like none other A day I never wanted to see Irrevocably A day that is a part of me

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

Robin Quick

ARE ACTIONS STRONGER THAN WORDS? The raindrops sat silently

upon the windshield Until they were wiped away

by the driving blade.

The letters sat rigid and precise

Until they were erased with one

upon the page stroke of the pencil.

And so was our friendship

so fun and lively Swept away violently by the

slashing sickle of a sentence.

How is it that a group of words

could so utterly destroy

something built with love and concern?

Behind those words lay only caring,

only concern,

only friendship.

Now only one question remains to be answered: Can bitterness and hurt be carried away

by the slow motion of time?

Totem 2017 | POETRY

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Lindsay Brewster

SHARING SANTA Propelled inside by the arctic outside; we adjust to the fever.

Teaming with adults, eager, red-nosed youngsters, and I, the non-believer.

The small boy next to me is wailing about toys, and standing in the line.

I scoff at his gullibility, wondering if telling him the truth would stifle his dreadful whine.

Shedding the layers, kicking off our boots, and rushing to get ahead.

In our sight, right in the center, behold the man in red.

My brother fidgets in his spot.

I mutter, “stand still.”

He glares at my command.

“I only want one picture,” Mom pleads as we bicker.

I huff and tug her hand.

I look all around this dusty, tired library, with stories new and old.

Several Christmas books are displayed on the mantle decked with tinsel of gold.

My eyes find my friend ahead.

I call for her.

This assembly is too loud.

“Hey!” I shout.

She turns her head; she muscles through the crowd.

The walls are adorned with paper snowflake decor to foster the holiday spirit.

A radio is playing carols, but the chatter from the crowd denies the gift to hear it.

“I’ll ask for a doll!”

She merrily crows, until my brother cuts in, “Dolls are boring.”

I boast, “No point.”

Mom stifles what I begin.

I watch as parents and kin in a crooked, cramped line, in ignorance, wait their turn.

Mom brushes off the snowflakes in my hair then smiles at my concern.

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Mom gives me a look her silent words urging, “keep it to yourself.”

I roll my eyes, feeling the injustice, of my story put to shelf.

Totem 2017 | POETRY

I feel my heart contract, watching kids on Santa’s lap, and I try not to flinch.

There’s a green-eyed monster, inside my chest.

I empathize the Grinch.

When time unpaused, and the line withered, I finally took my place beside the man in red, with his familiar eyes, familiar nose, familiar face.

My brother chuckled, bounding onto the lap, of the great, admired man.

I smiled against my will, looked into his soft blue eyes, then settled into his wingspan.

I looked to the camera; I smiled for my mom and heard the warning click.

My covert operation is over.

No more sharing with the world, my dad, the great Saint Nick.

Totem 2017 | POETRY

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KD

LOVES CLASH Buea, Southwest Cameroon Eyeball to eyeball we looked Sizing each other like warriors As if he knew I know him And I, looking for his Achilles heel Our price my joy and pain Doubting, should I duel?

No son of my father runs from a fight Is our price worth it, the duel?

Robust and macho is my rival Me, slim like the bamboo hmmm The Sumo and the athlete Palapala is not the size But the sense Could this be a pocket duel Or love’s price?

And Cupid our judge or Jove?

Wisdom heralds my retreat But the heart thinks battle Should I fight or not, brother Ngalle?

Libation gone, I have sought my ancestors’ blessing It’s a reply I wait forever These days long do answer come What will be our price again?

La belle dame sans merci!

Is she worth this duel?

Or will I bet on wisdom?

Mola, I’ll sleep on this and tomorrow shall tell.

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

Roman Denisyuk

MY FIGHT

Back and forth, push and pull; this tug of war is draining me.

I don’t have strength to persevere.

My grip is loose, my hands are weak.

I need the Lord to take my place.

I’ve fallen, crumbled, help me, please.

God, I submit under your hand.

I beg you, take this rope, and hold— contain my life within your shade.

Protect me, guide me; lead me straight.

Revive my spirit, and give me grace.

The battle front is never still; left and right, there’s a cry to kill.

Fatigue kicks in, will I endure?

My mind’s confused; I’m not so sure.

The enemies advance uphill; blood in my veins has frozen still.

Yet, there’s still hope here for a cure— a chance to heal, to become pure.

I fight, defending my free will instead I’m choosing to instill, my faith in God to feel secure and hold my ground, control the moor.

His holy armor will fulfill, and in my foe, instill a chill.

I trust that He will reassure, surround; protect my soul’s contour.

Back and forth, push and pull; this tug of war is draining me.

I don’t have strength to persevere.

My grip is loose, my hands are weak.

I need the Lord to take my place.

I’ve fallen, crumbled, help me, please.

God, I submit under your hand.

I beg you, take this rope and hold— contain my life within your shade.

Protect me, guide me; lead me straight.

Revive my spirit, and give me grace.

I fought the battle on my own; lay on a sacrificial stone.

An offering, of pride within…

Will someone help me with this sin?

The good I’ve done does not condone nor deem it just to use this tone.

I’m acting like I’m some kingpin yet only hiding my chagrin.

I’m standing here, fighting alone.

The burden crushes my backbone.

Dense beads of sweat pour down my chin.

Please, heaven strike me with levin!

My arrogance caused this cyclone.

I’m running into the unknown with hope that God will cleanse within.

I pray to not go where I’ve been.

Back and forth, push and pull; this tug of war is draining me.

I don’t have strength to persevere.

My grip is loose, my hands are weak.

I need the Lord to take my place.

I’ve fallen, crumbled, help me, please.

God, I submit under your hand.

I beg you, take this rope, and hold— contain my life within your shade.

Protect me, guide me; lead me straight.

Revive my spirit, and give me grace.

Totem 2017 | POETRY

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Elizabeth Rodriguez

A CLOSET FULL OF MEMORIES June 4, 2016 It is morning, And I am rushing around my room Like a hurricane meeting a tornado Leaving clothes like a trail of crumbs that leads through my mind I dig through piles looking for the final piece of the outfit Instead, I find a pair of shorts Seemingly staring at me Like an old friend Waiting For me to remember their name I stare back Blankly And then the sun pours into my windows, Like a waterfall of memories, And I remember: I see your laughter fill my room like air into balloons I hear our favorite song on the radio I feel your imprint on my bed almost as fresh as the day you left I touch the spaces your hand used to fit perfectly into mine But most importantly I see you Smiling

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As though no time has passed And I think to myself Quietly How memories can lock themselves into clothes Like a melody tucking itself into weaves and seams Lyrics trapped into hemlines of skirts Beats tapping against the buttons on my jacket All waiting to dance again Music to make you remember things long before you Or long after us I pick up the shorts and smell the sandy breeze From the last time I slipped into this memory catcher I smile, Knowing they know the sound of your laughter That some nights I long to forget

Totem 2017 | POETRY

Zach Aszalos

THE RAINSTORM Erie in the rain, full of promise: The torrents of rain surge down the old street, the one laid with bricks, not concrete. Their rusty red color looks like blood as the water reflects the streetlights overhead.

This flooded brick road remains a memorial of martyrs sacrificed, workers who made of themselves an oblation for a prosperous future.

Now I stand, a lone observer of the destitute present.

Whose blood shall be demanded next as a sacrifice to this god, this city?

Totem 2017 | POETRY

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Josiah Leach

A RANT AGAINST THE MAN Let me give ya reason Why I’m fed up with treason.

Caught in a jungle Full of trifle and misfortune

Political unadvancements Creating anti-peaceful protests

The Powerful positioned Use inherent intuition

Cultural disadvantages Capitalism created mess

To take my people out And destroy their ambition

War-torn world, fright-struck mismanagement People dying of such stress

But my mission Serves an even stronger clear vision

Governmental inhabitance Predatorial arrests

To cure ‘em of this Ridiculous Sickness Infecting masses

Institutionalized slavery Still upsets

A political refugee I be

A people seeking freedom.

Could this really be my land, Of such regret?

Setting the world’s mind free, So come with me

Regress-ion, I digress On suppression And as to why Men in uniform Got guns ‘n why they’re aiming ‘em.

The people are Still searching Yet, the evil is Still lurking Waitin around the corner To beat em’ n hurt ‘em

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We’ll make it To the land of milk ‘n honey.

Yet, Homeless on the corner Always wanting something from me To make it worse We got politics Setting spikes where they sleep Makes me ask Where is the love y’all Like the Black Eyed Peas

Totem 2017 | POETRY

Why do we still have Wars, murder, ‘n killing?

Where is the peace?

Mother Earth bleeds Annihilation of trees Capitalism in the air Reeks Of less need, and more greed Suffering families Wait for refuge, like Buffering video-feeds Feed my people With more food and less bullshit Am I the only one tired Of such fear, hate Jealousy here, bad debates Bad news, crooked news crews And all the other negativity in the news clips?

Where is the solution If we get one, it would be monument-al Pray for peace, Unity Thank God God help us all

Totem 2017 | POETRY

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Angela Jeffery

RUNNING THROUGH MY MIND Rhythmic footfalls The latex crunch of snow Rhythmic breaths Create clouds in the chilly air In the streetlight glow Crystal flakes drift down The frosty fluff appears like diamonds Falling to the ground Reminding me of a song Diamonds on the soles of her shoes If that is the truth I should run with the confidence of a queen But the audio ghosts that chase me Don’t allow royalty Instead they create inadequacy Self loathing They scream Run faster Eat less You’ll never be good enough Haunting words, suspended in the winter air Frozen in time, powerful Said by speakers who don’t remember speaking So why do I recall?

Why does it still hurt after all this time?

Like glass under my feet instead of diamonds on the soles of my shoes How do I escape the paracusia?

How do I commence my diamond reign?

Rhythmic footfalls Rhythmic breaths Run Run away Escape is another mile

Third Place Gannon University 2016 Poetry Contest, Undergraduate Category

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

Roman Denisyuk

I DON’T BELONG I don’t belong here, this ain’t my place.

A migrant soul wandering this space, knowledge and learning, I do embrace; but not right here. Never, by God’s grace!

I don’t belong.

I don’t belong here, among these folk.

Such ideals, images, I do revoke.

Here, survival comes with Potter’s cloak.

I’d rather not add more to my yoke.

I don’t belong.

I don’t belong here, this ain’t my class; feels like heresy, going to mass.

Should’ve realized this sooner, alas!

Four years ahead, I’m at an impasse.

I don’t belong.

I don’t belong here, what did I think?

That I could change my fate in a blink?

Wasted these years, attempting to sync; didn’t know I was missing the link.

I don’t belong.

I don’t belong here, or anywhere.

This world of hierarchy, I forswear!

From this day forth, I hereby declare, until the end, I spurn this affair!

I don’t belong.

Totem 2017 | POETRY

25

Morgan Behr

WAVES OF WORDS I am perfectly calm, sitting in my seat,

when I hear your name.

The result is instantaneous— every word you had ever said

begins buzzing around me.

I can no longer fight off these waves, I am far too tired;

unable to stay above the water.

I have conceded.

These words of yours surrounding me

become suffocating.

Like I am breathing in water.

Fire explodes in my chest with nothing to extinguish the flames.

I feel as though I am going to drown in this ocean, waves tumbling over my body

made of empty promises and words you never meant.

I begin to flail my arms In an attempt to stay afloat, only to have another wave crash over me.

People are now looking at me like I am insane, “why is she throwing her arms around her?”

“What is she doing?”

No one hears them like I do, Nor do any of them feel

these words like I do.

Playing over and over; “Trust me.”

“I’ll always be here for you.”

“I would never hurt you.”

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Everything goes dark.

I open my eyes to a crowd of people standing all around.

Looking down at me, everyone wanting to know what happened;

why I just threw a fit as if I was struggling for air.

I brush off my pants

as I stand up from the ground, go back to my seat

and hope that one day your name will not bring on these

drowning waves of words

Totem 2017 | POETRY

Kyle Rodewald

THE SOLEMN SENESCENCE OF A SAILOR Decided to write an epic, I guess.

I hope you enjoy it, nevertheless.

There once was a Sailor, senior in years, Who told me his story and held back his tears.

He uttered, “I might die sometime sooner.

Young man, if you would please, board my schooner.”

So we chose to set sail into the Blue, Oh, looking back, if only I knew: Since you can’t step in the same River twice, I’ll come back to land with a new view of life.

You see, young sir, out here you’re never safe.

That’s why, of course, I always kept my faith.

And when I wrestled with the beastly Sea, You’d be for damn sure it wrestled with me.”

The Sailor spoke with much contradiction Like a reality based in fiction, Or a mountain split in two by a chasm; ‘Twas a screaming stoic’s grim enthusiasm.

“I kneeled before Poseidon in my sloop, Oh, and now the great Wave began to droop.

And we wrestled through the night, me and Him. Come break of dawn and my hip; now I limp.

So we lifted the sails to catch the Wind And let the ocean odyssey begin.

In calm waters the Sailor chronicled His life to me, steadfast and logical.

I knew my name would be Jacob no more, I will forever be unbroken, for I have seen God face to face, and yet my Life has been delivered,” he said and sighed.

“I was born a Sailor,” he proudly said.

“As I will be until I am dead.

Nothing has changed, nor will it ever, Simply because it all lasts forever.

If there’s one thing that I’ll never forget, It’s what the Sailor said before he spit.

He looked up at me with Blue crying eyes That honestly spoke; there’re no dying lies.

And since I am a Sailor through and through, It’s my duty to stay humble, stay true, To stay proud and mighty in the wild Blue, And never to cry, it’s just what we do.

The Sailor said with his final breath: “Life is but the journey from birth to death.”

But I’ll be honest and tell you the truth, When I was in my hardy Sailor youth I came face to face with Him, the Ocean storm, The Poseidon about Whom I was warned.”

Totem 2017 | POETRY

27

Kelsey Ghering

A LETTER 49 cents seems a price to talk to someone.

But $3.50 is nothing for a week.

Nobody talks about the mornings when they talk about letters, jaws sore from relentless teeth grinding. The empty mailbox is a reminder they call it snail mail for a reason.

The recruiters say we all end up checking and cursing, checking and cursing, the damned cycle until the first letter comes.

Nobody talks about the spike in endorphins, beats going straight to your head when that flash of white looks like a surrender flag, and how you take it greedily as if someone would want the return address more.

Let them take my stamp money.

I’d pay much more to bring you home.

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

Julia Fulton

EGGPLANT Inspired by the painting by Paul Giovanopoulos I watch people with my weary eyes as they go, to and fro, like ocean waves. Performances on a stage with not much grandeur, concerts with melodious rivers of notes, yet the everyday on looker fly past with ease of blowing snow. Not too many people seem to pause, but one much younger and much leaner than me ponders for far too long. She is pretty, thin with prominent cheeks and long legs. Although she’s wearing a black rain jacket I notice her full and prominent eyebrows, then her dark brown eyes. They’re staring at me, but yet they draw me in. Hello, my eyes are up here I want to say but my mouth stays pursed in a silent frame. Everyone notices my eggplant at first. It’s the prize of a fruitful harvest, but they keep walking, on to larger and more extravagant exhibits and attractions. I try not to get too upset, this is how it always is. But she, she stares for a while. Maybe she does just see my fruitful, purple harvest. I’ll never really know, but I think I can see it in her eyes but I definitely see it in the toothy, perfectly imperfect, smile.

Totem 2017 | POETRY

29

Stephen Craig

WADING I will

wade into you.

I will step into your sands, and dig in my fingers; watch

the flow of sea from my hands, stand and sun myself on your shore where

the shimmered rhythm of your waves reflects the light from beads on my skin.

I will walk into you and let ocean spray strands of your hair over me

until my shoulders

shimmer with foam, tide in and tide on, tide out and in again.

I will wade into you, a quiet and dark grotto, and drink the mystery that

takes me

with your ample current

where the waves

pound ten feet high, tide in and tide on, tide out and in again.

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I will swim, myself, across your deep channels into the indigo lagoons, inlets of gentle beach whispers and water.

I will wade into you and rest in the reefs while a thousand years lay like lipping

pearls, tide in, and tide out and in again.

Stephen Craig’s poem, “The Body,” won First Place in the 2016 Gannon University Poetry Contest / Graduate Category and was published in last year’s Totem.

Totem 2017 | POETRY

Melissa Daltner

SEASONS OF HAIKUS Summer Thunderstorm I feel it coming in my joints; where cartilage tore.

The sky is sulking.

The Mean Old Tree Auburn leaves fall fast.

They want to be on the ground.

Away from that tree.

Snow Day Blankets of soft snow.

Children jump into the sheets.

Pillows lie thrown ‘round.

Budding Reaching from the ground, flowers bloom from the cold dirt.

Old brings in the new.

Totem 2017 | POETRY

31

Kate Robb

WE WILL BE BETTER a sestina I scream “I’m a mess!” and I beg you to leave.

It’s the start of every argument between us.

First me, yelling that you deserve better, then you, shouting that I’m the only one you want.

Back and forth, like bickering children, until we get tired.

We fall asleep and wake the next morning. You tell me you’re in love.

I know I love her. Because when she screams “leave” I understand it’s a cry to stay. I know she is tired, of fighting with herself. The fears she has she takes out on us, and there is nothing more I want than to convince her that I’ve never imagined having anyone better.

Every day, I remind myself that you can do better.

Because you say you are in love, but every morning I wonder if you will eventually give up on us, if today is the day you will decide to leave.

Please realize you do not want me.

After all, all I do is make you tired.

And of course I wish we didn’t have to be tired from fighting. Because being tired from adventures is surely better, like road trips at midnight, these stupid things I love about us.

Ever since I’ve met you I’ve loved your sense of adventure, your wild heart. And I refuse to leave you, because I want you to see yourself the way I do, as someone who is wanted.

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

You’re the only one who has discovered it, that secret want of mine… the want to be loved until the feelings I have for you have tired the thoughts I have about myself and these demons are forced to leave.

You know that every day I’m fighting a war to make myself better, and I’ve never said this, but I think the amount of graciousness and love you’ve given me has worked better than every pill I’ve taken. I am better because of us.

She says she will eventually destroy us, but I don’t believe that’s true when for the rest of my life I want nothing more than to uncontrollably love her even when she believes she brings hell to earth. And when I am tired of fighting with her, I remind myself that she is trying to get better, and that is motivation enough to keep me from leaving.

I love you, and although I’m not religious, I pray you have more faith in us, in me, than I do. Because more than anything in this world, I want you to know that I will tire these monsters that live in my head, and we will be better.

Totem 2017 | POETRY

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Madeline Rowley

ABANDONED AT AIRPORTS AND ADVENTURING ABANDONED AIRPORTS I was abandoned at an airport as a baby In Xiamen, China.

Now I explore abandoned airports And various abandoned buildings For fun.

I want to build a home from scratch Using items from abandoned places Specifically, From abandoned airports Around the world.

So An abandoned airport Can become my dwelling The circle of life.

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

Carol Hayes

UNWRAPPED After the 2016 Presidential Election Swaddling makes a baby feel Warm and safe—secure—we learned Back and back those years ago, Thinking then that calm is good.

Sleep brings health, serenity.

Now we read that babies need To kick. It leads to stronger hips.

Now we read that swaddling is A risk. Suffocation looms When careless hands wrap up a child.

Yesterday, we hailed the act of Wrapping a babe in swaddling clothes.

Change arrives—Ins and Outs, Declared. Warmth, restraint are out.

Kicks and unbound arms are in.

Totem 2017 | POETRY

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William Driver

THE WISDOM I seek the wisdom of the old sages.

I read ancient Confucius on this day, Perhaps I’ll find true wisdom in these pages?

So slowly, I search in many small stages.

No matter, my patience will not give way, I seek the wisdom of the old sages.

On books I spend another day’s wages, Maybe Socrates my thirst will allay, Perhaps I’ll find true wisdom in these pages?

I seek guidance from the eternal ages, From my endless quest I will never stray, I seek the wisdom of the old sages.

Anselm the perfection of God gauges, If I follow the saint’s virtuous way, Perhaps I’ll find true wisdom in these pages?

Time’s nothing, I don’t care what today is, If indeed I must, I’ll search till doomsday.

I seek the wisdom of the old sages, Perhaps I’ll find true wisdom in these pages.

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Totem 2017 | POETRY

Angela Jeffery

THE HOUSE THAT GRIEF BUILT I thought it was about my dog And it was In a way As the tears came down in the backyard But that is the thing with grief It is more It is a structure It builds over time It becomes a house For the lost people and pets and feelings And sometimes they hide in the house And sometimes they sneak out Into your brain My dog runs through a thought My dad gives me advice My brother is there when I hear a song My sister visits me when I am at the grocery store They don’t leave Ever They live in the house And when someone new moves in They are all there Building a new wing Preparing the hiding spots So that they can pop out at unexpected times For better or worse

Totem 2017 | POETRY

37

Karalyn Headley

FOR THE PROBABLE KILLER OF EDWIN DROOD A response to Charles Dickens’ The Mystery of Edwin Drood Opium was not the first poison to touch you.

It was melancholy, a toxic dreaming melancholy That surrounded you, perhaps, even with the waters of the womb.

Then some days it seemed even daylight was poison to you, Plodding to and from the cathedral, Holed up in your somber stone block above the street, Waiting for him.

He was your blood and all of your care, And you were always waiting.

When he appeared in your smoke dreams, it was probably a warning.

But instead you chased him, wrested him to the ground, Making him your object, making yourself his fate.

They always did say you were too devoted.

When you removed him, he was almost a man, That giddy head and light heart grown, And yet he saw nothing.

Not Hellfire in a thunderstorm, Nor menace in your fits, your hollowed eyes, Nor shadow on shadow as you rushed for him.

You would not dare spill his blood, by God! Who would willingly mar such a treasure?

The bruises would be monstrous enough.

Expensive black silk at his throat was to be a last caress.

That night you discovered your own strength, how years at your piano had made your hands so sure.

Trembling anxiety made you abrupt,

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and you drew the ligature tight.

You held and you held, past when all noise and spasms ceased, counting seconds- numbering years— Then threw him in the crypt and locked the door.

Even that excess seemed too little. So easy to fear You could not do enough to quench him, the bright spirit of youth, your soul of life, that arrogant, presumptuous, prattling fiend, who had the gall to love you best!

You tore his watch from its chain And plunged chest-deep into the stinging river Where December water petrified your bones So that the last part of him that moved Would never taste daylight.

Then you crept home, Slipped into your innocent nightshirt, And howled to wake the dead.

But all your cries of loss will ricochet from the undersides of marbled floors in Heaven and start a ceaseless ringing in your ears, And every chord your fingers summon jar And split and burn the points of every nerve.

May rest forgo you, your own tears corrode you, As you weep for your bright boy in his stolen grave.

Totem 2017 | POETRY

ART

Olivia Burger

MUSIC FOR MILLENNIALS

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Totem 2017 | ART

Samantha Griswold

SERENITY

Totem 2017 | ART

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Maggie Rutkowski

LEAFY

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Totem 2017 | ART

Andrew Lapiska

HORSESHOE POND REFLECTIONS II

Totem 2017 | ART

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Andrea Rodriguez

STEPS BEACH, RINCÓN, P.R.

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Totem 2017 | ART

Ryan Hamilton

SUMMER DREAMS

Cover art contest winner

Totem 2017 | ART

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Heidi Noyes

AWESTRUCK

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Totem 2017 | ART

Morgan Pelinsky

TRANQUILITY

Totem 2017 | ART

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Andrea Rodriguez

ATLANTIS AQUARIUM, PARADISE ISLAND, BAHAMAS

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Totem 2017 | ART

Maggie Rutkowski

ABANDONED BEAUTY

Totem 2017 | ART

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Andrew Lapiska

VARIETY STORE

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Totem 2017 | ART

Ashley Rega

IN BLOOM

Totem 2017 | ART

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Katie Galgozy

ALONE IN THE UNIVERSE

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Totem 2017 | ART

sara Borro

GRAND PRISMATIC

Totem 2017 | ART

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Katie Galgozy

THE WOLF

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Totem 2017 | ART

Samantha Griswold

LETTING GO

Totem 2017 | ART

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Andrea Rodriguez

PLAYA PEÑA BLANCA, AGUADILLA, P.R

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Totem 2017 | ART

Maggie Rutkowski

QWERTY

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Samantha Griswold

OCTOBER WALK

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Totem 2017 | ART

Ryan Hamilton

CHROMO-CHAMELEON

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Andrew Lapiska

CONTEMPLATION

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Totem 2017 | ART

Ashley Rega

PEACE-LUCK-HANG

Totem 2017 | ART

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Mohammed Obaid Alotaibi

SUNSET DREAMS

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Totem 2017 | ART

Ryan Hamilton

BLOTCHES AND BLOSSOMS

Totem 2017 | ART

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Andrea Rodriguez

ZOOLÓGICO DE MAYAGÜEZ, MAYAGÜEZ, P.R

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Totem 2017 | ART

Anthony Esposito

STOPPING BY THE WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Totem 2017 | ART

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santosh Bhusal

SEARCH FOR THE LIGHT

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Totem 2017 | ART

Garret Roth

SOMETIMES THEY SEE IT COMING

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PROSE

Julia Fulton

A BOY SCOUT, BLOW TORCH, BONFIRE, AND A BIRCH TREE Every day after school I’d race my sister to the car, and this day was no different. If one thing was certain I wanted to get out of the Lexington Catholic High School parking lot before all the freshmen and sophomores came running out to their parents’ Escalades, Tahoes, and Navigators.

I beat my older sister Becky to her car, as usual, with my best friend Anne Marie in tow. I only had one thing on my mind. Today was the day, the one all the girls dream about and MTV gets horribly wrong with its TV show on how all the basic white girls cry when they don’t get the exact car they want, because they want a black Mercedes and they get white BMW. It was the day of my 16th birthday party.

My birthday was actually in the middle of summer, but instead of trying to work around everyone’s summer vacation schedule I opted for a Labor Day weekend campout with all six of my friends. I didn’t really want to have to wait that long to have a party but it didn’t matter because it was going to be huge. A bonfire was a must at the campout with s’mores and hobo pies being the gourmet food of choice among me and my friends.

My party didn’t actually start until six, but Anne Marie took the 45 minute drive home from school with me and my sister to help set up. We begged Becky to stop for Starbucks on the way home and I think she only obliged so she didn’t have to hear us talk while we were sipping on our drinks. It didn’t help; we always tried to make my sister most uncomfortable in the car by screaming and singing, and by the time we got home she was ready to tuck and roll out of the car, not to resurface until the next day after the party was over.

About an hour and a half after Anne Marie and I got 70

home, my friend Arden came over after swim practice with the tent to set up for our sleeping arrangements of the night. I lived on a farm and we had plenty of yard space to accommodate my entire school, but I knew my parents would never allow for it, even if I had been friends with my entire school. The girls were going to be allowed to stay the night, but per the wishes of my mother the boys had to go home at midnight. So Arden, Anne Marie and I set up the tent for us and our other friend Shelby.

By the time we finished, it was time for the rest of my friends to show up. Robert and Justin came right at six, and Shelby came later, around 6:45. After everyone got there my mom went out to get pizzas for our dinner. We originally planned to make pies over the fire, but we lacked a fire at that time and it was already getting close to 7:30. While she was gone, Robert, who I happened to be dating at the time, decided to use his Boy Scout skills to try and start a fire.

He did what any well-trained Boy Scout should do, built a triangle tee-pee shape out of the fire wood with some small kindling in the middle. While this was happening, my father was standing in the window, as any disapproving father would, shaking his head as Robert was only doing what he was trained to do. After waiting several impatient minutes, my father went out to the fire pit which still lacked the fire. I saw his feet first; work boots with tall socks, old raggedy short shorts, and a cutoff t-shirt was his outfit of choice. With his blowtorch in hand, he set the whole fire pile ablaze, only to say, “That’s how you do it,” before returning inside, definitely proud that he embarrassed Robert like that. All that were in attendance were pretty shocked with the outcome of that situation.

Totem 2017 | PROSE

However, we decided to take advantage of the freshly lit fire and sat down for a while. After about 15 minutes my dog decided to join us at the fire, which was odd because he wasn’t much of a people dog, or as I’d like to say, more of a family beagle. It began to get dark, so it was time to take Buddy to his dog house and tie him up for the night.

making the awkward which- way-are-we-supposed-tolean motions, like two people passing in the hall and not knowing which way the other was going to go. We finally kissed, an awkward kiss, and at that moment I thought I would rather have had the car the MTV girls didn’t want because it wasn’t the right color.

I got the dog food out of the garage and started to walk down the drive towards the dog house, and I motioned Robert to come with me. This was it. My big plan was in action. There was an old birch tree near the barn and about 12 feet up in the tree was a big cluster of mistletoe.

It was right above the water spigot and definitely en route to the dog’s house.

I first noticed the mistletoe when I was in the 5th grade but didn’t pay much mind to it. My mom was the one who pointed it out in the fall. All the leaves began to change and fall, except the cluster of green in this old birch tree alongside our barn. It seemed like something that only happens in movies, but here it was at my farm, which was far from a movie set.

Robert and I walked down the drive with the dog, who didn’t seem to mind he was going to his bed for the night. As my plan went, we tied the dog up by his house and put his food in his bowl. I dumped out his water dish and went to the barn with Robert by my side to get the galvanized bucket for water.

I stopped Robert right under the birch tree, pointed up and said, “See that green stuff in the tree? That’s mistletoe.”

He stared at me for a while, and me back at him.

Neither of us really knew what to do. We stared into each other’s souls for about 30 seconds before both Totem 2017 | PROSE

71

Sara Borro

WHITE AND YELLOW ROSES Peter Hann handed the peach roses to his wife, “I am sorry Delaney.” Her eyes were red from crying but she gingerly accepted the offering. “I just really hate the way you talk about her sometimes. She’s my mother, Peter.” Delaney’s mother, Sandra, and Peter had never really gotten along, and it always got worse around the holidays. Sandra expected the couple to have Thanksgiving dinner at her house, but Peter hated turkey and missed his own parents and when she suggested over the phone to “just spend Christmas with them” he became irate and expressed for what felt like the fifteen hundredth time that he was Jewish, along with a few other choice words for his mother-in-law.

Whenever Peter upset Delaney he would buy her peach roses, a sort of peace offering, because saying you were sorry was always easier than fighting. “I know babe. I am sorry. I will apologize to her and tell her we will see them on Thanksgiving morning.” Delaney gave Peter a weak smile, “Thank you, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he leaned down and kissed Delaney gently on her lips. She kissed him back, harder and with a sense of urgency. She hated fighting with her husband and always felt like there was so much ground to make up when the fights were over. Peter reciprocated and put his hands on his wife’s face, his fingers beginning to tangle in her hair. Delaney moved her hand behind Peter’s neck and pulled him down onto her. His hands were now moving across her back and down her thighs, exploring every inch of the familiar territory. His lips had found her neck as he began to pull off her sheer blouse. She pulled his tie over his head and began to effortlessly unbutton his sky-blue dress shirt. She pushed her fingers though his chocolate brown hair and felt his skin burning against her own. “I love you,” she breathed into his ear as he pulled up her skirt. His fingers were tracing the inside of her right thigh as they 72

began to find the waistband of her black lace – “Margo!! Earth to Margo! Did Mr. Hann pick up his order yet?” I jumped slightly as I snapped back to reality when I heard Simon yelling my name. “Uh yeah, yeah he was here earlier and picked up the order.” Peter Hann had stopped in Fourth Street Florist around 4:15 that afternoon and picked up his order of peach roses I knew were for his wife because I was the one who filled out the card and meticulously placed it in with the arrangement. I’m sorry baby, I love you was all the tiny yellow card read. I had no idea why he was sorry or what happened, I didn’t even know what his wife’s name was; but sitting behind the reception desk at a flower shop got pretty boring, so I always tried to entertain myself with possible scenarios for flower orders.

Yesterday Sheila Pike picked up a very delicate arrangement of purple and pink carnations with a card reading Congratulations! for her coworker, Patty, who just had her third child, a girl named Hannah Mae. Sheila didn’t know Patty very well, but she was new to the area and didn’t want to miss the opportunity for a new friendship, even if that friendship came with a screaming newborn.

Three days ago on November 18th, Mr. Potter picked up a single lily, as he has every November 18th for the last six years I have worked at Fourth Street Florist. His wife, Melinda, had passed several years ago, but every year on her birthday he placed her favorite flower on the smooth top of her headstone. Cancer had taken her too early and Mr. Potter still was not over the loss of the love of his life. This scenario was not fictional. That’s something else that occasionally happened behind the desk of a floral shop, sometimes you got to know people.

When I started working at the flower shop late in my 22nd year I really did enjoy it. I had graduated from

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U Penn only months earlier with a degree in English Literature, but apparently not even an Ivy League diploma guarantees you your dream job. After I had exhausted my job search with no success, I reluctantly filled out an application for Fourth Street Florist, and even though it was not my first choice of careers, I was thankful when I was offered a job a few days later.

I found I was almost as good at creating floral arrangements as I was at writing, and since the writing thing wasn’t working out so well decided to start channeling my creativity into making the best damn floral arrangements anyone would want. I took my time and made sure everything was perfect, from the gaudy ribbon bows I wound around vases to the delicate glitter I sprinkled on petals. I worked hard on the orders and in my spare time I worked on my writing. It was a good thing I had going for myself and I was happy.

But that was six years ago when I was bright eyed and hopeful. Now I rushed through my orders and spent my time playing a guessing game with myself, and I hadn’t written anything in almost six months, except for messages on 2.5 by 3 inch cardstock. *** I kicked my apartment door open because my hands were too full to use before calling out, “Baby, I’m home!”

I walked over and set my Happy Garden take-out on my small wooden dining table as I began to hear footsteps approaching me. “Hello, my little love of my life.” I reached down and petted the top of my calico baby’s head and she started to purr, “awe I missed you too sweet pea, how was your day?” Talking to my cat was always the highlight of my day. My boss, Simon, was such a sour and angry man I never really enjoyed talking about anything with him, and even though she was a cat, talking to Aria was always more satisfying than

the tiresome hellos, goodbyes, thank yous and you’re welcomes I exchanged at the flower shop day to day.

Aria and I cuddled up on the couch as I logged into my HBO account. We were almost finished with season three of Game of Thrones so I wanted to get a few episodes in before I went to bed. It was raining outside so my WIFI was slower than usual. As I waited for the next episode to load I thought about Mr. Potter and the lily he bought for his dead wife. I wondered what it felt like to love someone so much and I wondered what it felt like to lose that someone.

That’s something else working at a flower shop does to you, it makes you think. People buy flowers for all sorts of reasons; there’s Mr. Hann’s “I’m sorry” flowers, which can go a couple of ways: “I’m sorry I hate your mother” flowers or, “I’m sorry you just found out you’re terminally ill” flowers. There’s Sheila Pike’s “congrats on the kid” flowers, and Mr. Potter’s “I love you but you’re dead” flowers, which also can double as “I miss you” flowers, which then have a ton of subcategories: “I missed you while I was deployed” flowers, “I missed you when I was in Tulsa for a week” flowers, “I miss you and I’m sorry I broke your heart two weeks ago” flowers; there’s lots more, too.

Flowers are for everything and everyone, but I have realized that no matter the reason, flowers only get sent when you have someone to send them. *** Today Simon had me on arrangement duty, which I liked exponentially more than desk duty. He hired a new young girl a few weeks ago who had finally taken over the desk. Her name was Erika and she was a 16-year-old high school student. Erika was sweet but naive and spent too much time on her cell phone. I

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didn’t necessarily like her but I also didn’t hate her, and I was thankful she took over desk duty so I could get back to doing something at least slightly mind stimulating.

Erika seemed to be doing a pretty good job until around 12:15 when she kind of bounded into the back room where I was working on a “happy 50th birthday” arrangement for Lucas Steele’s boss, a decision he would soon find out was not exactly the correct one, as Jade Thomas, a successful business woman, did not appreciate her employees acknowledging how old she was.

“Um, I – I need help,” Erika was blushing and was visibly flustered. “What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice as I kind of felt bad for her.

I remembered what it was like to be the new guy that nobody expected much from, so I was trying my hardest to be nice to her. “There’s a boy – er – man out front and I – I think I messed up his order.”

I took a deep breath and stood up from my bench.

Dealing with customers when you have somehow incorrectly compiled their order was my least favorite thing to do, but as much as I hated it I wasn’t going to let Erika fend for herself. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be right out.”

I brushed some glitter from my jeans as Erika disappeared into the front room. I heard her mumble something along the lines of “I am so sorry, we will get it figured out for you,” and even though I didn’t hate her but didn’t necessarily like her either, somehow she was growing on me.

As I emerged from the arrangement room I laid eyes on a man who was probably 30 years old. He was tall, with ebony hair and green eyes. I could only tell what 74

color his eyes were because he was wearing an emerald green dress shirt tucked flawlessly under a suit jacket that made his eyes look like lit-up neon signs. Now I understood why Erika was blushing, he was absolutely beautiful. He was absolutely beautiful and I was positive I was in love with him.

“Hello sir, my name is Margo. What can I help you with?”

The new love of my life broke into a very slight but very crooked and absolutely heart-wrenching smile. “It’s not really that big of a deal, but I ordered this arrangement,” he held up a page he had printed off from our website of a basket arrangement with white and yellow daises, “but this is what I’ve got here.” He motioned to the crystal glass vase filled with white and yellow roses sitting on the top of the desk. “I guess maybe I typed in the wrong order code or something.” He kind of chuckled as my heart melted inside of my chest.

“Okay sir, what’s your name? I will look you up in our system and get it figured out for you.”

I kind of stepped in front of Erika who was standing up blocking the computer. “Erika, can you please go in the back and clean up the work station, also make sure you unplug the glue gun.” The last thing I needed was her breathing down my neck as I tried to make Mr. Green Eyes fall in love with me with my exceptional conflict resolution skills.

“Ah, thank you. My name is Henry Parker.” He looked relieved and he looked so cute when he looked relieved.

His proposed mistake was correct. “Okay, Mr. Parker, it looks like you did indeed order the rose arrangement online; however, we can definitely replace the order with the basket arrangement if you would like.”

I looked up from the computer to see him displaying

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a smile. “That would be wonderful! Thank you so much! But, I need them by tonight and this is my only available time to pick them up—“ I sort of cut him off. “Oh, that’s fine! We can have them delivered to you.” The delivery list usually went out at noon, so I would have to add his name before the truck left at 5:00, but I would do anything to make sure my green-eyed angel was pleased with his florist experience.

“You are the best!”

Oh my god.

“Thank you!”

Trying to keep my composure I simply replied, “It is my pleasure, Mr. Parker. They will be delivered to you this evening.”

Henry gave me one last smile as he turned to leave and as hard as I tried not to, I couldn’t help but notice how perfectly his dress pants fit him. *** I didn’t realize I forgot to add Henry’s order to the delivery list until I heard the outrageously annoying roar of the truck’s engine and watched it pass the store front.

“Shit.” I got that feeling when you know you’ve messed up. The one that felt like ice cold water was making its way from the core of your stomach to every inch of your body. The feeling you got when you realized you failed a test, or messed up a chance for a beautiful green eyed man to fall madly in love with you.

I ran over to the computer and typed in his name. I found his address and typed it into my phone. Fifteen minutes from the store and 25 minutes from my house.

Not bad at all. Erika had left for the night and Simon was wallowing in self-pity somewhere in the office, so I grabbed the new basket of white and yellow daises, threw on my jacket and walked out the front door. I usually used the back, but I didn’t want to risk Simon seeing me leaving with an arrangement, and I certainly didn’t want him to know I was making a personal delivery.

The air was colder than I had expected it to be as I was walking to my car. It was ever so slightly beginning to snow, and I was nervous the flowers would wilt from the cold. I quickened my pace to save Henry’s arrangement and finally reached my car. I once again pulled up his address and began driving.

As I pulled up on the side of the road in front of his apartment building my heart began to beat really fast.

What was I doing? Was I crazy? I knew I shouldn’t just be showing up at a customer’s apartment, but I felt bad I had neglected to include Henry’s order on the delivery, and I also just wanted to see him again. I assured myself I was not crazy, just in love, and opened the car door.

I scooped up the arrangement and headed for the apartment.

It was not the kind of complex where you needed to be buzzed in. All of the apartments had their own door so I just had to find his and knock. Lucky for me it was only a few doors down from where I parked. It was going to be hard enough to explain why I was there; the last thing I needed to be was flushed and sweaty from walking blocks and blocks.

There were approximately 13 seconds from when I knocked to when he opened the door. “Oh, hi there.”

He looked a little confused, but not annoyed.

“Hi, Mr. Parker. I’m just here delivering your corrected

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arrangement. Unfortunately, the delivery truck forgot to include it on the run for today so I wanted to drop it off on my way home.” Now, not only was I a crazy woman, I was a liar. I awkwardly lifted the basket in front of me offering it to him.

“How kind of you! You don’t know how much I appreciate this. My little sister’s birthday is tonight and I wanted to give this to her when I see her at dinner.

Thank you again!” He took the arrangement from me and kind of looked around outside. “Man, it’s cold out here. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”

My heart began to beat faster and I almost said no for fear of going into cardiac arrest in his kitchen, but I shook my head in an affirmative manner. “A cup of coffee sounds wonderful.” He pushed the door open as I walked in.

I am not really sure how it happened. After he poured me my cup of coffee we began talking. We talked about ourselves and our lives and we discovered we had a lot in common and before I knew it I was sitting on his kitchen counter with my legs wrapped around his waist and my hands in his hair. He was kissing me, hard, as he grabbed at my clothes. We were pulling at each other like ravenous, hungry animals. I wanted to be closer to him and he wanted to be closer to me.

annoyed and angry.

“What?” I snapped, with a tone sassy enough to match his facial expression. “I’m about to go on the delivery run, but Erika said you had an addition I needed to take. What is it?”

“Oh, yeah, right. Um, here.” I reached for the new order slip and went to grab the white and yellow basket arrangement. “The customer’s name is Henry Parker; here’s the slip with the rest of the information.” He grabbed the arrangement and the slip and turned to walk away without saying thank you.

“See you tomorrow, Margo!” Erika was standing in the doorway ready to leave for the evening.

I decided I liked her. “I’ll see you tomorrow sweetie.

Good job today.”

Erika flashed a proud smile and ran out the door.

Simon was in the back and not wanting to force awkward conversation with him I decided to leave too. It was already after 5:00 and I’m sure Aria was getting hungry. Before I left I picked up Henry Parker’s incorrect arrangement of roses and took them with me.

No one would be missing these flowers, and they sure would look nice on my dining room table.

“I really like you, Margo,” he softly spoke into my ear before gently biting my earlobe. We were almost completely undressed when he picked me up and carried me to the couch. I felt his hands on me, everywhere, as we melted into each other. I felt his breath on my neck and his hand in my hair. “Margo,” he whispered once again. “Margo, Margo, Margo —.”

“Margo!!!” I looked up from the table where I was sitting to see James, our delivery man, staring at me looking 76

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Jeanette Long

AND IT WAS GOOD With the universe’s foot tapping out the time, Dawn appeared amidst the darkness on Earth.

Now, being sprung into existence is not easy on anyone, but Dawn took one look around this dark world and knew what she had been sent to do. Her smile grew under the shade of the night and her glee at her own creation threw ribbons of violet in the sky, cutting into the star-kissed expanse. Strolling confidently through the forest, nearly skipping on her bare feet, as though she had done this since eternity, Dawn could feel rivulets of electric excitement spark on her skin.

She was made only of curves: from her hips, to her breasts, to the shape of her grin, and she wore a gown of misty gray, streaked in lavender and amber, that hugged and swished around her heavy thighs. Inspiration pulsed through her limbs, for Dawn knew what she had to do. Looking up at the sky and breathing in the scents of dew and moonbeams, Dawn prepared to bring in the first day.

Her plump limbs prepared, she began to dance.

She started slowly, doing nothing but kicking out her toes and legs, a battement of peach and pinks, and already the air was changing. The chill of the night began to soften and Dawn watched as her once goosefleshed arms became smooth as she moved.

The dampness started to give way to the fresh smell of sunshine and the crickets and creatures of the night soothed themselves into silence. In their nests, blackbirds, jays and swallows stirred with the opening day.

Twisting her hips to the peeps of the swamp toads and the grunts of the bullfrogs, Dawn’s smile widened to a radiant beam. Her yellow spins warmed the earth around her and she glowed on. She raised her arms in

the air and leapt through the fields, each movement serving as gentle nudge to the mice and nocturnes to go back to their dens. It was only the gypsy moths, with their gauzy wings and feathered feet, that seemed to embrace Dawn. They encircled her as she moved and swayed, loving her for her lifegiving warmth.

The sky was lightening now, more purple and pink than black, with almost no stars visible any more. She laughed out loud, impressed with her cleverness, with her ability to break apart the oppressive darkness and bring day to a world that had yet to know it. Giddy with excitement, Dawn sprang through the forest, the blush of her dance leaving rose rays in her wake.

It was then that a reedy twang sang out against the lightening sky.

Where she was curves, Night was angles. Though not unkind, Night’s eyes were as sharp as an owl’s but shone like a full moon. His nose and mouth were high and tight, while Dawn’s were soft and warm. He was skinny, unearthly skinny, wearing a pair of dirty, patched overalls and a banjo swung around him.

He shot Dawn a toothy grin and laughed out the mysteries of the night while Dawn looked on shocked at his sudden arrival. This was not the first time that light had tried to break into Night’s perfect world. It was years ago that Night battled Fire, but the memory was fresh in his mind. Of course, Fire could sing, but the song of flames could not win the battle against Night’s music. When Fire lost, his voice weak, Night was generous, and put Fire in the skies, sparks against Night’s ebony tract as the moon and stars. This was precisely the same situation and Night would not stand by idly as light invaded his space.

Except…one look around revealed that the way she

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painted the sky indigo rivaled even his art and that her warm morning glow was nothing like the garish light of Fire. Not to mention, she was quite pretty standing in what moonlight was left, staring on at Night….and of course, the poor thing was only a few hours old…

No, no, Night thought. Shaking the stardust from his eyes, he had no choice but to battle her or risk sharing his home. I’ll go easy on the spring chicken.

With his mind made up and skinny finger cocked, Night began to play.

The air grew brisk and dew settled back into the blue grasses of the night as Night plucked his dusky melodies.

His fingers flew across the strings, singing out for his eventide creatures to feel safe and reemerge. Dawn’s warm sun began to retreat and the moon fought back for its place in the velvet sky. Stars peeked out as pearls.

The banjo’s twang echoed through the clearing until the sound of songbirds hushed to the pattering feet of raccoons, deer and mice. Night played on to reverse the deeds of Dawn, his sunset symphony ringing out in sapphire and coal. It was a slow tune for now, with dips and harmonies to match the ebb and flow of the blues in the sky. The hollow sound of the banjo floated through the limbs of the pines and oaks, leaving its metallic tinge on every needle and leaf.

Night’s confidence grew as he reclaimed his place in his world and Dawn looked on, still for the first time since she first stepped onto the earth. It wasn’t until Night noticed the smile playing on Dawn’s lips that he faltered. Dawn did not seem fazed by him anymore, though Night plucked and prodded sounds from the banjo impossible for any mortal man. No, Dawn was enjoying Night’s melodies and her foot patted along to his sounds. Her instincts took over, and she danced.

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Dawn began to dance to Night’s music, slowly at first, but faster as she predicted his next move. Her hair flew in the cooling air, while she leapt and swirled in his sounds, wrapping up her warm body in his twilight notes. Night took the hints from her movements and sped up on his strings, but Dawn only whirled faster, ecstatically waving her arms. Night felt his own smile grow and bit down harder on the long piece of rye straw between his teeth; this would be no easy win and Night laughed despite himself before letting out a guttural whoop into the sky and bending into his banjo.

Night played on louder and louder, his fingers a flurry on the strings, while Dawn danced faster and harder, her earth-pounding feet blotting out a star with each tap.

Clouds in the sky reflected magentas, pinks, goldenrods and lilacs as the two battled for possession. Each shriek of joy from Dawn beamed happiness, brought the sun higher and higher in the sky, and sent the moths and night critters back into their willows and dens. Night’s hat fell to the ground as he bent forward to play even faster and Dawn’s hair tangled in the breeze of her dance, no longer taking it easy on her. Though not a dancer by nature, even Night began to pick up his feet as he circled Dawn, a small skip in his step to match his sound. The forest was alive with the frenzy of night and day pouring feverishly through the trees. Songbirds flew alongside the bats and owls, and fireflies and honeybees left streaks of light and sound behind them as they zipped along beside the battling duo. Dawn batted playfully at them while hawks and squirrels sat side by side in the tree, too enthralled in the battle to remember their differences. Night, unable to help himself, winked at Dawn who screamed with lightheaded laughter. Night and Dawn spun around one another, delighting in their differences to the deafening sounds of their art.

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Then suddenly snap! — and silence.

It came so unexpectedly that Dawn nearly tripped stopping her dance and Night let out a soft hurt moan.

Looking down at his beloved instrument, it was clear what had happened—hanging from the neck of the banjo was one of Night’s strings, limp and useless.

Night held the neck of his banjo in his thin hands, then met Dawn’s eyes with a sad smile.

the forest to repair his banjo. He would let Dawn have her few hours of glory, but would meet her again soon, ready to win back the world for himself, and this time, he wouldn’t go easy on her. The lovers would be together again.

He had lost? No, there must be some mistake! Night had never lost a single battle with the light—how? How could this have happened? Questioning the situation would do nothing to solve it, and with his hand wrapped around the instrument, Night pulled off his straw hat and took a bittersweet bow so deep his long nose brushed the ground. He conceded his world to her.

Upon rising, Night took her hand in his and kissed the back of it as gently as a lover, leaving a cold spot on her skin.

But though Dawn had won the battle for light and the sky was ablaze in orange and blue, her heart felt heavy.

He was the first being she met, and she was not eager to see him go. But what could she do? Give in? Let him have the world that she was born to give light to? It couldn’t be--except…maybe?

As he turned away, Dawn reached out and hooked her fingers around a strap of his patched overalls, pulling him back towards her slightly. Once facing her, Night watched as she smirked, pointed at his banjo and raised an eyebrow at him, as if to ask Is that the best you can do? He chuckled at her and shook his head no, the piece of hay gripped in his teeth shaking with each turn of his head. Her nod was all he needed to know that this was not the end.

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Zach Aszalos

THE AMULET Marty Jones latched the door and flipped the sign in the window to “Closed” just as the Nightly News theme song began to play on the television in the back room. A dim reddish pink color emanated from the western part of the sky, and Marty took one last look through the glass doors before pulling down the shades. He never used to do this, but ever since the break-in back in ‘09 he’d just felt a little bit safer doing so. “…new developments tonight regarding the trial of the couple arrested for trying to scam dozens of elderly clients out of their social…”

As he entered the back room, Marty changed the channel. He didn’t feel like he needed to see what he’d seen on the morning and midday shows again, so he opted to tune into a rerun of Seinfeld while he microwaved a plate of the lasagna he’d gotten frozen from the store on Ninth Street.

As he finished eating, Marty heard a tap on the glass back in the store. Marty lived in a small apartment that adjoined the dollar store that he’d owned since his old life came to an end in the early 90’s. He went back out into the store to see who was knocking on the glass.

“Mitchell,” said Marty, as he unlatched the door to let his former rival enter the store. “It’s been a long time.”

“I surmise that there is no time for flatteries, Marty. I think you know why I have re-entered your life at this hour.”

“Listen, Mitchell, we decided twenty…almost thirty years ago now that what happened in both of our previous… enterprises…needed to be buried in the far side of the cemetery, never to be dug up.”

“I find it hard to believe, dearest Marty, that you have not the inclination even to consider what you think I 80

propose. My old friend and rival, the number of our remaining days on this Earth is not increasing. Perhaps in one epoch of our lives it was best to do away with our…enterprises. But I exhort you, do consider the good that could come from this. One last run.”

“Even if we did do this, who between us gets to have the power?”

“For many years, Marty, we did fight over this power. My camp would steal it from you, and you would come to my palace and steal it from my guardians. Perhaps divine will demanded that the gift be volleyed between you and me.”

“You and I both know this is not of God!” “Perhaps, but if we use an evil to perform a good, does the evil remain?

“This is bad and always will be.”

“But imagine having this power once again.”

Years ago, Mitchell had been the most successful preacher in the entire town. He and his (now ex-) wife owned a large ranch upon which sat a large church, as vast as a medieval monastery yet as modern as a refrigerator that tells you what food you’re running low on. Marty, just graduated from Christ the King Seminary, became Mitchell’s head deacon. Through the years of their working together, and the many nights spent working on sermons together in the rectory, Marty became aware of an amulet that Mitchell wore any time he worked on sermons. In fact, he also wore it while he preached, even so that it was visible to the congregation over his suits. It seemed to be made of simple bronze, yet radiated the aura of an heirloom diamond.

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Marty found it to be curious that a preacher who asked a ten percent tithe from his financially struggling congregation would also wear such a flashy piece of jewelry while preaching. However, he discounted it as just being another one of Mitchell’s extravagances, as he was one of the few people besides Mrs. Mitchell who was aware of how much of the people’s tithes went toward cleaning the indoor pool.

However, one snowy Sunday just before Christmas during the harsh winter of ’86, Mitchell couldn’t find his amulet before he went out to preach. “Marty, you’re going to have to deliver the big sermon today!” exclaimed Mitchell.

“Pardon, but I’m sure the people want to hear their head pastor! Why won’t you preach today?”

“I am under the influence of a case of the flu,” replied Mitchell.

Marty, however, knew from his years of experience with Mitchell, that he was not sick, at least not physically.

He knew that Mitchell would never preach without his amulet. However, he did not mention this knowledge to Mitchell, and obediently delivered that Sunday’s sermon.

While delivering the sermon, Marty realized that the amulet had been left on top of one of Luther’s Commentaries on St. Paul, which was kept on a shelf beneath the podium. He discreetly slipped the amulet into the pocket of his jeans, planning to give it to Mitchell as soon as he ended the sermon.

However, when he returned to the rectory, he found that Mitchell had left. A solitary thought crossed his mind. He undid the metal clasp of the amulet and slipped it on. When he did, he heard a voice that he could only attribute to a demon saying, “All who wear

this shall preach the words of angels, but to their eternal detriment.” And it was true.

After this episode, Marty ran away to begin his own church in a small room with glass doors that gave a beautiful view of the sunset and had a small apartment attached to it. He felt that he had to give the community an alternative to the preacher who he now knew not only as a thief but also as a sorcerer. He kept the amulet locked in a small compartment below the kitchen sink.

Over time, Marty’s church, which at first had a decent congregation of people who followed him from Mitchell’s church, began to decline. He simply couldn’t keep up with the bigger church, even though he’d heard that Mitchell never returned to preaching and now left it to a new set of deacons he’d hired.

With just debt now left to fill the empty pews, Marty had an idea. The amulet. He knew that whoever wore it preached in an ineffable beauty. Marty needed the collection money, and with Mitchell not even delivering solid sermons to the people, the town needed to hear the word of God. As long as Marty wore the amulet, he preached words of beauty, and the collection was such that it seemed the people tithed twice what he ever would think of asking. But the visions. The voices. The amulet was cursed.

As Marty’s congregation grew, Mitchell came to suspect that Marty in fact had stolen the amulet. It was, in his mind, the only explanation. Mitchell eventually commanded his deacons to steal it back, and a cycle of stealing began in which each of their churches had times of prosperity, and times of poverty, depending on who held the amulet. This happened for several years, until it became obvious they needed to do away with the amulet.

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The shocking affair happened while Mitchell had the amulet. A woman from his church began calling the rectory, claiming that she was possessed by the devil.

Mitchell dismissed the idea, thinking that God only allowed evil to fall upon men like himself who called upon it, not on innocent people. So, he sent a deacon to give her a blessing and pray with her. However, the calls continued, at least twice a day, and then more as weeks went on. Eventually, after having sent two more deacons over the course of several occasions, Mitchell himself went to see the woman. He planned a fraudulently pious exorcism—that is, he would say prayers that would make it seem like he was exorcising her, but in fact, he hoped, it would trick the woman into thinking that demons (which weren’t really there) had fled.

Mitchell tried this, but to no avail. The woman continued to threaten to kill the deacons, to kill Mitchell, and to kill herself. The only thing that seemed to soothe her (soothe the demon) was when Mitchell would press the amulet against her forehead. Mitchell tried to do the same with a Crucifix, but that caused her to utter blasphemies worse than he’d heard during his worst nightmares while wearing the amulet.

Mitchell felt he needed help. He did something he never imagined he would do. He called on his old deacon, the now Pastor Marty, to assist at a real exorcism.

When Marty arrived, he and Mitchell asked the deacons to leave so that they could work with the woman. Once they were alone, the woman, in a demonic voice, began to tell them the nature of the amulet. Revealing hidden knowledge—one of the signs of demonic possession.

She screamed, “Mitchell cursed God long ago and then asked Satan to help him preach because he wanted the 82

money for himself even if he knew he’d go to hell and now God is allowing all of this because of your sins the devil gives you the power to preach not God THE CURSE SHALL LAST UNTIL THE SERVANT OF SATAN MITCHELL DIES AND DESCENDS TO BE WITH HIS UNHOLY FATHER.” As she finished saying this, the demon contorted her body in a strange way, and in a superhuman display of strength, grabbed the amulet from Mitchell. The demon used it to choke the life out of the woman’s body. The demon fled just before the woman died. As she laid there, her own blood spewing from her mouth, Marty heard her whimper one last phrase, this time in her own voice: “Jesus, I love you.” She died.

After this, Marty and Mitchell, both terribly shaken, agreed to stop using the power. Marty put it back in the place where he’d hidden it for so long, and shortly thereafter rechristened his church as a dollar store.

Mitchell never preached again, and shortly thereafter got divorced from his wife.

“I suppose we could consider the amulet once again,” said Marty.

After they opened the lock and saw the amulet, Mitchell spoke out. “Marty, my friend, we shall be wealthy men again, and shall give hope to many.”

Marty replied, “I thought the amulet was better buried, but I’ve found something.”

“What is that, my dear friend?”

As Mitchell posed this question, Marty pulled out his gun and, apologizing to Mitchell, shot him once in the belly. As Mitchell was dying, Marty heard just one last phrase come from Mitchell’s mouth, over and over again. “Jesus, forgive me.” Marty looked Mitchell in the eyes and said, “He will.” After Mitchell breathed his last,

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Marty knelt down to pray for his own salvation, as the amulet erupted into flames that quickly spread to the rest of the store, leaving nothing but a mound of ashes and two dead bodies.

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Kaylee Luchansky

THIS BIRD HAUNTS ME This bird haunts me. The only one to see it, this mysterious bird that no bird identifier can identify for me, has been haunting my dreams. It brings me to a point of lucidity before I am shoved awake again, wondering about this bird. This silly bird. Larger than a raven, blacker than death, with a yellow beak ready to pierce. Always flying in the same direction, always flying southwest. This bird haunts me.

Dream books tell me birds are signs of good fortune and prosperity, but when you look up other coal-colored birds you only find death and sorrow. So which way is my fate heading? Prosperity from the flying bird? Or a life surrounded by death because of the pigments in the feathers?

I saw this bird while surrounded by loved ones, but I was the only one to catch sight of it, the only one to be entranced, the only one to scour the internet and other paper sources for the scientific name of this creature.

The only one to be haunted by the bird.

I can’t look at my abundance of crows without searching for that telltale yellow beak. My everyday life has been changed from just one sighting of a black bird.

I could have easily missed it, for its speed was great, but fate made me peer out those large windows at the exact moment it flew through. Is there a reason only I saw it? Is there a reason for my following madness? Is there a reason I am haunted so? Always a flying bird, is my prosperity slipping past me? Leaving me with doom and sorrow? Are the dream books true, or are they just as mad as I am becoming?

No one can follow my train of thought anymore, I’m always stuck on that bird. No one understands my obsession with finding this bird. I’m not a bird watcher, never been an avian lover, but this black bird intrigues me so. Will I ever solve this feathery mystery? Will I 84

ever overcome the hold this bird has on me, and what will happen if I see it again? Will I fall into complete madness?

Why has this bird occupied all of my thoughts?

Everyone has begun to look at me like I am the rare bird. The bags under my eyes have turned the same charcoal black the bird donned. My face has sunken in, giving me the appearance of death. I am jumpy, someone sets down a stapler and my fight or flight response kicks in and I’m ready to soar. I am not hungry anymore, a burger just doesn’t appeal to me, chocolate seems pointless. Some say I eat like a bird. I am still haunted.

Every thought has been replaced by an avian, every image black and fluttering, every sound like the whirring of wings.

It is coming for me.

There is talk about putting me in an asylum. I won’t let them, the bird won’t let them.

The bird.

I come home from work and park the car, but I don’t bother bringing the keys with me. Or anything else for that matter, I won’t be needing them.

I won’t be needing them because the bird is here. It is circling me above, pulling me from my human body, the body that has wasted around me.

I am no longer a human. I am a black bird with a yellow beak and I am not alone. There are now two haunting birds, looking for the next victim. Who will be next?

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Nicole Borro

MAGNETS I’ve always felt like an anchor, dragging those I love down to sit with me on the ocean floor, the miles of water above us drowning out the noise of my life. This is a stark difference from how everyone seemed to see me. Clinging to me as if I was a buoy or a life preserver, I seemed to attract the upset and the broken. I felt like a magnet, as if I attracted all the screws and bolts they’d lost over the years and on their search for their missing pieces they found me instead.

I thought this would be different when I got to college.

I thought that the change in location would somehow demagnetize me and I could go from being any sort of boating essential and simply be a person out at sea.

Unfortunately, the magnetism held strong.

We’re sitting on the side of the street, the dew from the grass soaking through my black dress. I’m thanking myself for choosing black rather than the light purple I considered before, at least it wouldn’t show in black.

He’s crying now, not the horribly noticeable type that would gain the attention from the groups of people that keep passing on the other side of the street. It’s the quiet kind, sad and slow. He’s crying over a different girl on the phone yet I’m the one whose hand he’s clutching as his knuckles turn white.

Almost everything inside me is saying that I shouldn’t be here. That I should stand up, cross the street, join one of the groups, and let myself be swallowed by their happy noise. The other, more caring part of myself is saying that I can’t leave. I can’t just leave someone crying on the side of the street. Especially not someone who’s told me that he trusts me. I don’t know what they’re talking about on the phone but the pain in his voice is enough to keep me on the grass.

those back home. He told me his deep, dark secrets and I filed them away with my own. I’m not sure what it is that makes a person comfortable enough to share the secret parts of himself with a perfect stranger but, whatever that quality is, I have it. But comforting people has always made me anxious. Terrified of saying the wrong thing, I usually end up contributing only muffled “it’s okays” and “you’re all rights.” Although I feel of little help, this tactic seems to work. I think that people feel like they can trust me because I seem to come with so little noise. This couldn’t be further from the truth because right now my insides are screaming.

They’ve hung up now and I’ve finally got him on his feet. I can tell he’s uncomfortable and embarrassed that I got a front row seat to his mild breakdown. I’m laughing at whatever bad joke he just made at his own expense and although I feel as if it’s choking me, he’s smiling now. “I’m glad that you stayed...no one’s really cared that much in a while,” he whispers like we’re sharing secrets. His words reverberate around my mind, making me feel guilty for my urge to run. It always happens this way. I feel as if I’m drowning as I try to help them swim but as soon as they’re treading water on their own, I hate myself for ever thinking about letting them go.

I’ve heard that you shouldn’t light yourself on fire to keep someone else warm but it’s so hard not to reach for the matches when you’re afraid that they might freeze to death.

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85

Leigh Tischler

LETTER TO A FOUR-YEAR-OLD For all those affected by the Orlando night club shooting Dearest Gwen, Light of my life, it’s a rough world you’re heading into.

A lot has been happening recently, and I think it’s only fair to tell you about it.

You see, there’s this Man. An angry Man. I suspect his anger comes from frustration and loneliness. From being sad, and more than a little hurt.

Anyway, this Man decided he didn’t like this group of people, we’ll call them the Brave Ones—they’re a bold, strong group and they live life as their true selves.

Anyway, this man took all of his sad/mad feelings and blamed them on the Brave Ones.

The Brave Ones have a place where they like to hang out sometimes, when they feel like relaxing, when they want to have no worries. The Man went to the place where the Brave Ones hang out and he did something really, really, really, really bad. He took something incredibly important from The Brave Ones—some people say it’s the most important thing anyone ever has.

Put your hand on your chest, a little to the left. Do you feel that? That’s the most important thing you have. It tells you you’re alive, it helps you feel. Do you notice how it talks? Kind of like a drum? That’s how you know it’s working. Make sense?

Back to the story. The man—the one who’s sad/lonely/ frustrated—he broke the Most Important Thing of 53 of the Brave Ones. And he very seriously hurt the Most Important Things of the rest of the Brave Ones, and the people who love them, and other people in the world who care just because that’s the decent thing to do.

I wish I could tell you why he was so angry and sad and 86

frustrated and hurt and lonely. A lot of people feel that way at some point, and some people feel that way all the time, and that’s very scary.

Gwen, here’s the part where things can go two different ways; the part where you decide how to react. When things like this happen, you can ignore them. You can pretend they didn’t happen, look the other way. You can ignore the tears of the survivors and the surviving.

If you’re anything like me, this is what you’ll want to do most of the time. This is the path which is technically easiest.

Or, you can care. You can jump in the deep end and just care your hardest. Sometimes it’ll feel impossible.

Sometimes it’ll hurt so, so badly. You’ll feel like your Most Important Thing is going to tear right in half; and the drumbeat will speak more softly than it usually does. If you care, it means you have to allow yourself to feel deeply. To be in the mind of another. To let the influencers of another person’s Most Important Thing impact your Most Important Thing.

I honestly don’t know which option is better, Gwen. I go back and forth between them a lot. You have to do a little of both to stay sane.

But I do know this: the more often you choose to care, the fewer people will get as sad, angry, lonely as the Man. If the Man weren’t so sad, angry, lonely, he wouldn’t have taken the Most Important Things from all those lovely Brave Ones. Then all of the Brave Ones would still have drum-beating Most Important Things, and they could be in the world, brave and beautiful and beating.

If you and I and everyone looked out for one another— both the Man and the Brave Ones and everyone else— then you and I and everyone could be happy, forgiving,

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loved. It’s not a flawless plan, and life is usually much more complicated than that. But it’s a pretty good start.

With more love than I can express, Aunt ‘Ronca

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87

Elias Kerr

MY LAST LEGAL MEAT Our lives were being used trivially as the sacrificial lamb.

We supplied the farmer with food and resources, being herded like Ms. Cow and Mrs. Chicken. They feasted while we were stuck in our cages. To me... Modern civilization for the lowly and common human was a cross between a rat race and slaughterhouse. Delusional, we moved to get ahead, but remained complacent in our narrow stall with a feeding trough, never getting to stretch our legs. I couldn’t decide which was worse.

It was a hard administration to accept. I had been this cynical for the last four or five years, constantly berating any real thoughts of integrity being implemented by the powers that were, but on February 20th, 2022, my head seemed to turn with an innocent squeak. It was declared by the Congressional Union Of America that every citizen in our 52 states would be forced to adopt a vegan diet by the 21st of February. After the animalistic propaganda of the Trump administration, our country was finally healing from four years of being controlled as zombie-like pawns for the Meat Lobbyists and top one percent, otherwise portrayed as bloodthirsty and consumeristic shepherds. Long story short, the meat in this country was running out and the methane produced by the doomed live stock was starting to become the biggest contributor to climate change. As I watched our president deliver the harsh news to this addicted-to-ham-and-bacon-crazed country, many of whom were going through denial, many circles of people remained hopeful and motivated. I could not lie. I was devastated that I could no longer enjoy many things in my typical diet but became inspired due to the forced nature of acceptance that change will ultimately give you. With only one day to eat eggs, meat and cheese, I prioritized my meals.

That morning I made myself some breakfast. I cooked my breakfast in a circular pan on an electric stove. The 88

thickest yellow liquid ran all over my plate as if running away from its home inside the heated, porous and white casket. As it spread like an oil spill in a crystal lake, my other delicate vegetables become coated with the thick yellow liquid. The liquid smelled neutral like it couldn’t make up its mind whether to present itself as good or evil. The oozing substance hardened and became pastelike as I began to understand that it was concocted from the thick layers of DNA that made every bird look the same, with a beak to impale any type of feed or worm they were hungry for. I started sopping up the golden paste with some bread, then I ingested the result of Mrs. Chicken’s menstrual cycle and licked my lips, savoring the matronly nutrients. The most sensationalized and ancient unfertilized abortion slid down my gullet, nourishing my body and giving me energy to endure the whole day. As I chewed, I thought about my mother and how she would have felt knowing that I would be sizzled and fluffed to the standards of an objective taste bud. I hurt a little as I recognized the human privilege I had been born with. Next came the bacon which was giving me hot flashes as I watched it shrink in my pan. I really loved bacon. I put it on everything that fit into a fatty symphony. As it crackled and popped like condensed applauding, I lowered my face and head to absorb the grease that flew out of the pan like missiles trying to hurt me for cooking it. This was the bacon I would lose so why not bath in its greasy shower and use it to style my hair. When I couldn’t take it any longer I placed the bacon on my plate and ravenously tore into the strips.

I ate the flesh so quick and intensely that it almost seemed like it hadn’t even been there at all. I began to cry… not because of my last morsel of bacon but because of my terrible and almost pornographic view of something so fleeting and terrible for me. I cleaned my dishes with the taste of bacon still left in my mouth, and a shame surrounded me and my home. Thank you, Mrs. Chicken, and thank you, Mr. or Ms. Pig.

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The rest of the day was filled with weird chaotic spurts of indifference and unusual regret. I walked and inhabited our modern America looking at the billboards and big television screens with the golden and shimmering meats. I started to think about how this would drastically change our traditional American lexicon of celebratory events. Thanksgiving would now be centered around a decorated plate of tofu. I could only picture the Fourth Of July with fireworks and asparagus and the less exciting corn on the cob.

Muddled and muted, I walked throughout the day craving meat like I’d never done before and looked at the sad men and women filling their meat holes with the regulated flesh that would now not be socially unacceptable.

milk and cheese. I was regretful in tone as I asked him, “What are you going to do with it all?” I wished his answer was more specific than “get rid of it.” On the bright side, if they dumped it in the ocean the creatures of the deep would have the greatest feast of all. And if they buried it, in many, many years we might have a new fuel source. I could still smell the hamburger grease in my kitchen. I’d lost something quintessentially myself but gained something that transcends humanity.

I had been forced to abandon my tribal energies and bloodlust tradition for a new tradition based on health, dignity and respect for life. I felt free.

I made myself dinner around 7 o’clock. My dinner that night was swishy and sloshy with splotches of flesh. I cooked my dinner in a circular pan on an electric stove.

Droplets of fatty, greasy and warm water were racing toward my Adam’s apple. The tickle of the gravityperpetuated race made me stop chewing the gristly and overcooked beef. Salt and fat were really only two flavors we desired with a whole-hearted but sincere delusion.

If you tried hard enough you could taste the earnest complacency that Ms. Cow lived with every day while mirroring our own habit to stick to our ways. Chewing on this flesh the same way my dinner chewed on its grassy buffet reminded me of the archaic carnivore I really was. I was a pack animal looking out for myself.

The meat lobbyists and one percent were no different than myself as I scarfed down the burnt ends of once living tissue. Thank you, Ms. Cow. At midnight they came for my meat. The meat collector rang the doorbell frantically and wore a grey suit equipped with certified badge, gun, and documents.

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89

Morgan Cratty

EIGHT MINUTES UNTIL LANDING Altitude: 13,900 feet. Exhilaration came over me, along with a feeling of anxiety. The melody of the engine, humming an appeasing tune, offered a sense of comfort as I waited to put my life in the hands of another person. “All right, Miss Cratty, we’re out first.” It’s finally happening. No turning back now. We wiggled our way to the exit, one leg out, one leg in. “Ready?” and without a second to think, we were flying.

Ever since I was thirteen years old, I loved the idea of skydiving. However, Pennsylvania law states one must be eighteen years of age to leap out of a plane. In the meantime, I researched the topic, enjoying various photos and videos of people lucky enough to experience the once-in-a-lifetime thrill. Also included in my search were the statistics, in other words, the death rate, because no one cares how many people jump and live.

For instance, each year one in 100,000 people die from a skydiving accident. Sure, maybe someday I would be that one person, but at least I would have had the opportunity to fulfill my maniacal fantasy.

For years, I had begged my mother to allow me to jump once I was of appropriate age, and the answer was always no. I would always mention how incredible a skydiving ticket would be as a birthday gift and she would just shake her head in displeasure. In June, one month before my birthday, I supplied her with all of the information needed to schedule a jump: the place, the address, the hours, who to contact, etc. She finally caved.

Weeks went by as I counted down to the day that would soon become the greatest day of my life, or the last, whichever one is preferred. I could not focus at work as the day grew closer. I actually danced with delight, not once, but a multitude of times when the subject arose.

July 28, 2016, my mother and I celebrated our birthday together as we always do, surrounded by family, cake, 90

and gifts. Yes, eighteen years before, I was born on my mother’s birthday, and apparently I had a history of ruining that day for her. “Nine more days, Mom!” I said, for she was nothing less than annoyed. This was also the day we broke the news to my grandparents, which nearly gave all four of them a heart attack.

Nine days quickly flew by, and next thing we knew it was August 6th: Jump Day. I woke up ecstatic, as if it were Christmas morning. Eventually we got ready and were on our way. Half an hour later, we arrived at Skydive Pennsylvania in Grove City. My boyfriend, my cousin, and I began filling out waivers and watching instructive tandem videos. After being given an abundant amount of information, we anxiously waited outside for our names to be called.

Hours later, our time to suit up was near. Then talk of a faulty engine emerged from the crowd. Did they say faulty engine?! Why am I freaking out, I’m jumping out of the plane anyways? Oh crap. All right, all right. Be cool. Many noxious scenarios raced through our heads. Then we heard, “Cratty, party of three. Time to suit up!” Seriously? It was like a hostess preparing our table and seating us in Hell.

Hesitantly, we picked out our jumpsuits, as fashionable as they were. I chose pink, of course, and the other two chose orange and blue. Resembling a three-pack of highlighters, it was nothing shy of fantastic. Once we were ready, we walked outside, joined hands with our family and received a blessing from my grandfather.

Then we asked an employee for information on the faulty engine and surely enough our prayers were answered. There was no engine failure, the plane was simply refueling while the pilots took a short break.

Thank you, Lord.

Shortly after, we met with our tandem instructors and went over the proper technique of jumping out of a

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plane. Believe it or not there is a wrong way to fall. Still waiting for the plane to return, the smell of chocolate chip cookies and fried chicken lingered from behind the building. Like any hungry girl would do, I located the source of the delightful aroma and my presence was rewarded with an invitation to indulge. As I was leaving I noticed a variety of “We miss you!” and “Rest in Peace” signs surrounding the pavilion. Yep, they were hosting a memorial for a loved one that passed away while skydiving. If that was not a sign to refrain from doing something, I didn’t know what was.

The sound of the plane grew nearer and it was time. We met with our instructors to rehearse the process one last time before takeoff, kissed our families good bye, and then boarded the plane. Fourteen jumpers in one tiny aircraft with undoubtedly no room to spare. Before we took off down the runway, my tandem instructor clipped himself to the bench seat, then attached our hips together. With the door wide open, it was time for takeoff.

The altitude quickly inclined, nearly making me fall forward on the man in front of me. 7,000 feet, 10,000 feet, 13,000 feet. It was time to fasten my goggles, the horrendous plastic shields they were. 13,900 feet, this is the moment I had been waiting for since I was thirteen.

My body went numb as my instructor and I made our way to the door and I quickly got into the appropriate position. He pulled my head back and out we went. For a split second, I felt butterflies in my stomach as if I had just ascended a hill on a roller coaster, but that was it, only a split second. Next thing I knew I was flying. I had been around aircrafts in flight my entire life, yet nothing compared to what I saw when it was just me, a man, and a backpack soaring through the clouds.

My cheeks flapped in the wind, inevitably turning my enormous smile into a deformed air hole, but I loved it.

The sixty second free fall came to an end as my instructor briskly pulled the cord. The parachute launched above our heads and there was silence, complete bliss. At that moment, nothing in the world seemed to matter. I was hovering among the birds, observing the beautiful creation God has blessed us with. I observed the grassy, green fields, the dark blue-green ponds, and the narrow intersecting lines of asphalt and limestone as they greeted my return.

The exhilaration contradicted the gentle accelerated winds. I tensely adhered to the reigns of the parachute as my instructor detached our hip belts, with a fear of complete disconnection. I returned to him full control and suddenly we were dropping at an increased rate resembling a corkscrew. Don’t worry, it was intentional.

As we approached closer to the ground, I practiced my landing technique: pike position with toes up and knees locked.

Nearly eight minutes after the initial fall at 13,900 feet, my adventure was ready to expire. We were level with the tree tops and then only fifteen feet high. “Time to assume your landing position!” my instructor exclaimed as we descended even further. I lifted my legs as high as I possibly could and we slumped in to meet Mother Earth.

Skydiving was certainly the most breathtaking experience I had ever encountered and I hoped there would be many more jumps in my future. Mark Twain once said, “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” Because a lifetime only lasts so long.

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91

Julia Fulton

HANK WILLIAMS JR. JUNIOR “Last call for flight 1758 to Orlando.” A voice boomed over the loud speaker as I ran through O’Hare trying to make it onto that flight. The heels of my cowboy boots clack clacked on the tile floor and I started to sweat. I absolutely had to make it onto that flight. I needed nothing more than this vacation, especially considering my publisher was hunting me down to finish a book I started, but for some reason I couldn’t bring myself to finding an ending for this novel.

I got to the gate with one minute to spare. A man with a perfectly pressed, navy blue uniform at the gate scanned the boarding pass off my phone saying, “Glad you could join us Ms. Spatz. Enjoy flying the friendly skies.”

I glanced back down at the boarding pass for the seat assignment when I found my seat, 18C. It was the only seat left on the plane. All the mothers and children were already settled, the businessmen asleep in their seats. Looked like all these other people were looking for an escape from the blistery Chicago winter, too.

When I sat down I noticed a rather attractive man, who appeared to be in his early 30s, in the seat next to me.

The wings on his uniform indicated that he was a pilot.

To make light conversation I said, “Wow, those are some nice wings you’ve got there. I hope you’re not the one driving this plane. If so, I think one of us is in the wrong seat.”

He just chuckled and said, “Nah, I’m piggybacking on this flight to connect with my next assignment. Why aren’t you in the pilot’s seat?” The words spilled out of his mouth like caramel and I noticed his southern accent.

I didn’t want to tell him the truth. No one takes pride in being a failed writer running from her publisher. So, as we began to push away from the gate and the flight 92

attendants gave their required safety speeches, I felt the need to make word vomit and talk to the attractive pilot.

“Have you ever heard of Hank Williams Jr.?” I asked him “I have,” he said, leaning over just enough for me to see that his nametag said Cpt. Markham.

“Well,” I said, “my dad is Hank Williams Jr. Junior and I’m on my way down to Florida to see them both.” Not yet fully realizing what I had done, I continued on with a story as I went along. I wasn’t quite sure who would be a tougher audience at this point, myself or him.

Captain Markham leaned in even further and said, “That must be quite the life. I grew up in Texas and loved listening to Hank Williams’ music. You must be so honored to be a part of such a prestigious family.”

“It’s not really that big of a deal; most people don’t even recognize me because the last name Williams is so common. My grandfather did teach me some of his music and I’d say that musical talents run in our family.

Right now, I’m trying to get a record deal from him but he doesn’t want to cross business and family.”

He hung on my every word as I continued to speak.

This meant that I was pretty good at bullshitting conversations, but not the books I was writing or the emails to the publisher about constantly being sick, among other various excuses I’d been giving.

“Well, Ms. Williams,” he said, “I want to hear more about this life you live. It sounds like it is quite interesting, especially for someone like me who spends more hours a day in the air than on the ground.”

At this point our flight had already taxied down the runway and made it to cruising altitude. I took several moments to collect my thoughts but before I continued,

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Cpt. Markham spoke. “You know, I never actually wanted to be a pilot. I wanted to be a bull rider and was for a while in my teens. I rode at all the fairs in Texas, but when I turned 18 my parents told me I needed to make some decisions; get hurt riding bulls or join the service. As much as I wanted to stay in Texas and ride bulls, I had to make my family proud and service the country.”

I had just met this man and had no idea why he felt the need to tell me his life story. But, after thinking for only several seconds, I had the perfect response to his story.

“I knew I’d seen you before!” I said, which came out more excited than I expected. Maybe I should change my career to acting. “I think you rode in a competition sponsored by my grandfather.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really let a lot of people read what I write, but maybe one day you’ll catch a novel of mine.”

At this point we were making the final descent into Orlando and I could almost see it now: freedom, the beach and the vacation I’d been needing for a while now. The plane reached the gate and I got up to get my bag out of the overhead bin. Captain Markham insisted on getting the silver suitcase out for me, to which I expressed much thanks.

We continued making brief small talk while we got off the plane. When we finally got inside the airport he gave me a slight smirk and said, “That was quite the story, Ms. Spatz. Do you think I could get your number, or would it be the number of ‘Ms. Williams’?”

“Probably,” he responded. “I’ve ridden in quite a few competitions.”

“Well, I’m glad I could finally make your acquaintance.

However, if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the ladies room.” I reached down underneath the seat in front of me to grab my purse and I walked down the aisle to the tiny restroom.

When I came back I saw my credit card on the floor between Cpt. Markham’s and my seats. I didn’t realize I had dropped it but I quickly picked it up and returned it to the pocket in my purse.

“Ms. Williams, what do you do, other than sing of course?”

“I like to write every now and again, but nothing too serious.” I said, finally telling somewhat of the truth.

“That’s neat, Ms. Williams. One day will I be able to read something you write?”

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93

Leigh Tischler

I MET SOMEONE Ah, the holidays. Here again. Just like they always are.

Year after year after year. Another year, another 365 days of stagnation. And the worst part? Your family has every right to interrogate you about your failure.

Not this year. I’ve made up my damn mind this year.

This year I’ve met someone. And not just a someone… the he-wishes-he-could-have-come-but-had-to-visit-hisown-family kind of someone. The kind of someone that I can rub right in Cousin Bradley’s smug successfulbusinessman face. The news of my someone will overshadow Cousin Brittany’s twenty seventh offspring (seriously Brittany, we get it, you and your Hollisterhusband are fertile). Even senile old Granny Dee will smile her toothy grin when I tell her about my someone (the whole family knows I’m the only one who’ll sit with her…I’m the only one who likes her smartass glares).

My mom’s sister Aunt Diane is hosting again, just like she does every year. Though her bone-dry turkey has dehydrated me on more than one occasion, her choice in husband more than made up for her lack of cooking prowess. Not that he was a good husband by any means.

He was just entertaining as hell. I’d sit with him for about twenty, thirty minutes tops and I’d push his buttons real sly-like until I got him fired up enough to chew someone’s ear for the rest of the night. See, Uncle Bob was real big into conspiracy theories. All I had to do was look at him with big innocent eyes and say I was thinking about working for the government after I graduated. Or say that I thought the public was better off not knowing what the government was up to. He was just enough of a misogynist to think that I didn’t know better, and enough of a lunatic to man-splain his concerns about our legislators to the nearest relative for four hours.

My dad always knew what I was up to, but he and mom were always drunk before we even got there. They never 94

drove drunk when I was a kid, but the minute I got my license I became their chauffer and their enabler—pretty much anywhere we went as a white-bread home-grown family unit I had to drive, meaning they got to pre-game.

I couldn’t blame them really—their plan was genius and I had every intention of adopting their inebriated habits once I became a parent.

Which brings me back to my original point. This was the year. The year I decided I didn’t have to put up with the interrogation, or with the looks of pity, the barelymasked disappointment. Because I met someone.

We all knew that was the only measure of success a girl needed to achieve. The day came and it played itself out just as we all knew it would. Before I played my game with Uncle Bob’s conspiracy theories, I told him all about my new beau. Cousin Brittany feigned excitement as she chased her spawn around the house, begging Aunt Diane to help her while her hollow Hollister hubby drained his insignificant brain power into the football game (my tipsy father and Cousin Bradley were just as zombified). Aunt Diane hollered something about needing to cook the food, and I watched Granny Dee’s face as she outwardly expressed doubt that what Aunt Diane was doing could be called cooking. My dad scowled halfheartedly at me, knowing that I also had no intention of helping my cousin. My mother was off in another room holding whichever kid was the youngest and therefore the least sticky or annoying.

Once we finally sat down to eat, a perspiring Aunt Diane asked me more about him. What was his name?

Chad. What did he study? Some kind of engineering.

How did we meet? He tutored me in math class. How long have you been dating? A few months and it’s getting kind of serious. Will we get to meet him soon?

Hopefully!

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And then, something miraculous happened: nothing.

Nothing happened after that. No one asked me any more questions. No one looked at me like I was the last kid being picked for dodgeball. In fact, I don’t think anyone looked at me for the rest of the night. Uncle Bob rambled his ramblings, my mother and Aunt Diane cooed at the kids, Granny Dee snored in her arm chair like a congested lumberjack, everyone else fell in and out of sleep while we watched some cheesy kids movie in an attempt to pacify the younglings. I melted into the tryptophan daydream that had overcome us all, and no one bothered me for the rest of the night. I had reached it. This was nirvana. I relaxed into the wine-soaked, piestuffed, shoe-leather-turkey evening, quiet and resigned.

I had made it. All because I had met someone.

A few days later, I was back on campus, still riding the high of my most peaceful Thanksgiving to date.

En route to class, I saw my beau approaching, my undeniable savior, a messiah in unassuming workout gear. Anyone else might not have noticed him for his excellence, anyone else might have let him blend into the amorphous college kid mob without giving him his due. But I, I knew him for his true grace, his mighty majesty, his electrifying elegance, his worthy whiteknight-ery. He came within ear-shot. I said, “Hey Chad.”

He looked at me, unsure. “Have we met before?”

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Molly Ramich

IS MY HAND ON THE MENU? September 27, 2016 Waitressing in a small upscale restaurant certainly has its perks, like going home with leftover filet mignon.

But speaking as a former waitress, that little piece of meat is hardly compensation for the troubles we endure serving five-course meals every week. I had taken the position in high school, confident that my skills of multi-tasking and engaging with people would serve me well. However, coming from a loud family of seven, who only dine at Taco Bell and often eat about as politely as vultures ripping apart a carcass, one can imagine the difficulty I had with refined dining. Not to mention, hearing restaurant lingo barked at me, such as “Eighty-six the special” and “Marry those two bottles on the pass,” made my head hurt. It would have been easier for me to crack a top-secret code in World War II than to decipher what my boss was telling me. I began to dread Friday nights, but each week, my stubborn unwillingness to back down—and the hundred dollars’ cash pressed in my hand—managed to pull me through.

One particular evening, I had barely closed the door behind me to enter the dining room, when, to my surprise, a new sensation bubbled in my veins. For the first time at work, I was actually quite excited for the evening. Candles flickered softly on each of the starched white tablecloths, the array of new glassware sparkled on the shelves, Frank Sinatra crooned over the speakers, and the aroma of cinnamon buns wafted to my nose. It was going to be a good night. I could feel it in my bones.

Sure enough, dinner service glided along as smoothly as Fred Astaire’s shoes on the dance floor, and I put on an excellent facade of a highly-distinguished waiter. All was well until I had to clear a certain table in the corner.

It consisted of four aristocratic-looking middle-aged patrons, each swirling and sipping their chardonnay

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more pretentiously than the next. As I nervously began clearing, I noticed a bald-headed man was still finishing up his escargot to my left as I stacked up plates in my right hand. I decided to leave him to his task of dismembering slugs. As I turned to leave in a hurry, my left hand swung out clumsily. In a split second, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the man put his hand to his mouth and heard him squeak tensely, “Oh, excuse me.”

As I strode to the kitchen, I noticed the side of my hand was wet and slimy. I froze in my tracks. My thoughts whirled. Yes, there was only one explanation: the man had opened his mouth to take a bite at the very moment my hand had swung out, and I had brushed right across his tongue!

I stood horror-struck as I not only realized what had happened, but also saw my uptight boss, with her red spiky hair and cat-eye glasses, marching towards me.

She impatiently asked, “Molly, did you finish clearing that table yet? Why are you standing there?” As far as I could tell, she had not yet been informed of the horrific event. But my own conscience weighed on me to admit the truth. A tug-of-war ensued inside my head. Sweat trickled down my back. Finally, after a few painful moments of standing with my eyes glazed over, I peeped out, “Sorry, I’m finishing up right now. Nothing’s wrong,” and then dashed outside to laugh and clear my mind. On returning, I did what any extremely prideful person would do—I avoided that table the rest of the night and never apologized or made eye contact with that man again.

Although many smaller embarrassing instances had occurred before this, this was where I drew the line. By this point, it was clear to anyone that I was not cut out for waitressing. Still, the prospect of admitting such a humiliating failure at my first job rattled me, so when

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my boss approached me a few weeks later, I was still in a quandary as to what to do.

“Molly, I have a proposal for you,” she began in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. “How would you like to work in the kitchen on Friday nights instead of waitressing? You did it once and were quite a natural at food prep and dishwashing. Chef really needs someone to help back there. And I know you’ve had a hard time with waitressing, so for your sake, it might be better too.”

Translation: You’re much better at making food than serving it. Yet, I had to admit, I could not reconcile myself to continue one more night of waitressing. My blunders weren’t becoming any less frequent, and I was miserable. If I still wanted a job, my best option was to relegate myself to the “back of the house.”

Well, thank goodness I swallowed my pride and took up her offer. I fell in love the first day with the fast-paced, loud, messy atmosphere of the kitchen, never once looking back to what I had lost in waitressing. Over the course of three years, I became their most valuable dishwasher, prep chef, and line cook all in one, and I was even asked to train some new employees. Plus, working in the kitchen meant I could eat my fill of gourmet leftovers. This sealed the deal for me.

So really, all it took for me to secure the best high school job in town with free five-star food and handson kitchen training from a renowned chef was just one simple touch of the hand…against a strange man’s tongue.

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Leigh Tischler

PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE I don’t know your opinions on drugs, but I personally have mixed feelings. Apparently so does the rest of the country. Well, we know where Reagan stands. That’s what we get for electing an actor. Just say no.

at the same time, like when you stand up too fast and get dizzy all of a sudden. I can remember the day they carried him out of there. Heavy and light at the same time. Len was heavy and light. All of us were.

I didn’t do drugs for the longest time myself. Longer than most people I knew. Then one day I had free time and access to a makeshift bong. Just say yes.

My only experience with drugs was that makeshift bong—we called it Bakeshift. I had a cousin who was addicted to harder stuff. She left her daughter behind and followed some drug dealer like a bitch following a bone. Just say woof.

We were college kids in the ‘80s, what the hell else were we supposed to do? Besides, I never got into the hard stuff. Not like Tribble. Not like Len. The ‘80s had made everybody very paranoid. Between cocaine and AIDS, you couldn’t go anywhere without risking death or addiction. Just say no. The crook had announced the war on the former more than a decade ago and he was losing. Leave it to a crook to crack down on crooks. Just say no. Of course, the great communicator didn’t do much better. He spent more time cracking jokes about the Soviets than anything else. Apparently, he couldn’t just say no to comedy. The Russians laugh at their children, too.

Of course, he did spend some time on drugs. Not doing them. Just telling other people not to. It was easier to hear him say it than it was to hear Nixon say it. Especially after Nixon’s little “incident.” Just say Watergate.

The actor and his wife spent their fair share of time telling people to decline simply. I don’t think he was joking then. I wonder what he thought of Richard Pryor.

The lighting-himself-on-fire jokes still weren’t old when he got elected. Reagan liked jokes, but he didn’t like drugs. He must have had a tough time knowing how to feel about Pryor. Just say freebasing.

Recently I went back to UMD, go Terps. Just say Testudo. The chapel still felt like death. Heavy and light 98

Of course, after Len things in our country got worse.

Things were hard enough for black people, and then the government pretended to accidentally make it worse.

They only punished black people cocaine. Mostly, they left white people cocaine alone. Just say justice. Of course, between Pryor and Freeway Ricky, how can you blame them?

This story is about Len Bias. What a name. I didn’t even have to change it to make it fit better. His story doesn’t need any help from fiction. I lived in the same dorm as him, just down the hall. This story is more about Brian Lee Tribble, whose name is also satisfactory.

Tribble always wanted to be Bias. Not to be biased—he had enough of that to worry about already and only more of it to come. He wanted to be everything Len was. So did Michael Jordan. Lucky for Michael that Len ended up the way he did. Just say oops.

Tribble killed his best friend. He hadn’t meant to, but he did. The whole school was devastated. Those of us who knew him couldn’t function for a while. We walked around like zombies, too heavy and too light, kind of like when you stand up too quickly. Those who didn’t know him still felt the pain or pretended to. He was going to be one of the greats. He was so young. Just say try it once.

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Tribble could remember the first time he ever smoked cocaine. The details about who with and where were blurry, but he’d never forget that feeling, nor would he want to. Some people called it a release. To Tribble it was more than that—it was an acceptance. Tribble called it coming home.

Pretty soon all Tribble was was crack. There were cracks in his lips, cracks in his brain, cracks in his life. The more he tried to fill them, the bigger the cracks got and the sharper their edges. Another high, another crack.

Just say addict.

At the trial he had to swear he hadn’t meant to kill his best friend. At the trial he had to sit, longing for the murder weapon with every dependent crack in his body.

The jury had to look at the canyons in his lips, the hunger in his eyes, the tragedy now forever etched in his heart. They also said that he shouldn’t have messed with the dorm room that night. It wasn’t the first thing on Tribble’s mind.

Tribble was pretty sure he could remember his second high, too. It was like coming home. He was somewhere new to him, but once it hit, the place was no longer new. He had been there and everywhere before. There was nowhere in his life he could go that he didn’t know about when he was high. When he was high, he was home. And every time he went home, he somehow missed it more.

Of course, the afterwards wasn’t so hot. It made him too heavy and at the same time too light. It made him feel like his body was trying to sink and fly at the same time, with him in the middle trying not to get torn apart. He could feel him slip into his own cracks, desperate for the thing that started and solved them. He longed for home.

His mother was at the trial. He didn’t really remember seeing her there. He didn’t remember any of it really.

Maybe if he’d been high, he could have felt like he knew what was going to happen. He could have felt right at home, like everything would go his way. He remembered that his mother had talked to the press after it was all over.

The jury found him not guilty of any and all charges.

Funny, he thought to himself, that they call it ‘finding’ and ‘not guilty.’ Just say semantics. He was relieved anyhow. Relief was relative now, without Len. They could still nab him for disturbing the scene. It really wasn’t the first thing he was thinking of.

He could remember parts of that night. Len, his herofriend, had just gotten back from the draft. He’d been picked up by the Celtics, number two pick overall. That was pretty impressive in the sports world, or so they tell me. Just call it the luck of the Irish. I suppose it would have made a better story if he were first draft pick, but second is pretty good too.

Tribble wanted to celebrate with his technically-numbertwo-but-number-one-to-him pal. He figured, what better way than to invite him to come home? This was a momentous occasion, and ought to be treated with the utmost dignity and respect.

Len’s coach once said that Len’s only vice was ice cream.

Just say irony.

That night Len’s vice was ice. And Tribble. And the heady triumph of a draft pick. Too heavy and too light, all at once. The great irony of the thing is that that night they were using white man’s cocaine. White powder didn’t mix with black skin. Tribble was usually in a hurry home, that’s why he usually opted for smoking over snorting. This time they opted for the scenic route.

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At first, it was as amazing as it always is—even better with Len. Tribble showed him around, directed him to take off his shoes, grab a seat, make himself comfortable. It was sweet like home should be. Just say tap your heels together, three times. It was both every other high he’d had, and it was brand new. He knew deep within him this was right. The world was all right. His high was the most powerful and peaceful déjà vu he’d ever known.

Everything was going as it should, as he always knew it would when he was home.

Then it turned sour. It was different than a crash.

Somehow, it was worse. It wasn’t something to do with home this time. It was Len. Len was crashing.

No, he wasn’t crashing. It was worse. He was shaking.

Uncontrollable shaking. How do you stop someone who’s shaking so much? Maybe they just needed to go back home. No, that wasn’t it. They needed help. The world was too heavy and too light. Len was too heavy, too light. Too heavy. Too light. Moving too quickly.

Shaking. Shaking. He couldn’t stop the shaking.

The ambulance got there quickly, but not quickly enough. Just say expedience. He was gone. I mean, his body wasn’t. It was there in the dorm room. I saw it.

Him. Len. Just say spectators. They took him away.

There was a funeral, as there always is, where everyone was too heavy and too light. Then there was the trial, as there sometimes must be.

After that, Tribble also decided to go away. He couldn’t handle staying without Len. Tribble decided to go home.

It was the first time again. He was home, warm and safe as his cracks grew ever deeper, sharper, colder. Home was all he needed. Just say relapse.

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CONTRIBUTORS’ NOTES Zachary Aszalos Sophomore, Mathematics

Anthony Esposito Senior, Communication Arts

“The Rainstorm”: This poem began as a series of observations I made on a rainy morning in Erie. The imagery led me to the consideration of the poem’s central theme, which is the sacrifices people made to make the city what it is, as well as the question of what the city’s future holds.

“The Amulet”: I have long enjoyed fiction that joins together the supernatural world with the world of everyday people. I tried to do that in this work. It features two preachers who, while having typical aspirations for their line of work, also deal with a dark supernatural force that impacts their ministries in unsettling ways.

Santosh Bhusal Freshman, Accounting I took this photo a year ago when there was a power outage and my roommate had to practice for his exam in candle light. I think the best title for the picture can be “Search for the Light.”

Olivia Burger Sophomore, Pre-Optometry This photograph was taken at Kent State University during a concert that featured a band called The 1975. During the last song of the show I caught a student holding up his cell phone toward the stage, FaceTiming a friend who couldn’t make it to the show. As the friend was dancing and singing along on the screen, it was a beautiful moment in which technology didn’t ruin a moment, rather it let someone else be in it.

Stephen Craig Graduate, English The idea for “Wading” came to me at Presque Isle watching the waves. After reading a great deal of poetry where form matched content, I tried to mimic that for the piece.

Morgan Cratty Freshman, Physician Assistant My memoir, “Eight Minutes until Landing,” is a piece initially written for a class until my professor suggested I submit it. Now months later, I hope to captivate Totem’s audience with my enthralling adventure and encourage them to pursue audacious acts, for life is short, and we shall never know what tomorrow brings.

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A simple watercolor poetry tree created in a vector graphics-based software. The poem used in the piece is “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” written by Robert Frost in 1922.

Julia Fulton Sophomore, English “Eggplant”: I first saw this painting at the Erie Art Museum several years ago when I came to visit my grandparents in the summer and I always knew I liked the painting. My creative writing class went to the museum last fall, and I decided that I just had to write about her. And if the Art Museum ever decides to sell her, I’ll be the first in line to buy it.

“Hank Williams, Jr. Junior”: The idea for this story came to me in crunch time. I had just come back to Erie from fall break in Florida and was thinking about how much I didn’t want to write anything at all and what a good story that would make. As for the character of Hank Williams Jr. Junior, my mother told me a story of how my dad went out to a bar once in his younger time and told people he was Hank Williams Jr.’s son, making him Hank Williams Jr. Junior.

“Boy scout Blowtorch”: Dear Robert, I’m sorry I told the story this way and you would probably tell it differently. I’m also sorry that my dad emasculated you. But overall I’m so glad to call you one of my friends and this story will always be one of the highlights of high school for me. (And for the record, who wouldn’t have rather had the BMW?) Katie Galgozy Freshman, Biology/Pre-Med “Alone in the Universe” depicts the idea that we don’t always see what is happening to the people around us. The light tones of the silhouette suggest a separated and guarded front. However, the planets are in color to express the different emotions and thoughts someone can experience without our knowledge. Made with acrylic.

“The Wolf” shows part of the profile of a wolf with the left side of his face showing his home. His black smears show that he is hurting. He needs safe habitat to survive. Both halves are connected, and they are equally important. Made with watercolor.

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Kelsey Ghering Senior, English “A Letter”: This was inspired by the time I spent waiting to hear from my future husband while he was away for 12 weeks at boot camp.

“Runs in the Family”: I come from a line of pharmacists and health care specialists, so this poem was inspired by the influences my mother had on my career choice. Before I pursued a degree in English, I was studying medical laboratory in science in hopes of working at a hospital.

Samantha Griswold Senior, Journalism Both “October Walk” and “Serenity” were taken at Frontier Park last October. Fall is my favorite season, so I grabbed my camera and I was lucky enough to get some good shots. “Letting Go” was a moment I captured last April when my sister, Kylie, was hugging our family dog, Katy. That was the last day we had with her before we put her down, so we took her to the beach and gave her an ice cream cone. She was nearly 16 years old and being born in the same year, my sister and Katy grew up together. Kylie took her passing the hardest. It was a beautiful yet bittersweet moment.

Ryan Hamilton Freshman, Marketing “Chromo-Chameleon”: This piece is a mixed medium of fine tipped marker and colored pencil. The focus of the hue and shading is to give the creature pop on the paper and provide shaping. I spent many weeks first drawing out the image, then coloring each individual scale, and finally touching up the definition with black fine-tipped marker. It was a lot of fun to do and is an eye catching depiction of a peculiar creature.

“Blotches and Blossoms”: This piece is one of the shortest projects I have ever worked on, and is one of my favorites. I started with the image of a flower and used two types of watercolors to construct the final product. To add an abstract nature to the watercolor I pulled out colors from the image to fill the outer space around the flower. As time goes on I intend on doing more flowers like this, to create a series of watercolors of varying hues and shades of the rainbow, to someday be hung in my future home.

“Summer Dreams”: This piece is inspired by Mary Whyte, a renowned watercolorist who focuses on the culture and people of the American South. The scene is a rather simple one, but pulls one’s vision to the figure in the middle. The woman seems to be picking a bouquet of wild flowers, and is merely taking a moment to pause and soak in the sun. Working on this piece reminds me to take in the moment and be enveloped in the scenery.

Karalyn Headley Junior, Theater This poem is based on Charles Dickens’ unfinished final novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood. In the novel, opium-addicted choirmaster John Jasper is heavily implied to have murdered his young nephew, who to all appearances he doted on. This perversion of a loving familial relationship fascinated and horrified me, and out of that reaction I decided to create this.

Angela Jeffery Graduate Student, Clinical/Mental Health Counseling Death seems to be a recurring theme in my writing, possibly because it seems to be a recurring theme in life as well. My writing is an exploration of how we are affected by events as emotional beings, and a search for significance within those events that shape us. I do not see death as macabre, simply as what is: an inevitable piece of being. And so it is something that I seek to understand. I am currently working toward my Master’s Degree in Clinical/Mental Health Counseling with some existentialist leanings.

KD – The poem “Pala Pala” is a depiction of traditional wrestling in Buea, Cameroon, where I come from. Its underlying theme is that of solidarity among people through sports.

“Loves Clash” depicts an encounter of a broken-hearted young man who comes face to face with the lover of his ex-girlfriend while he is still in pain from the breakup and still in love with his ex-girlfriend. He wonders if he should fight for her love or move on. He finally resigns his faith to his people’s gods.

(KD is a pseudonym.)

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Emily Larimer Freshman, Criminal Justice

Samantha Parrish Junior, Criminal Justice

This poem is based on a true story, at a time when I was deeply hurt by what someone had said and done to me. I went on a retreat where we took a prayer walk, and along the way our group leader stopped and gave a talk about life and how we heal and grow when bad things happen. He had no idea what I was going through, but what he said became the basis for me to move past the situation and know that I was not defined by what had happened to me. This is dedicated to Waylon Duncan, for his inspiration. God bless you!

Taken at Auschwitz I Concentration Camp in Oświęcim, Poland.

I always loved making my family laugh whenever I told this story but it wasn’t until I started writing it down that I realized how much I had really learned from this incident and what it had led to. The importance of finding the humor in life and in mistakes is something I hope to impart to my readers.

Josiah Leach Senior, Psychology

Kate Robb Sophomore, History

Read it again.

Jeanette Long Graduate, English My short vignette, “And It Was Good” was inspired by the opening lines of the Odyssey in which Homer calls the goddess Dawn “rosy fingered.” This image was stuck in my mind since I first encountered it, and I knew I wanted to write a story about a beautiful, nurturing woman with dawn in her hands battling it out against a man with stars in his eyes. From there, the story evolved and reads a bit like my own version of an ancient myth.

Molly Ramich Freshman, Communication Arts

“We Will Be Better”: Breaking stigmas surrounding mental illness is something that I have always been passionate about. This sestina explores the use of love as a weapon to fight a battle against mental illness and the power of a man who refuses to give up on his significant other, despite her daily fight with ‘inner demons.’

“Loiter”: There is something beautiful about the way nature makes seeming mistakes look like pieces of art to be admired. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could all embrace our mistakes the way the sky embraces a loitering moon during daytime?

Kaylee Luchansky Freshman, Freshwater and Marine Biology

Kyle Rodewald Junior, Duquesne 3/3 Law Program

I wrote this short story a little while ago after I saw a giant black bird with a yellow beak that was basically impossible for me to identify. The sighting of this mysterious bird inspired me to write this creepy story. Hope you like it!

This poem inspired my thesis.

Andrea Rodriguez Freshman, English “Steps Beach, Rincón P.R”: Thank you Julysa for taking me to beautiful places and always being up for an adventure.

Heidi Noyes Director of Commuter Life While enjoying the Tall Ships Festival in September 2016, I was taken back by the beauty as I ventured on to the deck of the Pride of Baltimore II. As I looked up, I was enthralled by the network of ropes, sails and the mast against the beautiful blue sky and had to pause to snap this shot.

“Atlantis Aquarium, Nassau, Bahamas”: Sometimes you accidentally capture the most beautiful things.

“Playa Peña Blanca, Aguadilla P.R”: This beach was one of my sacred places back home. It’s currently being destroyed to build a resort. Support Movimiento Playuela on social media to help preserve it.

“Zoológico de Mayagüez”: After working here for years I now can fully appreciate its beauty.

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Elizabeth Rodriguez Junior, Secondary Education/English I think people create memories in different ways and I tend to lock memories into the seams and buttons of the clothes hanging in my closet. The poem, “A Closet Full of Memories,” is about pieces of clothing that are stained with memories like red wine on a carpet.

Madeline Rowley Freshman, Physician Assistant I enjoy writing, taking pictures, and urban exploring in my free time. I was abandoned at the Xiamen airport as a baby so one of the reasons why I enjoy exploring abandoned buildings is because I feel in control. The building is abandoned, not me.

“Public Enemy Number One”: As an English major, one of my requirements is to write a thesis. I opted for a paper that was both research-based and creative, and “Public Enemy Number One” was the creative portion of the paper. In the research portion, I argued that Kurt Vonnegut used four literary techniques in Slaughterhouse Five to convey trauma. Then I attempted to use the same four techniques to convey trauma in my own story. The story is based on true events with which I took fictional and artistic liberties.

Robin Quick, Ph.D. Associate Professor of Education

Maggie Rutkowski Sophomore, Engineering “Abandoned Beauty”: This piece shows that there is beauty in everything, even if left abandoned. All it takes is one person to notice and appreciate it.

“Leafy”: Just a pretty picture of nature being cool.

Leigh Tischler Senior, English with History Minor “Letter to a Four-Year-Old”: I wrote this piece after the Orlando night club shooting this past summer. I was disturbed by the news and for some reason thought of my young cousin, the four-year-old named in the title. I wrote this piece as if I were explaining the tragedy to her. I wanted to convey the story to her without lying or censoring while using language that would be accessible to her.

“I Met Someone”: This one is meant purely for entertainment and comedy. My family looks nothing like this, and the Thanksgiving dinners I grew up with tasted a lot better. It was a fun, lighthearted way for me to vent frustrations about always being asked if I have plans for the future or if I’ve met anyone I’m romantically interested in—as if these are the only things we should check in with old friends and distant family about.

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Totem 2017

COLOPHON Totem 2017 was designed by Leigh Tischler, Editor, and Andrew Lapiska, Creative and Brand Strategist in Gannon University’s Marketing and Communication department.

The cover art, “Summer Dreams,” is a watercolor painting by Ryan Hamilton.

This year’s Totem contains acrylic painting, collage, colored pencil, digital illustration, digital photography, pencil drawing, and watercolor. Artworks were reproduced in CMYK builds.

Headline text is set in Linear and body text throughout is set in Goudy Old Style.

The cover is printed on 100# Chambray Neenah CLASSIC® Woodgrain paper. Text pages are printed on 70# Williamsburg Offset text.

The layout for Totem was created with Adobe InDesign CC 2017; photographs and artwork were prepared for publication with Adobe Photoshop CC 2017.

This journal was printed and bound by the Gannon University Press with the assistance of the Totem staff.

The die cut cover was produced by McCarty Printing, Inc. in Erie, Pennsylvania.

Funding is provided by Gannon University. Totem is distributed free of charge.

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