Graffiti Literary Magazine Spring 2018 by Graffiti Literary Magazine

Undergraduate Literary Magazine Manhattanville College Purchase, New York Spring 2018 Edition

MASTHEAD Editor-in-Chief Emily Behnke Associate Editor Katherine Matuszek Fiction & Poetry Amanda Collabolletta Morgan Ericson Waad Hassan Jasmine Hernandez Helena Rampersaud Rebecca Ribeiro Christopher Sanders Samantha Theusen Rachel Troy Art & Photography Yara Haddad Faculty Advisor Van Hartmann Printed by The Sheridan Press 450 Fame Avenue Hanover, Pennsylvania 17331

FROM THE EDITOR Dear readers, The opportunity to serve as editor-in-chief of Graffiti for two consecutive years has been a rewarding, albeit challenging, experience. While our internal layout closely mirrors the 2016 and 2017 issues, we’ve worked again to choose a cover that is both striking and subtle. We are also proud to announce that we were able to add fifty more pages of content to this year’s magazine. As always, I would like to thank Graffiti’s faculty advisor Professor Hartmann for his commitment to the magazine. For enthusiastically meeting deadlines and sticking closely to our tight schedule, I would like to thank the editorial staff. And, once again, a very special thank you to the College’s M.F.A. in Creative Writing Program, for providing a home for Graffiti in the Baray House. This year we received an incredibly strong group of submissions, with topics ranging from the politics of gun control and immigration, to the emotions of love, loss, nostalgia, stress, as well as explorations of self-care and mental health and so much more. It has been an honor to work with each and every submittor for these two years and to give each piece a home in Graffiti. I am excited to see the direction Katherine takes next year. Welcome to Graffiti 2018. Emily Behnke ‘18

NAVIGATION Prose

13 ......... It’ll Just Take A While - Caleb Crocker 21 ......... Patter - Amanda Feeney 23 ......... Alone, She Barks - Amanda Feeney 24 ......... Wall Away - Amanda Feeney 25 ......... With Us - Amanda Feeney 27 ......... A Summer Night Walk Juliette Macron 30 ......... Moments - Shannon Assenza 36 ......... Frozen in Time - Morgan Ericson 47 ......... Bridge to the Future - Lubov Ella-Maria Castelot 51 ......... Who am I? - Lubov Ella-Maria Castelot 52 ......... Emotional Scars Don’t Fade - Lubov Ella-Maria Castelot 54 ......... The Key to Your Heart is Through Daisy Chains* - Rebecca Ribeiro 67 ......... Until the Sun Rises from the West* - Waad Hassan

Poetry

73 ......... Possibility - Ashlae Guilliams 74 ......... Ode to Finals - Ashlae Guilliams 76 ......... Bag Lady - Ashlae Guilliams 77 ......... Red Riding Hood - Ashlae Guilliams 80 ......... A Hair Cut - Karina Negron 81 ......... Lie - Cristina Masi 82 ......... Little Black Dress - Helena Rampersaud 85 .........Caged Chest - Taylor Ridgway 86 ......... Band-Aids Are Made For Girls Like Me - Melissa Steen 88 ......... The Six Block Walk - Melissa Steen 90 ......... I Remember… - Melissa Steen 92 ......... Remembering Ubaldo - Melissa Steen 94 ......... Untitled - Patricia Alfonso 95 ......... You Don’t Have to Be so Afraid - Christal Hussain 96 ......... Hi, I’m Christopher Sanders - Christopher Sanders 98 ......... True Love - Christopher Sanders

NAVIGATION 100 ......... HSM - Maximilian Grabler 101 ......... The Monster, I - Maximilian Grabler 103 ......... What Older Sisters Do - Maximilian Grabler 106 ......... Wisdom for an Owl - Maximilian Grabler 107 ......... Trans-Atlantic History Lesson - Thimmy Garbeniu 108 ......... Lifeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Golden - Thimmy Garbenius 110 ......... Yellow Cross Over Blue Sky - Thimmy Garbenius 112 ......... Soulless Sound - Kyra Higham 115 ......... Side One - Morgan E. Ericson 116 ......... Dreams - Shannon Assenza 117 ......... Love in the Cold - Shannon Assenza 118 ......... Beyond the Snow - Shannon Assenza 119 ......... Desire - Shannon Assenza 120 ......... Resurrection - Shannon Assenza 122 ......... Heroes - Shannon Murphy 124 ......... Play Dead - Shannon Murphy 125 ......... Because - 12/14/12 - Brooke Hadgraft 128 ......... To Be An Immigrant - Stephanie Toledano 130 ......... The Problem with Self-Love - Carmella DeCaria 131 ......... Women - Carmella DeCaria 132 ......... Painting Classes - Waad Hassan 133 ......... Reflection - Waad Hassan 134 ......... October 1, 2004 - Lubov Ella Maria Castelot 135 ......... Blue Scarf - Lubov Ella Maria Castelot 136 ......... My Heart - Lubov Ella Maria Castelot 137 ......... Youth - Lubov Ella Maria Castelot 138 ......... Survival - Katherine Matuszek 139 ......... Into the Light - Katherine Matuszek 140 ......... A Note - Emily Behnke 141 ......... Mountain Lion - Emily Behnke 142 ......... Cascade - Stephanie Daly 143 ......... Walking at the Beat of My Own Heart - Stephanie Daly 144 ......... Hair Straightener* - Emelie Ali

NAVIGATION 145 ........ An Elegy for 60s Radio* - Shannon Gaffney 146 ........ 136 Miles* - Waad Hassan

Abtracts & Essays

149 ........ Clarity* - Laura Elebesunu 152 ......... All That Glitters is Greed* - Samantha Theusen 153 .........The Victorian Woman in Art: The Muse, The Artist, and the Critic* - Shannon Gaffney

Photography

35 ......... Water - John Bonelli 46 ......... Day for Night - Jorge Porta Mirave 50 ......... Untitled - Waad Hassan 53 ......... Untitled - Waad Hassan 70 ......... Abstraction - Rachel Stasolla 79 ......... Untitled - Heather Krannich 91 ......... Gram - Christina Modica 111 ......... Ceramic Sculpture - Christina Modica 121 ......... Carry On - Rachel Stasolla

154 ........ Contributors List On the Cover:

Untitled - Heather Krannich * Winners of departmental English awards

PROSE

It’ll Just Take A While Caleb Crocker Glenn Knight walked into O’Gallia’s Bar in a sour mood and brushed the snow off himself. At some point during his workday, lost his pocket watch, and it had made a bad day worse. He was a half hour late to his monthly gathering with the boys from Charlie Company because of it, having spent the time turning over every square inch of his workspace in the police station looking for it. His old airborne squad mates had spent an hour trying to perk him up, but at some point they went from buzzed to hammered and started belting out Blood upon the Risers. They were off key and tone deaf, but it finally got a laugh out of their former Captain. The old speakeasy was nicer than it had any right to be. It looked like it had been plucked straight out of 1929. He half expected a squad of untouchables to bust down the door any second. The mahogany bar was polished to a shine no matter when he came in, and the light was always a bit low. The only thing that kept it from feeling like one of those melodramatic detective movies was that the old Irishman who owned the place didn’t like smoking in his building. He turned back to the bar to nurse his beer and watch Liam, the owner, laugh at the worst Army choir ever assembled. Glenn slowly settled back into his frustration despite his comrades, who were now being led by Liam in butchering Danny Boy. The only other man at the bar sat over by the wall, occasionally pulling his sleeves back down if they bunched up even slightly. It didn’t take much for Glenn to move himself over to the stool beside the lone man. The stranger looked old and tired. He drank in stoic silence until he spotted Glenn beside him, and a friendly smile replaced his intense focus on nothing. “Guten abend. Oh, I apologize. I mean to say good evening,” The man greeted through a thick German accent. “I forget I am not in Germany anymore sometimes. “Evening,” Glenn replied. “Can’t say I was expecting you to be German.” “Ah. It makes sense. Our countries were only so shortly ago at war. I cannot say I was expecting an American soldier to sit beside me.

Graffiti Whenever they come into this place I excuse myself away from them.” “Why? War’s been over about five years now.” “I have learned not to underestimate a grudge.” “I see.” “Why did you come over here?” The man asked. “I can’t let someone drink alone. It’s a rotten way to drink,” Glenn answered. “Well, I do appreciate the kindness, sir.” “Glenn.” “Excuse me?” “My name’s Glenn,” He offered his hand. “Oh!” The man let out a short laugh. “Yes, we should introduce ourselves. I am Joachim.” The two shook hands and returned to drinking quietly. Charlie Company decided to start murdering some Christmas carols after someone switched on the radio. The drunk ex-paratroopers fumbled over Sinatra’s rendition of Let it Snow, but soon became slurred background noise. Joachim noticed his left sleeve had begun to bunch up, and he pulled it down somewhat violently. “Hiding something, old timer?” Glenn asked. “Just…something from the war,” Joachim responded. “Soldier?” “I’d rather not talk about it.” “Alrighty. I understand.” “I hope I am not being rude.” “Don’t worry about it. It’s not exactly the most fun topic for conversation.” The two took another drink as they let the awkward moment pass. Glenn finished off his drink and sat, pondering another. He’d promised Mary he wouldn’t get drunk anymore, but it would sure help him drive back the guilt he was feeling. If only he hadn’t lost that damn watch. He slid his glass aside and just sat beside Joachim. “Something seems to be bothering you.” Joachim observed.

Graffiti “Yeah, I lost my watch. I have a feeling my wife’s going to give me hell when I tell her,” Glenn explained. “I see. It must have been a very nice watch,” Joachim finished his drink. “You’d be wrong old timer. It was cheap and I couldn’t wind it anymore.” “Then I am confused. Why does this bother you?” “It was the first thing she gave to me after we ran off together as teenagers. It was special,” Glenn laid his head down on the bar, trying to hide his shame. “She traded a family heirloom for it during the Depression to cheer me up while I was looking for any kind of work. Then I went and lost it.” “Ah, now I understand,” Joachim said after a short pause. “I do know what it is like to lose something special to you.” “Sure makes you feel like an ass, doesn’t it?” “If that means you feel terribly about it, then yes.” Glenn looked up at the clock as it ticked towards ten. He knew that the longer he sat here beating himself up, the worse it would feel when he finally met the brunt of Mary’s anger. He replayed the moment from his youth a dozen times in his mind. He could still clearly see the grin on her face as she pressed that watch into his hand, and the small smiles she must have thought he didn’t see as he kept putting it in his pocket, even after it stopped working in ’45. It tied his stomach in knots that he wanted to drown away with more alcohol. “Can I buy you another drink?” Joachim offered. “As much as I want one, no thanks old timer,” Glenn replied with a sigh. “Might I ask why not?” “I made a promise to stop drinking as much as I used to. And knowing those idiots ruining Jingle Bells back there…well you don’t want to hear me sing sober, let alone as drunk as they’d try to get me.” Glenn answered with a laugh. “Another time then.”

Graffiti “Sounds like a plan, old timer.” “You keep calling me old, yet I am thirty five.” “Bullshit. That’s how old I am.” “Well, I suppose stress can age a man quite a bit then.” “I guess so. Hell, some people figure I’m almost forty. So I’m one to talk.” The pair shared a short laugh as the hour turned over. Glenn watched the clock for another moment before excusing himself from the bar. He pulled his wallet from a pocket inside of his suit coat, intent to pay the tab for Charlie Company as a gift to his old brothers in arms, but was stopped by Liam. “Your buddy Marlon already covered it,” He said. “Well you tell that sneaky son of a bitch not to take my ideas anymore,” Glenn replied, chuckling. He tucked his wallet away and walked back over to Joachim. The two said a silent goodbye with a firm handshake and a nod. Glenn made his way to the door then, getting a rowdy send off from Charlie Company as he stepped back out into the snow. It had stopped falling heavily, but the wind cut through his coat and froze him to his bones. The bitter cold ruined what good mood he had gotten into. He pulled his coat tight around him and made his way to the bus stop to wait on the last bus to the suburbs. ***** If there was one thing Glenn could say he didn’t like about where he lived, it would be how it looked in the winter. His house was at the end of his road, and sat right on the edge of a wooded area. Looking out into it with snow on the ground made him uncomfortable, even anxious. Some days he could even hear the faintest echoes of battle rattling in the back of his mind if he looked into it for more than a few seconds. He walked from the bus stop at the top of his dead end road towards his home, looking slightly down so he wouldn’t need to look into the trees. The only tree he wanted to see was covered with ornaments in his home. He stepped onto his porch and kicked the snow off his shoes. He couldn’t see a light on in the house, but he knew in his gut that Mary was still awake.

Graffiti He stepped inside and shut out the cold, hung his coat by the coals smoldering in the fireplace, and made his way into his bedroom. He stopped for a moment in the door, surprised to see his wife asleep. He went to his side of their bed and sat down. She was on her side, facing away from him as he took off his shoes. He sat there quietly for a moment, thinking. He turned on a lamp on his bedside table and let his eyes adjust to the yellow light. His eyes wandered around the room and settled on a few framed pictures atop the dresser behind him. Only two were still standing properly, the other two lying face down. He stood and went over to right them. The first one he righted was the only picture he had gotten with some of his friends in Charlie Company. They had jumped into Holland not long after, and this photo was the only thing that kept the names of three of them alive in his mind. The other photo he stood up was settled between his wedding photo and a portrait of the whole family. The image of his son standing at attention in his military uniform and throwing up a salute filled him with pride, but only for a moment. The pride faded away and turned into bitter regret for ever signing that consent form. A boy shouldn’t go to war at 17, but there was a look in Donny’s eye when he brought the paper to his father. It was the look of a man. A man who’d thought he’d found his purpose. Glenn stared at the picture for a while with a look of concern. He couldn’t see his son, only see the faces of the dozen airborne boys around Donny’s age in the picture, cowering in foxholes crying for their momma. The dozen boys that died under his command. A letter from Korea sat on the dresser, unopened. He turned back towards his bed, only noticing that his wife had turned over and still had her back to him. “I knew you weren’t asleep yet,” He said. She didn’t respond. He hated when she did that. When she yelled at him he could at least be sure she was mad. But when she pulled this stunt he couldn’t ever tell what she was feeling, not even after fifteen years married to her.

Graffiti “Alright, fine. Cold shoulder it is,” He stood there, looking out into the woods for just a moment. “I’m sure he’s fine.” “Why wouldn’t he be? You always were,” Mary finally replied in a flat tone. “Yeah. I guess I was,” He looked away from the trees. “I lost my watch today.” “Oh. That’s too bad.” “I’m sorry.” “For what? It didn’t keep time.” “Fine. If you say so.” Glenn sighed. “I’ll be in the den if you need me. I don’t think I’m ready to go to sleep yet.” “Don’t wake Victoria.” “I won’t.” He walked through the doorway again, and fixed himself a watered down whiskey in the den. He added a bit of kindling to the coals in the fireplace and stoked the fire back to life. He tossed a log on and sat back in a chair to watch the fire struggle to grow from the small flame it had become. He stared into the fireplace, not really watching the flame’s struggle anymore. He just sipped his drink and lost himself in thought. The sound of a door opening snapped him out of his daze, and he turned to look behind him. Victoria, his daughter who was nearly five, came out of her room rubbing her tired eyes and dragging a stuffed toy behind her. So much for not waking her. He got out of his chair picked her up. “Hey kiddo. Can’t sleep?” He asked. She shook her head lazily. “Why not sweetheart?” She could only shrug, following it with a yawn. He chuckled. “Well come on, you can sit with your dad until you’re ready to go back to bed.” He walked back over to his chair and sat with her on his lap. He set his drink further aside and took some time to appreciate a quiet moment with his little girl. They seemed so few and far between since he’d gotten promoted a few months ago.

Graffiti He saw her green eyes – her mother’s eyes – watching him somewhat expectantly while they sat quietly. “Can you tell me a story?” She asked. “Sure I can. How about a Christmas story?” He replied, smiling gently. She shook her head. “I like it when you make up stories.” “You do? Well then I think I’ll do that.” She nodded with a bit of vigor, shaking her mess of brown hair over her face. Her father laughed and brushed it back with his hand. He could hear footsteps quietly behind him as Mary came out to see what the hushed talking was all about, but pretended not to notice. “I think you’ll like this one. Once upon a time, there was a poor boy who had nowhere to go in all the kingdom, and a beautiful green eyed princess who always wanted to go on a great adventure,” He began. Victoria yawned again as he started to spin his yarn, beginning to fall asleep again. Glenn stopped telling his story almost as soon as he began when his daughter fell into his shoulder, sound asleep. Mary placed a hand on his shoulder before he could carry their little girl off to bed. “Well, are you going to finish the story or not?” She asked, seeming a bit more personable now. “Why? You already know how it ends.” He replied. “Well I’d still like to hear it.” “Let me put her back to bed first.” He wasn’t exactly sure what he did, but Glenn was glad to see his wife smile again, even if it was one of those small half-smiles. It was another sight that had become scarce in the past months. He carried his daughter back to her room and tucked her into bed, giving her a pat on the head to wish her goodnight. The fire had finally gained some traction on the log. It wasn’t much, but it burned bright enough to cast a small orange glow into the room. Mary sat on the arm of his chair, waiting for him to return so she could see how he’d turned their youth into a fairy tale for Victoria. She’d fixed herself a drink in the meantime. Glenn took in the sight for a moment and sat back in his seat.

Graffiti “Now, where did I leave off?” He asked. “I think you were just getting to the part about how the kind Princess was handing out food when she met the poor beggar boy.” She answered. He picked his glass back up, and the two shared a drink for the first time since Donny had been shipped out. Glenn picked his story back up where he had left off, and for just a short time they were young again, adventuring across America on Glenn’s search for work. He almost went and dug his old harmonica out of the junk drawer to play for her. Almost. Instead he watched her fiddle with the little golden cross around her neck as she stared into the fire. They stopped talking after a few minutes and just sat there, together at the very least. “Why did you let him go, Glenn?” She asked. “I don’t know,” He answered. The two of them sat and watched the flame flicker and try to climb the log, half succeeding the whole way. The fire licked the top but never quite engulfed it. “That log’s too big for the fire.” She said. “It’ll burn. See? The flame’s almost over the top. It’ll just take a while.” He replied.

Patter Amanda Feeney Showering has become such a hassle, and not because of the getting dressed, and undressed, and the shampooing in the middle; though that can be exhausting at times. It’s because of the patter. The beat, beat, beat on your head as the water rampages through your hair, and down your face, only to hit your shoulders and chest. The drip, drip, drip you feel as the heat and steam engulfs you, engulfs your entire being and leaves you alone with the beating of your heart and the water as they start to commingle. Your mind starts to jump to different scenarios from the day, the week, the year. You think to when you didn’t tip the waiter, to when you didn’t hold the door, to the day you stole your teacher’s pencil. And slowly it changes to whatever happened to the teacher, or the waiter? Did they get their happily ever after? Did they hate you for what you did? You think of friends and wonder if they hate you too, after all you’ve done a lot. You’ve cursed, and cried, and felt left out. You’ve beat yourself silly for all of this already, but the beating of the water reminds you that it wasn’t enough, and you swear to do better; to be better. But how can you be better? How can things get better when you can’t tell if you’re crying because there’s shampoo in your eyes or because you’re broken. Because you’ve beaten yourself down to the ground, and once you got up you fell back down, and you let the people kick you, cause you thought you deserved it. You thought you would learn. But you never learn. You turn the handle left, and sit down, letting the water drain out until you’re left alone with little bubbles that remain at your toes. They remind you that you’re clean, but coming clean is so hard to do. It’s so hard to get up, and wrap the towel around your body, without catching a glimpse in the mirror and wondering to the stranger in the mirror if this is all a waste.

Graffiti until you’re left alone with little bubbles that remain at your toes. They remind you that you’re clean, but coming clean is so hard to do. It’s so hard to get up, and wrap the towel around your body, without catching a glimpse in the mirror and wondering to the stranger in the mirror if this is all a waste.

But that’s a thought for tomorrow’s patter.

Alone, She Barks Amanda Feeney She keeps barking. I know it’s because she hates being alone, so do I. But she isn’t alone; of course she doesn’t realize this because she’s mostly deaf and three fourths blind. She’s an old dog. She doesn’t understand why I’ve disappeared into the on demand waterfall, and she’s afraid. And I’m afraid. My heart is racing, my chest as hard as stone. Controlled breathing. A tear rolls down my cheek. She barks. As I shampoo and exfoliate away at the constant ticking of emotion after emotion littering my chest and mind, she continues to bark. Each bark increases the rate of my heart. It makes me slam down the conditioner bottle. Makes me rush out of the shower, feeling as if I’ve lost my sanity, the exact thing I wanted to gain from the scalding water. I dress, and check the door, try to explain to her that everything’s okay. We’re alone, which usually doesn’t make it okay. I sit in front of her, pet her then stop, and she barks again as if I’m not there. As if I’m invisible. Funny. So I lay with her until she notices me. She bathes me in kisses and reminds me that for at least this very moment I am real. I am here. I am loved.

Wall Away Amanda Feeney In one swift movement she pulled the comforter up over her head for protection. She’s coming with me, her mother said. But she didn’t want to go with her. She didn’t want to go with her mother. She scooted her body further back until she hit the wall, and she grasped her brown stuffed dog tighter, but not too tight because then she would feel bad. She thought about the bag she had packed up and put in her closet. It had clothes, games, some dog treats - they could leave now. Of course, not her and her mother, but her and her father. They could go for a drive, get some pizza, or even go to her cousin’s house, but maybe it was too late to go to those places. A lot of times, she wished she was somewhere else. Lost in thought, she didn’t realize that the screaming had turned into angry whispers that she couldn’t make out, before she heard the door slam. From outside her window she could hear words she wasn’t supposed to know, followed by the roar of an engine, the sound of pebbles being crushed by car tires, and finally the screeching of the car down the street. Slightly relieved, she pulled the comforter off from the top of her head, and heard her father start to come up the stairs. Quickly, she pretended to be asleep, knowing full heartedly how bad her father would feel if he knew she heard the ruckus downstairs. She heard his steps as he approached the doorway, and whispered her name. She ignored it, she knew this would be better for him, because she was better off not knowing it happened. And she thought to herself - maybe if I ignore the problem and pretend that it didn’t happen, it won’t have happened at all. She pretended to sleep until her father walked away, and she thought maybe she could walk away, too.

With Us Amanda Feeney It all felt like a movie, driving across the bridge infested with all the other cars driving this way or that. We were going home, or more or so I was in a sense. I couldn’t be there anymore. They accepted and got me, which is why we’re driving at 2:36 in the morning.. I knew it was wrong to skip school, to leave, until further notice, but it would be worse to stay in that room. That room. But enough about the dark, let me talk about them. They could change your mood in a heartbeat, make you feel broken and whole, all within in sixty seconds. They were wonderful, and bright, yet mysterious in their own ways. I missed them, I still do, even with them sitting in front of me. I had felt removed as of late, but they still came and got me. 2:43 now. With two of my best friends. It was nice. I think. I let go of a lot that night, and it was safe having people with me. With people who matter. They were the few able to the lift the tent off of my head,and sometimes they even let me leave, even if only for a little bit. That was more then others, who always seemed to release the sandbags and trap me in. It didn’t even have good TV in there. It’s amazing how the mind works, and how back in that room it told me to cry until I broke sobriety, until I couldn’t cry anymore. But in the back of this little car, everything seemed just a little bit better, even if it wasn’t. For now, I was okay. Not great, or superb, but that was okay. Because it was simply better than before. “Fuck ‘em! Fuck ‘em all to hell!” She kept saying, pacing back and forth. I was sitting on the couch, quiet, watching her pace back and forth. He stood, leaning against the wall, watching me, “Who the fuck do they think they are? You’re a good person, you don’t deserve this shit, and they don’t deserve shit from you,” she continued like that for a while. I didn’t know if he had refused to tell her everything, or if she was refusing to believe it herself. I choose not to to say anything. I couldn’t remember if I had even told him everything. I held my sleeves tight in my hands as they

Graffiti shook from fear, and anger, and something else that I wasn’t sure of it. Peter left his station on the wall, and walked over to Danni, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay, I think we all need to get some rest, it’s late.” It was 4:21 in the morning, “Come on, let’s go.” Danni looked at him, then to me. She walked over, and grabbed my hand. “Peter will get you some blankets and things, if you need anything you can come get us at anytime.” I smiled an acknowledgement, and she left with Peter. Peter came back soon with a blanket and pillow. I took them and started to situate myself on the leather sofa. “Are you gonna be okay tonight?” I looked down, and he took my hand, “Tes I need to know that you are going to be okay. Alright?” Tears started to form at the corners of my eyes, and he hugged me, and I just cried, “It’s okay now Tes. You’re with us.” I never fell asleep, I was too afraid of the nightmares. Thoughts swirled throughout my open mind, they seemed never ending. Each time I was about to fall asleep, I could hear the voice in the back of my head slipping back into my conscious, “you don’t deserve this” it whispered to me. I watched the sun rise through the musky window of their apartment, and quietly ducked outside to the balcony to watch it rise. I sat on the creaky wooden planks of the balcony floor, the blanket wrapped around my shoulders, and my breath just barely showing in the brisk October air. The suns colors were a wonderful display of different shades of orange and pink, and it rose slowly and steadily. I pulled my knees up to my chest, and started to cry. I don’t know how long I was out there, but by the time I was done crying, the sun had fully rose. It was a new day. Today was new. I was new.

A Summer Night Walk Juliette Macron Carmen held her neck back to see the sky. It was the type of night where flowers glistened with dew. The sky was a palette of lilac and purple, sprinkled with white stars that sparkled like broken glass. She loved the untamed beauty of land, how the grass grew so wildly and flowers in clusters and so many trees; pine trees, purple veined maple leaves, old oaks...and the swings that hung from them. “Carmen,” Reginia reached across the arm rest. “We have to get out of here.” That was when it came back to her...the car swerving into the ditch. Before that, running away with Reginia… Carmen nodded slowly and unbuckled her seat belt. She opened the car door slowly and made her way out of the vehicle slowly, an old rusted car the color of dried blood, weighing in the possible consequences behind staying here in the car to see the night sky...or cutting through the forest and staying there. Reginia laughed bitterly. “Some way to spend graduation night, huh?” she smirked. That didn’t matter to Carmen, though. She would’ve been leaving high school for nowhere. Now she was moving...she didn’t know. No fixed coordinate, no planned life. And so long as she didn’t move towards people, she was happy. People meant conflict and conflict that could be avoided was something she didn’t want to mix herself up in now. She was so tired of people talking to her and judging her or pitying her or whatever they really did. She had to get out. She had to break free. They had to. “We aren’t trying to escape anyone.” Reginia said carefully. Carmen looked over at her. It was as though she had read her mind. “I know.” She said quietly. “Do you?” “Yes.” Carmen nodded her head and started walking down the narrow white paint in the road. “You don’t have to worry, I know.” she repeated. “I know what’s real

Graffiti what’s not. What’s the harm in imagining?” “You start to believe what you imagine after a while.” “Is that you talking to me or talking in general?” “Either.” Reginia walked beside her and linked their arms together. “Let’s go, okay?” “Fine. I’m goin’. I’ll keep going.” But she didn’t say aloud that she would need Reginia’s constant reminders to keep moving, to keep running from here. It was Reginia’s and only Reginia’s assiduous nature that would keep her going. Carmen knew that she would do absolutely anything that this girl asked her to do. She only wished that for once, what Reginia and what Carmen wanted would be the same thing. After a long while of walking and no talking, Carmen broke the heavy stillness by asking“Where are we going?” “I don’t know yet. I’ll tell you when I do.” Carmen hummed. Daring to make her voice whimsical, indifferent- and that was a dare, because the slightest thing could send Reginia into fear at this point- she said “Isn’t it strange how you and I never ever know what we really want?” “I know what I want, as do you.” “No,” Carmen shook her head slowly, untying her sweater from her waist so that she could pull it over her arms. “I mean, sometimes we want things, right? Then they do or don’t happen, and we think ‘wow, I’m so glad this didn’t actually happen’ or ‘on second thought I wish this didn’t Happen.’” “It’s basic human nature to want what you can’t have.” “Is it now?” “Yes.” Reginia stopped walking and turned to face her, hands on her hips. “Listen to me.” “I’m listening.” Reginia sighed heavily. She looked down at her feet and bent down to retie a loose shoe lace.

Graffiti “Everyone wants what they can’t have.” she explained to her pink converse. She made a tight knot with the dirty string. “But some people only want what they can’t have and nothing else and other people get over it. And then some people want what they can’t have so they go out and get it and still want it.” She finished tying the lace and turned her attention to a bruise on her knee. “Wonder how I got that,” she thought aloud. Carmen shrugged even though nothing was expected of her then. “Maybe from pressing your knee against the dashboard.” “That doesn’t hurt.” “A lot of small damage is equal to a little bit of extreme damage. Basic physics will teach you that.” Reginia stood back up and took Carmen’s hand. “Let’s keep walking.” “Whatever you want.” she replied honestly. “This way.” And Reginia turned her around so they’d walk the opposite direction.

Moments Shannon Assenza It was a cold night in Nazareth, Pennsylvania. A small town where the same dull breeze blows and the snow piles strong, especially that December. I had chills thinking about leaving to Paris the next day, or maybe it was because the heat wasn’t working in my apartment that night. Dancing was all I had to free me from the bricks around my fireplace that were falling apart. I tied up my pink satin laces on my ballet shoes, the ones my mother spent every penny saving for. She gave them to me on my sixteenth birthday. Before then, I would borrow shoes from my friends or get cheap ones that weren’t well made. I remember how many extra shifts she took to get them for me. I hadn’t seen her much since I moved out, we both work more hours than we can bare. I was trying to be independent, but I still missed her blue eyes when I felt sad. I practiced my pirouette in front of the old mirror that I’ve had since I was five. It was rusty and full of fingerprints, but something in me just couldn’t throw it away. I was the lucky girl chosen from a master class at my dance studio to audition for “The Nutcracker” at the Opera de National. It almost seemed like a mistake that I was chosen, a lucky mistake. I had been practicing for most of my days, everyday. My whole life I continuously thought “once I get this big break, I’ll finally be happy.” It was the success I had been waiting for. I was using my savings from extra shifts at the dance studio to get a room where there is at least space for a bed. My instructor Madame Fontaine was coming with me, so I wasn’t entirely alone. Madame was in her mid-sixties. She was strict and stern, but she had taught me dance since I was five years old. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Lucas. I should’ve told him as soon as I found out two weeks ago. But, telling him would give him time to think about it, which is something I didn’t want to do. I knew that booking the part would open a world of opportunities that would make it hard to come back. I wasn’t about to let fifteen years of dance classes be thrown into the garbage, the same garbage in the town dumpster up the road. By the end of the night, my feet felt tired. I collapsed on the couch and closed my eyes. I kept thinking to myself “Paris.” The vision in my head clouded my thoughts.

Graffiti I folded the clothes into my suitcase as he stood in my doorway. The wrinkles in my cotton blouse just wouldn’t come out. It was lavender and soft, my favorite one. “It’s my dream.” I leaned in to give him a kiss, but his face was stern. “Your dream is across the Atlantic Ocean.” His face was tense. “Are you really going to try and ruin this for me?” My heart hurt after I said that. The silence made my throat feel like it was closing in. I folded my shirt, the wrinkle still won’t come out. “No, Anna. I would never want to ruin your dream. We’ve been together for four years. Of course, I’d be happier if your dream included me in some part.” He smiled that boyish grin. “I need you to be supportive, I’m already nervous.” I didn’t have time to think of how much I would miss him. “I understand.” His hand held mine tighter, and my body tingled. I bit my lip, closed my suitcase, and zippered it fast. He puts his hand over mine gently. “My flight leaves in two hours.” A tear fell down my cheek. His warm brown eyes kept me there a moment longer. I pulled my hand away. His eyes grew concerned. “I don’t want you leaving all upset like this. I never want you to give up on your dream, you know that. I wish you luck.” He kissed my cheek gently. He smelt like cinnamon, like my apartment, like Christmas, like home. “Thank you.” I didn’t let myself feel anything. It felt cold as I walked through the door. The air in Paris the night I arrived was frosty and frightfully beautiful, just like I imagined. I put my plane ticket in my pocket to keep as a souvenir. Christmas lights lit up the streets. It wasn’t anything like Nazareth. I stumbled through trying to read a map I didn’t understand, until I arrived at the Eiffel Tower. It sparkled and glowed in front of me. It was golden and warm against the hazy dark sky, but I kept smelling cinnamon. I didn’t stay for more than a couple of minutes because I couldn’t stand the smell. I woke the next morning and stretched for three hours. No matter how much I stretched I felt my body tense up from my nerves.

Graffiti I was the smallest I had ever been when I arrived at the Opera de National. The building towered over me. It was beautifully terrifying, and everything I dreamed of. I walked in to see a line of about a hundred girls. Most of them were blonde, tall, and perfect. I tied dark brown hair into a bun as tightly as I could. I took deep breaths and tried to regain composure. My feet echoed off the wooden floors as I entered the stage. The golden ceilings stretched to the heavens and the red velvet seating made my heart race. I stood in front of three unfamiliar faces. Two men and one woman sat in the front row. One of the men ruffled through papers until he found the right one. “Bonjour, Anna. You are, American. Oui?” His words were fast and emotionless. “Oui, Yes.” My voice was shaking. The judges chuckled. I wished I could say I was from somewhere exotic in France. “Bonne, commencer. Whenever you’re ready.” The Waltz of the Snowflakes started playing, and echoed throughout the theatre. My feet stood in first position, and I inhaled deeply. My body started to feel a little shaky, until I imagined myself in front of my rusty mirror. I leapt into the air, and felt like a little girl again. Cinnamon filled my mind, I saw the bricks on my fireplace falling apart. I pirouette and turn several times, trying to keep a strong focus. I imagined Lucas’s kiss as I soared. I felt the hot adrenaline rush through my veins. Every move was going exactly as I practiced. I felt the adrenaline get hotter as the pressure on my last leap approached me. I started to lose focus, and my foot slipped. I fell to the floor and froze. My mind emptied and I could feel the red velvet seats staring through me. I felt smaller every second that passed. I looked at the casting directors. Their faces were blank as they drew what seemed like an X on my paper. The theatre filled with silence. “That is all, thank you.” Their words pierced through me. I could feel my chest compressing in. “Merci.” I say as I walk through the doors. My throat burned as tears welled up in my eyes. I took the hairband out of my thick hair to release the numb feeling, and wiped my eyes. My feet burned as I

Graffiti walked back to my hotel room. Ripped up satin laces and my mother’s blue eyes filled my mind. The next morning, I sat at a café that I couldn’t pronounce the name of. It was across from the hotel, and my flight was leaving in a couple of hours. The snow fell gently and sparkled on the ground. I put the steam of the tea up to my face and breathed in the steam deeply. I reminded myself that I’m in the city of love. But my tea was almost gone, and I only felt cold. “Bonjour.” Madame touched my shoulder as she sat down across from me. Madame and I hadn’t exchanged many words, and the words we did exchange were usually short French phrases. I’ve heard her speak English before, but usually never with her students. “Bonjour, Madame.” I force a smile. “How did it go?” Her face was stern as usual. I was surprised to hear her speaking English with me. “Not the way I expected.” I looked down at my tea, ashamed. She sighed. “Well, c’est la vie.” She smiled warmly. She had never smiled like that at me before. “Madame, you don’t have to pretend like it’s okay. I have no idea what I’m going to do when I return. All of my hard work was wasted.” I looked deeply in her eyes searching for an answer. She chuckled. “Why are you laughing?” My face tensed up. “Because, you think that’s what life is about.” “Yes, success. Working hard and then getting the recognition for it. I deserve that.” I responded. Madame leaned back in her chair. “That is not why you dance, Anna.” I knew she was right. “Well then, I guess I’m not really sure what life’s about.” “Why can’t it be about us sitting in this café, drinking tea today?” She smiled. “What do you mean?” Her words were comforting, but they didn’t make sense. I looked out the window. A mother held her small daughter’s hand as they walked in their winter boots. A couple wrapped their arms around each other to keep warm. Madame put her hand on mine. It felt

Graffiti warm. It felt how I imagine God would feel. “You know more than you think you do.” She left enough money on the table to cover our breakfast, and walked out the door. All I wanted in that moment was the dull breeze of Nazareth to blow through me. But more than anything, I wanted to be in Lucas’s arms. I walked through the front door of my apartment. The breeze blew behind me. I saw Lucas’s warm brown eyes glowing, and couldn’t think of anything else I needed. I wrapped my arms around him in front of the fireplace. I felt his hand as he smoothed the wrinkle in my lavender shirt. The bricks were still torn apart, and I was so relieved. I wanted to look out at the dull Nazareth sky, and stop wishing the sun would shine. I wanted to reside in the comfort of the small moments. I still haven’t figured it all out, but I wanted to live for the way his hand felt on mine. I would rather dance in front of my rusty old mirror than dance alone, in Paris. I knew that dancing could lift my spirit away, while still keeping me at home.

Water - John Bonelli 35

Frozen in Time Morgan Ericson My days are a mess of prescription pills and sleep; anything that takes the pain of his memory away from me, even if it’s only for a little while. I know it’s been a year but I still can’t shake his memory. It’s not just my mind that has to forget him, it’s my body, too. You see, the body has a certain memory about it; even when you don’t want it to remember something, like the curve of their body around you, or the press of their hand on yours as you sat and watched a movie together, you can’t seem to shake the memory, it stays, clinging to your skin like the remains of rain. I guess my inability to forget him has more to do with me not letting him go than it actually has to do with him being gone. You see I’ve still been seeing him, a lot actually. At least once a week since he left. Time isn’t as straightforward of a thing as people seem to think. It’s actually very malleable, like clay. It just takes the right type of person to know how to change it. I’ve been travelling back to the past -- to all of our seemingly insignificant dates. When I discovered what I could do I started to document dates and locations in a book in hopes that, one day, when we were too old to remember, we could travel back and relive them. But now I use them so I get a chance to see you all over again. As I walk through the Halloween tricked out streets of Salem I keep my eyes out for him. Before coming back I looked back at pictures of us, memorizing the blood-red sweatshirt he had wore that day and the black peppered beanie. I glance at every face I pass, my eyes searching the sea of people dressed in unimaginative witches with their tight corset lace tops, tall black pointed hats, and dresses just long enough to hide whatever they’re wearing underneath. When I see him he’s at the hot cider booth, his back to me. I run to him, pushing everyone out of my way and then throwing my arms around your neck, whispering “Hayden” into his shoulder. He stumbles back, tottering on your heels, trying desperately not to spill the

Graffiti hot cider, though I feel a wet patch on my back. “Whoa, don’t spill the cider!” He yells mockingly and then follows it with a guttural laugh. The one that I’ve missed so much that hearing it again almost chokes me up. “Do I know you?” He asks. I pull away from him enough to give him a chance to see my face. I’ve changed a lot over the past year. My blonde hair, once long enough to tickle my lower back, has been cropped close to my head, almost shorter than his. “Mona?” He asks, wide-eyed as it suddenly dawns on him. “What are you doing here? I mean, how long have you come back from?” His eyebrows are pinched together but his voice remains airy and unconcerned--as though all we’re talking about is the weather. “Almost a year.” I whisper back. He won’t look me in the eye and suddenly I have the inclination that I did something wrong; that coming back here to find him was somehow a mistake. Already this day isn’t going the way that I wanted. “Let’s go somewhere,” I say. “What about, uh…?” His voice tampers off and he looks around unsurely and I know who he’s searching for. “I’ll be fine.” I say, reaching out to touch his arm so he’ll look at me. “I’ll be looking at the voodoo dolls for at least another hour.” “You sure?” He raises an eyebrow uncertainly, not believing me. “Come on,” I urge again, and finally manage to drag him away with me. He hands me one of the cups of cider as we walk. I already have a place in mind as we weave ourselves back through the crowd, holding securely to his hand, determined not to let go. ~ My aunt’s old art studio used to be my safe haven. Whenever something went wrong at home I would take the 20 minute bus ride to her little studio fixated on top of an old cafe. After we’re climbed the black staircase up to the door I reach above the door for the key that I know is there. When I feel the cool metal of it brush against my fingertips I grab it and quickly let us in. The studio is cluttered with canvases and old art supplies that

Graffiti haven’t been touched in months. Dust gathers on every available surface and cycles through the air. In the corner there’s a small bed for the nights when she would stay late into the night and didn’t feel like driving all the way back home. I lead Hayden over to the bed and we sit down beside each other. With the dull sunlight filtering in through the single window on the other end of the room he almost looks like a piece of art himself. The pain in my chest suddenly constricts, tightening its grip on me in a way that it often does. I remind myself again that he’s not dead. He’s sitting right beside me with no blood staining his clothes and he’s fine. He coughs, shattering the silence around us. “It’s not considered cheating if I kiss you right now, is it?” He asks, an air of timidness stitched into his smile. In response to his question I kiss him, long and deep. Suddenly my hands have a mind of their own, they reach up under his shirt, mapping their way around his body. Memories flood through me. His hands tangle in my hair, exploring its newfound shortness and one of his hands comes to rest behind my neck, pulling me closer to him. He’s pulling at my clothes and it’s like we can’t be close enough. I don’t want to end and judging from his hard breathing I don’t think he does either. As we tangle ourselves in limbs and white dusty sheets he’s breathing me in and I’m sinking in skin. He falls asleep, my head on his chest and one of his arms looped loosely around my waist. I steal myself a few seconds to glance at his sleeping face and all of the ridges and mountains of his body before I make myself get up and get dressed. As I’m walking out I look back at him in the melodramatic way that female characters always do when they’re leaving someone. This is goodbye. ~ When I first confessed to Hayden my secret was the day I half expected him to stop talking to me. To call me a witch or a sorcerer or something and refuse to ever see me again. But that didn’t happen. I coaxed him over to my house with the allure of a Harry Potter marathon (all seven books cleverly depicted in eight movies). It only took 5 minutes before he was standing at my front steps, his cheeks red from ex-

Graffiti ertion and a smile splitting his cheeks. We went up into my room and settled into my bed, piling blankets around us as we drank sodas out of glass bottles and ate popcorn freshly popped over the stove instead of that microwavable crap. We started the movies, with the sound only turned up high enough so that we could make out the characters voices. We had already seen the movies several times; we knew what happened, so we decided to add our own commentary throughout the movies. He threw his arm around my shoulder and I snuggled up next to him as the ever chilling music started up and the story began to unravel. We were partway through the third movie when I said, not even bothering to turn to him: “Hayden, I need to tell you something.” “Can it wait until after the movie?” he asked, an edge of childish whining to his voice. “Not really,” I replied. “Are you dying?” He tried again. “Do you have a terminally ill disease? Is there proof that the zombie apocalypse is coming? Is Mona your real name?” As he says all of this his eyes never stray from the tv set. Though his eyebrows do shoot up in question over his hazelnut eyes as he takes a sip from his third root beer, already half gone. “No, nothing like that,” I replied quickly. “We’ll then it can’t be that bad,” he quips. “Bad or not I still need to tell you so would you stop watching the movie for one second and look at me. I found out something special about myself the other day...Something that could change everything between us.” At this his gaze finally falters from the screen to glance sidelong at me. “You’re gay aren’t you…?” I just stare at him blankly. “Can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Well it’s been a fun ride I’ll always treasure our moments spent together.” His dismal tone almost makes what he’s saying funnier. “Now can we get back to the movie? Hermione’s about to kick Draco’s Slytherine, muggle-hating ass!” He says. “Hayden,” I groan into his shoulder, burying my face momentarily in the blankets. “This is important.” “More important than Harry Potter??” He half yelled incredulously. “Yes!”

Graffiti “Fine,” he conceded, reaching for the remote and pausing the movie, freeze-framing Hermione mid-punch on the screen. He turns his body partially to face me. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Nothing’s wrong exactly,” I mumbled, suddenly feeling shy beside him, wondering if it’s a good idea to tell him. “I was just sitting in my room and…” The words I’d been planning on saying fly out of my grasp and I’m left baffled at what to say next. Everything possibility of how I could say it that I came up with last night suddenly make no sense. “And…?” Hayden pushes. For a few minutes neither of us say anything, and the tension hanging in the air feels palpable. Unable to decide the right way to say it I decide instead to say nothing at all. “I have something to show you.” I blurt out, not giving myself the option to change my mind; knowing that if I don’t do this I won’t have the nerve to do it next time, and keeping a secret this gargantuan from hayden is not an option in my book. “I thought you had to tell me something?” he asks. “Well, now I have to show you something.” I tell him. “Give me your hands.” He squints his eyes at me curiously but lifts his hands up for me to take, which I do. Then I shut my eyes and try to do what I did the other night in my bedroom. I take a few deep breaths, feeling the air filter in and out; slowly and clear. When I feel myself calming down, my muscles releasing tension, I start to think of a time. I think back to a day a couple of weeks ago: Hayden and I were outside of a bookshop. We had just bought ourselves coffees and we were just sitting, talking when a dog got lose. He ran after the dog and brought him back his owner. Thinking back to the day I can still feel the warm sun on my face and the press of the cool cup of iced coffee in my hand; the cool splintered wood rubbing against my legs… “Holy crap!” I open my eyes and lo and behold we’re back outside the bookshop, the warm sun washing over us and our coffees in our hands. I look over at Hayden and see that he’s in complete and utter shock.

Graffiti “Don’t freak out,” I tell him. “I know this seems a little crazy--” “A little crazy?” He asks. “No. A little crazy is having Deja vu the day before something happens. A little crazy would be meeting your soulmate on the subway and getting married at a chapel by Elvis. This isn’t a little crazy this is fucking insanity.” Hayden leans forward, placing his head in his hands. I can hear him breathing fast, taking huge breaths in before expelling them out. “How long have you been able to do this for?” He asks. I shrug. “Just since the other day. I’m as freaked out as you are.” “Jesus… This stuff isn’t supposed to happen. This is some kind of movie shit.” “I know right.” It was after I told him that I started to understand more about what I could do. I started going back in time more, practicing my limits and abilities and seeing how far I could stretch them. It wasn’t until a couple of months later that I really started to depend on my “gift” in a whole different/other way. A way I’m sure neither Hayden nor I could have foreseen. ~ Is there ever a right way to explain to someone that you’re never going to see them again? That this is the last time I’m going to see him. This is my last trip into the past. I can’t keep doing this, coming back and convincing myself for a while that everything is the same as it always was, because it’s not. It’s nowhere near being what it used to be. Nothing has been the same since that night. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, I can’t keep dragging this out. I can’t keep reliving that night over and over again in my head. The night that changed everything. ~ We were both drunk on everything from the night: life, happiness, love...and four shots of cherry vodka. The world around us tilted and swayed with each wobbly step; I remember how it felt, like we were trapped inside a snow globe that was being ferociously shaken. We clung to each other, my arms looped tight around his and the fingers of one hand slid between his . The snow around us had dissolved into wet patches that froze

Graffiti into thick slabs of ice; mini frozen lakes spread out on the sidewalks.Gingerly, connected by tentacle arms, we strode over them, careful not to fall. When we reached my house, dark and empty like the scene of a horror movie we stumbled up the steps and I let us in, stealing the key from under the potted plant, it’s leaves laden with snow and ice crystals. As we stumbled inside we tracked wet footprints on the carpet before we stripped ourselves of our jackets and hung them to dry. We fell on the couch beside each other in a mess of hysterical laughter over something that probably wasn’t even that funny. Then he leaned over and kissed me the same way that he had kissed me hundreds of times before and I melted like honey in his hand. When he decided to leave I got up and flung his sweatshirt over my head; it’s arms too big and it’s body swallowing me up and coming down almost to my knees. I walked with him to the door and we kissed goodbye before I went back to couch to sleep off my hangover. I keep thinking about the ‘what ifs’ of that night; I can’t help it, it just sort of happens. What if I had gone outside to say goodbye again? What if I had begged him to stay and have some coffee with me? What if I told him not to go? What if I had perched myself at the window to watch him as he left, the way that I so often did? If I had done that, I would have been there to help him; but I wasn’t. If I hadn’t of had so much to drink I wouldn’t have gone back to sleep on the couch and maybe that night would have ended differently. I woke up in the morning to the sound of people outside my door. A lot of them; their conversations overlapping and the sounds of their voices mulling over one another, each of them fighting to be heard over the other. Through the daze of both my exhaustion and slight intoxication I dragged myself up from the couch and walked on rubbery legs over to the window. I pulled back the curtain and peered outside. There I saw a group of cops standing on the sidewalk in a half circle, each of them too preoccupied to notice me watching. One was on the phone, yelling something into the receiver, two were deep in conversation with each other, their

Graffiti conversations overlapping and the sounds of their voices mulling over one another, each of them fighting to be heard over the other. Through the daze of both my exhaustion and slight intoxication I dragged myself up from the couch and walked on rubbery legs over to the window. I pulled back the curtain and peered outside. There I saw a group of cops standing on the sidewalk in a half circle, each of them too preoccupied to notice me watching. One was on the phone, yelling something into the receiver, two were deep in conversation with each other, their foreheads creased with lines and their eyes squinting, and another cop was crouched down, looking at something on the ground. That’s when I saw him and immediately wished that I hadn’t. He didn’t look like the boy that I had seen only hours before. The same one that had held me in his arms on the couch and had whispered sweet nothings in my ear. This boy was a stranger. His skin was white like cracked egg-shells but dusted with a bluish tint; frozen in time. He was spread out like a ragdoll, his arms spread out on either side of him and one leg bent at an odd angle. There was snow all over him, even sticking to his eyelashes. He looked so peaceful it almost didn’t seem like he was dead, but he had to be. No one falls asleep in the snow and wakes up. ~ The week after Hayden died I took solace in sleep--it became the only place where I could see him and pretend that everything was okay; even for just a little while. When my eyes were closed, a veil of darkness lapped over me, I could pretend that my life wasn’t falling apart at the seams and that he was still here with me. But the problem with sleep is that it only acts as a mild morphine (drug); used to numb me from the pain that I live in. But eventually the drug wears off and when I wake up reality comes crashing back down on me again and the heartbrokenness ensues. It only took a few days of mourning before I realized that i could go back in time to see him. But, like with sleep, when I came back to reality I knew it wasn’t the same. I soon became obsessed with going back to see him and would dread any time I would have to return to present day. ~ But as I wind my way back through the narrow streets of Salem,

Graffiti in all of its picturesque beauty, walking further and further away from him the thought occurs to me maybe I won’t have to say goodbye. Maybe there’s a way to save him. I do the one thing I had vowed to myself so long ago not to do. I think back to that night. I think back to the wind blowing snow against the window outside and the chill of the wind that snuck under the door and infested the small house. I remember the press of his hand against mine and the warmth of our two bodies under that blanket on that couch. I think back to the night he died. When I open my eyes I am in the kitchen of my house, with it’s odd assortment of mismatching mugs staring at me from inside the cupboard. It’s dark and when I look at the microwave clock it blinks back at me 3 am. I tiptoe down the hall toward the living room and there I see Hayden and I, a twisting of bodies on the couch like twisted pieces of wire. It’s hard to differentiate between our two forms in the dark. There, in the shadows of the hallway, I wait for him to get up and leave. He gets up and I watch as he kisses my forehead and as soon as I go back to the couch I run to the door. “Hayden!” I yell. “Wait, let me walk you home.” I can tell by the look on his face that the alcohol from the night before are already affecting him. I walk with him to his home and then after I know that he’s safe I go back home. I fall asleep in my bed, exhausted from all of the travelling I’ve done. ~ Warm sunlight streams in through partially closed blinds and I’m tangled in my comforter, its warmth cocooning me and almost managing to lull me back to sleep. But then I hear it. Three steady knocks on the front door. Followed by a stream of harsher knocks. I know that knock, a secret knock that we had come up with years before, and I know that it can only be one person. I practically

Graffiti kill myself trying to get out of my bed and down the stairs. I open the door and he jumps. “Jesus! You scared the Hell out of me, and man do you look like shit. Did you just get up? It’s like noon.” I stare in awe at him unable to put what I’m feeling into words. Standing in front of me in messy haired, brown-eyed, and dimple-smiling Hayden. He’s alive. I can’t believe I did it. “I got you a latte--” I throw my arms around his neck, pulling me too him and he lets out a laugh. “Whoa, someone missed me,” he mumbles into my shoulder, circling his arms around me. “You have no idea.” I whisper back knowing that he never will.

Day For Night - Jorge Porta Mirave 46

Bridge to the Future Lubov Ella-Maria Castelot Waking up alone in the middle of the night in the pitch-dark, small apartment feeling so vulnerable was terrifying. At eight years old I desperately realized that she had locked me in yet again. The apartment was unnaturally quiet, telling me I was completely alone. I crept to the door of the apartment to see if it was locked and it was. Filled with panic, I began banging on the door, hoping that someone would let me out of my apartment so that I could go find my mother. Why would she leave me alone again, my little girl’s mind wondered frantically? Why did this keep happening to me? Why would she leave her one and only child alone in a three-room apartment? Didn’t she know that an eight year old needs her mother? Eventually, someone did respond to my desperate entreaties to be let out; but rather than the beginning of my salvation, this rescue turned out to be the beginning of six long years of living without a family at all. As a result of my mother’s neglect, I spent many of my formative years living in an orphanage. Leaving my real home for an orphanage was like landing on the moon, where you are totally alone and where nobody knows you are there. I felt that I would spend the rest of my life in a virtual space suit, isolated from everyone, living where nobody takes any interest in you. Being in an orphanage was very difficult for me because I was without a family. I did not have the same advantages as children who were not living in an orphanage and this made me feel devalued. I often wondered what was so wrong with me that my birth mom abandoned, and wondering if she was ever going to come back. When I was thirteen, I learned I would be going to a camp in America where I would be introduced to a family who might adopt me. I didn’t know much about America, but I had always imagined what it would be like to go there. I had never been on a plane before, nor had I traveled extensively. Even though I traveled to America with some of my friends, I still felt incredibly alone and terrified. Traveling across thirteen time zones to America was exceedingly difficult for me. After my long, exhausting journey, meeting my new family was intriguing and exciting, but frightening as well.

Graffiti After my short time living with this family in America, I returned to Russia. I resumed my everyday life in the orphanage. Being with a family again had felt strange and had been difficult for me. I began to feel that I actually had worth as a human being again. One day, I was told that the American family wanted to make me a permanent part of their family by adopting me. At first, I was reluctant. The teachers at the orphanage tried to persuade me to let the American family adopt me because it would give me a chance at a better future and it would give me a family who would love and cherish me. All I could think about was everything that I would be leaving behind in Russia. I would have to say goodbye to my pets at the orphanage, to my friends and classmates, to my favorite teachers; in fact, I would have to say goodbye to my whole life. Was there anyone who would miss me as I would miss my country? Would anyone say to me, I wondered, words like Grande’s mother said to her, “I will always care for you, even if we’re not together and even if we’re far, far away from each other.” (The Distance Between Us by Reyna Grande) I felt torn between the past and the future; I was confronted with an enormous decision that would take a lot of courage for a thirteen-year-old girl. In the eyes of the court, I was old enough to make this decision on my own. However, since my biological grandmother was the last person who cared for me, the court had to get her to sign documents. The court representatives had to go to my grandmother’s house several times to convince her to sign the document. Even though I wanted a bright future with a good education and a loving family, I was not sure myself if I could leave everything behind for a new family that I had only known for three weeks. My grandmother and my friends scared me with all the rumors about Americans. They constantly told me that Americans only want to adopt you because they want to sell you for your organs. Eventually, I mustered up my courage and decided that having a family again and having a chance at a brighter future would be worth leaving my current world behind. So I said “yes” to adoption and “yes” to my future. Coming to America and learning a new language, culture, and customs all were extraordinarily challenging. It was difficult to jump into an educational system where I didn’t know the language or the history about

Graffiti America. Many times I felt as Grande did and as she described in her book: “I wished I could understand what she was saying. I wished I didn’t have to sit here in a corner and feel like an outsider in my own classroom.” (The Distance Between Us by Reyna Grande) I was terrified about starting school when I did not know anyone and where I could not understand what the teacher was saying. Sitting in the classroom in America for the first time was peculiar. The desks, chairs, and the classroom looked very odd to me. Seeing students eating in the classroom was something of shock to me because nothing like that was allowed in the classroom in Russia. Along the way, my new mom pushed my confidence level from negative two to positive three. With her help I made new friends with whom I’m still friends today. It was also difficult at first finding my place in my new family. I came in as the middle child between my brother and my sister, and they had been siblings their entire lives. I had six grown brothers to get to know. For months, I was unable to effectively communicate my feelings to them and they to me. I wanted to trust my siblings and my parents, but it took me a very long time to believe that I really could do so. We all worked very hard at forging our new relationships, but my parents never doubted that we would form solid, loving relationships. They worked constantly to ensure that this happened and so did I. There were many tears and much laughter along the way. Today, it’s hard to believe that it was such work to become the close unit that we all are. Despite these difficulties, I am about to complete my junior year of college in America. I am proud of the decision I made to come to America. I had to be independent and strong. Having a strong, loving family is wonderful. I know that I’ve made the right decision by coming to America and overcoming my fears and doubts. I have a family that loves me and I cannot even imagine what my life would be like without them now. Having the courage to journey from my past in Russia to my future in America has given me not only a family who loves me, but also a life that is filled with promise. I intend to fulfill that promise.

Untitled - Waad Hassan 50

Who Am I? Lubov Ella-Maria Castelot I have often wondered what it is that makes me who I am? Is it my character? Is it the way that I dress? Is it my choice of a career? Do you know yourself and the life you live, fully? I am experiencing and seeing reality through a filter, so could I ever know the truth? As I am here in my room pondering what to write in this essay, a cathartic sea of thoughts, questions, memories, dreams, hopes, and wishes is washing over me. I am not a complex woman who thinks the world is against her, nor am I an overly sophisticated “know- it- all” who doesn’t take time to pay attention to my surroundings. I am like all other human beings, but also unique. It also means that I can never provide a genuinely definitive answer to this question. I am 22 and I want to worry less, love more, overthink less, read more, and judge less. I am a social animal, needing connection, recognition and acceptance from others, while simultaneously knowing myself as reserve and solitary, with many experiences, which are never fully shareable with others. I am also a former orphan and I am a future wife, mother and a grandmother. Dependent on the idea of identity, the person we consider ourselves to be may not be the person we portray to others. But why do we still try to describe something that we cannot certainly define or grasp? “Who am I?” is a question I have been trying to answer my entire life. It seems to be a never- ending answer because I find myself to be striving to be more than I am.

Emotional Scars Don’t Fade Lubov Ella-Maria Castelot Often, many may look at scars as a blemish. We might think of them as something to hide or to cover up. Are they not a symbol of experience? I think we need to remember the scars, whether emotional or physical, for through the suffering we find the happiness of feeling healed. One, fairly average morning, I found myself immersed in my thoughts while carelessly staring through the window, waiting for my father to come home. I was standing with my legs crossed, and became so sucked into the window that I hardly realized that one of my legs was slowly falling asleep. Finally, a policeman walked into our apartment, I kept staring at the window, well, you know the rest. I listened closely to him talking to my mother. He said I shouldn’t wait for my father any longer because he will never come back. My tears started pouring out of my eyes, burning my face. I just lost my best friend. The years went by and the wound that my father’s death left me with is still in my heart but finally, it is becoming a scar. I noticed that my heart became tougher. Sitting in my room now thinking about this scar, I realize that emotional scars come about, and end in the same way as physical scars. The scar that you left me, dad, will not be a constant reminder of pain, but rather a constant reminder of healing and becoming whole again together with beautiful memories. How can we live a successful life without learning and progressing from our scars? This emotional scar has made me stronger and confident; and I now can say that they are not blemishes. They should not be hidden. They are part of me. They define me.

Untitled - Waad Hassan 53

The Key to Your Heart is Through Daisy Chains Rebecca Ribeiro

Winner of the Sister Eileen O’Gorman Prize for Short Fiction In the dark, Theo begins to count the times he has fallen in love. He counts them in ones, twos, threes. Sometimes, they can be counted in constellations, in the bottoms of emptied coffee cups, in pencil and eraser shavings shoved hastily away, in the phosphenes that come and go when he rubs his eyes too hard. They come to him through inky eyelashes, through freckled forearms, through chipped front teeth and uncombed eyebrows. They leave in small increments, caught up between chloroplasts, pollen, small thorns and jagged stems puncturing petal after petal, completely apathetic of their exit wound. Theo isn’t sure if he has lost count, or if he has purposely stopped himself from counting altogether. *** “He’s really brilliant. With his composition and color palette – now, that’s something interesting.” Theo smiles to himself, letting his pencil scratch lightly against the page in his notebook. He flips over the pencil in his hand – absentmindedly, idiosyncratically – as his ears perk up every so often, catching little indirect compliments. “Where are the people, though? It seems like he has the hand for portraiture, just look at the detail. His botanical studies are gorgeous, still…” Theo’s smile falls, and his ears become hot. They are people, though. He leans forward, fists clenched, shoulder blades taught, and a small, sharp pain stinging between his eyebrows. He wants to speak up

Graffiti and defend himself, his artistic license – defend his flowers that he loves so dearly – his very being. “I know you weren’t eavesdropping just now,” Theo’s professor’s voice drawls out. The student feels his face burn in embarrassment, and he wipes his palms against his light-wash jeans, cursing to himself when he spots a smudge of graphite along the side-seam. “I’m glad you decided to show up and see the rest of the student’s works. You fit right in.” “Thank you, professor. It means a lot.” Theo scratches his neck sheepishly. *** Theo’s eyes are focused on the warm earthy color of the black coffee, and he analyzes every little ripple and slosh it makes. Without looking up, he can feel his professor’s gaze, heavy and contemplative. A wave of nausea hits him, suddenly. “So, about your thesis for the semester –” “I’ll do it.” Theo lets go of a breath that he has been holding in, the air rushing out warm and heavy between the gaps in his teeth. His lips are chapping. He’s suddenly worried that if he speaks too quickly, too harshly – too suddenly – they will draw blood. He unconsciously winces at the copper-tinged thought. “Painting people, I mean. I’ll do it.” The professor raises an eyebrow back at the boy, leaning backward slightly in his chair. Theo stares back, trying his best to prove defiance and surety in his decision. The professor lightens his gaze, making his subtle wrinkles more prominent around his eyes. “The golden child of the department is finally willing to let us see his portraiture, hm?” Theo deliberates for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek before he grabs his backpack, already missing the warmth of the coffee cup. He waits until he leaves the room to press his palms to his cheeks.

Graffiti *** Theo’s hand is still a bit damp from his shower. He drags the pad of his thumb against the screen of his phone, notification after notification glowing and twitching. A drop of water slips from the tip of his nose. His stomach drops when he finds the emailed information for the model’s photo shoot and consultation that weekend. Theo sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, pulling at a piece of skin. Minutes and hours begin to pass by, and Theo finds himself wide awake, his nerves making his skin crawl, ears ringing inconsistently. He isn’t much of a fan of digital portfolios – how can you really see the texture in a photograph, you practically have to touch it – but he comes to the realization that maybe his thesis model would like to know just what they are getting themselves into. There are sketches, paintings, photographs, and some confusing combination of unfinished, avant-garde mixed-media products that Theo built up over the years. They cover multiple subject matters, color schemes, small blips and mistakes that somehow, in some way, made sense at the time of their creation. Theo finds himself with a faint smile gracing his lips, soft and comfortable and familiar, running the pads of his fingers against each one. The acrylics and encaustics are thick and opaque, and he scrapes his knuckles across the sharper, thinner peaks. Scooting himself across the floor, his knees sting from the rugburn making its presence known between the rips in his jeans. Under the bed, blind palms find the drawstrings of large garbage bags. He only feels slightly guilty for hiding his paintings like this. He can’t find himself to let them breathe. Slowly, cautiously, Theo peels back layers of black polyethylene, revealing portraits done with charcoals, soft pastels, watercolors – a messy amalgamation of all three. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment. After a moment passes, maybe two or three, the faces look back. It’s painful. He still loves them – each and every one of them.

Graffiti Ideally, his thesis would have to be done in either acrylic or oil paint, if he wants to do it right. Theo can’t help but grind his teeth, thinking about the last time he sat down and really tried to finish a portrait. It had to have been back in his first year, most likely for something outside of a school assignment, because he had promised to himself that he wouldn’t let it happen to him again. She was entrancing, to say the least, and Theo lets out a dry, painful cough when he remembers staying up until four in the morning, driving himself mad over the way that her lashes swept over high, sharp cheekbones, the inky follicles of the farthest corners turning out ever so slightly, practically parallel to the curve of her upper lip. “Chrysanthemums,” he hums aloud, trying to ignore the way his voice cracks at the recollection.

*** The fine arts department consists of mock-socialites who breathe networking as much as they do their own respective crafts. The whiplash of it all – for someone like Theo, who feels more comfortable cleaning brushes than clinking champagne glasses – feels like a perpetual vertigo. His painting professor challenges him, pushes him to excel, to stretch and play with his own limitations, because in the end, there was the promise that his art would be worth all of this extensive labor – this need to promote. With his headphones on in the studio, Theo becomes grateful for the newfound lack of condescension that his professors and peers – who grow impatient with his avoidance of people – usually give him. “People aren’t scary, Theodore,” his major adviser had said upon one of their first meetings. “They are only people. They should be no harder to paint than a nice bowl of fruit. You don’t even have to talk.” *** In a fleeting moment of terrifying clarity, Theo wonders what reckless de-

Graffiti sire for self-immolation has willed him to put himself into this situation in the first place. The studio is cleaner than before, and his major adviser places two stools in the farthest corner of the room. The professor calls it intimate. Theo calls it claustrophobic. The two eventually compromise. Theo is, as an understatement, petrified – petrified that his fatal flaw would be revealed the moment he began to take reference photos. He chokes over the idea of putting himself back into that mental state, and he stresses over the mental image of his professors looking down pitifully at their top student – only a second-year student and already having his pieces displayed in galleries – who couldn’t for the life of him paint anything that wasn’t botanical. He is never going to let anyone know. He will fight it off this time. There’s something unexplainably out-of-body when a stranger is looking at your artwork. Theo thinks that maybe things will be okay this time around – that is, until he catches a glimpse of Mitch eyeing a certain sketch, eyes shining, glowing. “It’s really nice to meet you. Your work is impressive.” There it is – the saccharine tone of voice, combined with a faint accent that even Theo could never seem to perfect. The two shake outstretched hands, and Theo’s nose fills with the scent of citrus and smoke. Mitch’s hands are calloused, but warm. The feeling lingers. When both Mitch and the professor finally leave, Theo feels a cough scratching at his throat. He tries to subtly cover his mouth as he feels the cough coming up, eyes watering a little from the itch in his chest. He curses at himself. *** Theo huffs in frustration when he clicks through the photographs he had taken during their first session together. They were decent, so to speak, but Theo didn’t get his work shown in an art gallery by producing work that was just decent. It isn’t Mitch’s fault. Mitch is very photogenic. The camera loves him. It is Theo’s fault, and it is Theo that the camera has a problem with – or maybe it is the other way around. The camera refuses to showcase

Graffiti Mitch the way that Theo sees him. It is unable to catch his aura. Well, Theo reminds himself, that’s what the painting is for. His professor’s voice pulls him back to reality. “They’re flat,” he states. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong –” Theo explains, voice wavering and high-pitched suddenly. “You need to get closer to the model, physically and emotionally.” Theo opens his mouth to retort, to explain that he really can’t, but only coughs again, the itch now turning into a very painful sting, as if the insides of his lungs are becoming raw and tender. *** “You’re not close enough,” a photography student – Jacob – calls from across the room. Theo merely glances back in question, head tilted, and is somehow able to take one tentative step forward. Jacob sighs impatiently. “Like this,” he pushes at Theo’s shoulders, manhandling him so that he is almost sitting on top of Mitch’s lap, angling the camera from right above the model. Theo refuses to breathe. Mitch looks up at the camera through his lashes – the faintest hint of something else present. When Theo pulls the camera back to look at the small view screen, it looks better than he thought. Jacob nods at the slow but sure progress being made. “Again.” After a few shots, Jacob pushes gently at Theo, having the young painter crouching now. When Jacob suggests that Mitch should take his sweater off, explaining that the sketching and painting process will be easier with a nude figure, Theo opens his mouth to protest, completely mortified. It’s Mitch, though, that interjects. “It’s no big deal.” The shoot is hazy, and even though Mitch is trying to showcase his lean stomach, flexing the muscles in his arms and back, all Theo can think about is the way that his eyes glint playfully. Jacob later eases the camera out of Theo’s hands, paying no mind to the younger boy trembling.

Graffiti When Theo goes to thank Jacob as he leaves, Jacob quips, “Thank your model.” Mitch has left already. Walking back to his apartment, it’s colder than Theo expects it to be, and occasional coughs shake his small body. The pain pulsating in his chest makes him whine softly into his scarf. He swears he can taste something powdery on his tongue. He pushes the thought away. *** Sometimes, when Theo can’t sleep, he paces his apartment, trying his best to make sure that his other roommates don’t wake up. He loves these quiet moments to himself. Theo has memorized the floorplan, and even though it is too dark to see anything as it is, he keeps his eyes closed, one hand lingering on a wall, as he maps out hallway after doorframe after windowsill. The blinds are closed, keeping the living room separate from the world outside. When he finally opens his eyes, he already knows what to expect. It’s familiar and commonplace. Standing staggered amongst one another, they look like people. They have a faint silhouette, outlined by some glowing emission peeking out from between the shutters. Theo smiles sadly, raising a hand up, waving slowly. The air around his fingers seems kinetic. They blink back. He knows all of them. He mouths some semblance of an apology to the apparitions, knees sinking to the carpeted floor. He places both palms flat against the carpet, looking up at all of them expectantly. His portraits. He can see now, just barely, that each figure is holding a bouquet of flowers, soft and fresh and new. When Theo slams his fists down below him, they all drop their arrangements, facial expressions unchanged. Theo has to stop himself from crawling forward, fingers itching to reach out, grasp the plants in between sweaty palms and watch them crumble and falter under his gaze. They blink again. Theo doesn’t remember much after that.

Graffiti *** Theo’s professor is sitting back in his chair, reaching his hand out expectantly. Theo pulls out the immense portfolio and unzips it, flipping quickly through the variously-sized papers, and eventually pulls out a large stack held together with several clips. The older man takes the stack in his hands, casually glancing at a few of the papers. “I take it that you’re not too pleased with the grade I gave you for the sketching section.” “Yes,” Theo clears his throat, heat rising to his temples. He was floored, frustrated, and mainly disappointed in himself. He’s doing it again. “I can’t do people. You know that.” “Can’t or won’t? Do you think that I gave you this because I thought you couldn’t do the assignment?” Theo sneaks a glance up at the man’s face. “No, Professor.” “I gave you this grade because I know you can do much better than this. With this, did you even try?” Theo huffs heatedly, hoping that his anger overpowers the heavy drop in his lower abdomen. “I did!” “This,” the man pauses, carefully, “this is the work of a perfectionist who gave up before he even tried.” And, fuck, if that doesn’t sting. “People can be just as beautiful as flowers,” the professor smiles, feigning some form of sympathy. Theo doesn’t know if he agrees with his professor. He knows how wrong, and right, that statement is. *** Theo struggles to create a color palette for the painting after he is finally satisfied with a certain pose from a couple of photoshoots back. It was supposed to be deleted. The photo is slightly blurred from Theo’s anxious hand, and Mitch wasn’t paying attention, but it’s the closest that Theo can get to capturing the older boy’s aura, and after begging and pleading,

Graffiti the professor approves of it. Mitch is in mid-laugh, his eyes almost completely closed, but the light from the window just manages to make his irises glow through thick, inky eyelashes, and all his teeth are showing in a painfully large grin, cheekbones high and sharp. Theo forces himself to take small breaks from looking at it for too long. *** He later decides that he needs to see the older man in person to sort out the color-scheme situation. Mitch finally picks up after several rings. He warns the younger boy that he’s at a bar. Service is botchy. It’s been a month since the two has last talked. Theo opens his mouth finally, but the words get overpowered by a loud cough. He coughs harder now, feeling something come up his throat, sticking to his tongue. Confused, he picks at the thing with his index finger and thumb. It makes his head spin when he finally realizes what he is holding in his hand. He swears he can make out a small white petal produced from his esophagus. It’s happening again. “Listen, come to my apartment,” Mitch says through the broken static. “I’ll send the address.” Theo is focused on the object in his hand. He lets the dial tone drone on long after Mitch has hung up. *** “I don’t know if I’m having fun yet or not,” Theo slurs over his words, gesturing between the two of them. “It’s too sweet, and it burns,” the younger boy continues, now gesturing to his thermos filled with some cold coffee and creamy liqueur concoction. “You just haven’t had enough, yet.” Mitch closes one eye shut, the other peering into the opening of the wine bottle sitting hollow in the palm of his hand. “Drinking is always fun. You’re in college. You should know.”

Graffiti He leans forward, hand now curling around a new bottle of something golden and shiny, like honey. Theo thinks that it’s most likely whiskey. The older of the two begins to pour the alcohol into two ceramic mugs, tongue poking out, pinky finger sticking up in concentration. “Listen –” Mitch says mid-pour, in a strangely deep tone. He stops himself, staring at Theo. “Is there something on my face?” Theo licks his lips nervously, the cracked skin stinging from the alcohol, searching for something that isn’t there. The line of his jaw curves childishly, making his soft cheeks and thick lips far more innocent than before. “You’re cute,” Mitch says, bringing himself out of his trance. “I want to kiss you.” Theo turns his head, averting his eyes from Mitch’s deep stare, only for a moment. He can’t get himself to respond, now even more self-conscious of the painful scratching in his chest. “Your professor said that we need to get to know each other better, and what better way to get to know each other?” Mitch continues, scooting closer to the younger student so that their knees are knocking. “Do it for the art. It’ll be quick.” Maybe Theo had put more liquor in his coffee than he thought, and it bites when he tips forward, curving down to kiss the tip of Mitch’s nose before he is pulled down by the back of his neck. Theo’s breath hiccups in his chest. He’s tense for a second before relaxing slow and gentle into the kiss, hands clenching and opening repeatedly. The poor kid can’t help himself. Theo is crying now, and he swears he tastes the saltiness of his own tears in-between breaths. Mitch tastes good – hot chocolate and cognac and plum merlot – and when he moves to kiss him deeply, Theo inclines his head and lets his lips part. “It hurts so much,” Theo sobs as he breaks the kiss for a moment. “Please keep kissing me.” He was losing Mitch even faster now – he who he’d never fully, truly had a claim to in the first place – close, but really not close at all.

Graffiti He let himself fall back into this again. He falls far too easily. A sob echoes throughout the apartment, and suddenly, Mitch understands. Mitch’s eyes are distant, out of focus, and there’s a faint thrumming in Theo’s ears. “Please tell me you’re somewhat sober,” Theo whispers suddenly, eyes sharp. Mitch leans back behind himself to grab the half-full ceramic mug from the table, emptying its contents in one fell swoop. He swallows harshly. “We’re just having fun. Stop acting like you’re in love with me.” “I can’t help it,” Theo chokes repeatedly in a mantra, hiccupping, struggling to shallow his breathing as Mitch takes his swollen, slick lips into another sickening kiss. A moment passes before the younger of the two breaks the silence. Theo’s cheeks are red and flushed. Their hot breaths are tangible, crystallizing from the cold. “Help me.” Theo’s voice is so small. Mitch looks down at the kid, his eyes glazed over with intoxication. He grabs a cigarette from the kitchen countertop and stands by the doorway, refusing to make eye contact. “You and I both know I can’t.” *** Theo wakes up in a cold sweat, patting the emptiness of the mattress surrounding him. The coughs come quickly, making him wheeze. They are worse than the ones before, and he curls into himself, seeking some sort of relief from the pressure in his lungs. They ache with every inhale, breaths shallower than the last. The room starts to spin, and the sour taste of bile bites at the roof of his mouth. He stumbles to the bathroom, wincing at the loud bang of the door slamming against tiled walls. He drops to his knees and hugs the rim of the toilet bowl. Small droplets of tears collect at the corner of his eyes as the bile scorches his throat. He retches again, wincing when he feels a bit go up his nose. Aside from the distinct

Graffiti taste of vomit, he recognizes blood on his tongue, something powdery, and Theo forces his eyes open, staring down into the shallow water. There, in middle of his dinner, were flowers. Not just petals, but flowers in full bloom, blazing in gorgeous shades of silver and sapphire, with small traces of red and yellow. Theo quickly flushes it all away, trying to shake the image out of his mind. He wobbles over to the sink on uneasy legs. Theo splashes water on his face, squeezing his nose tightly. He looks hesitantly up at the mirror, hands clutching the porcelain sink as he finds his reflection. His face is red from the cold water, and maybe from the tears, too. His shirt is yellowed at the neckline, hair askew, damp and slightly curling behind his ears. There is a sudden sharpness at the back of his throat. He tries to cough up another flower. This time, it feels different. He can’t swallow properly. Every time he takes a breath, he feels as if the air is going somewhere it isn’t supposed to. He coughs again and again, forcing it out of himself now, as more petals spew from his mouth. And then he really feels it. Something is tickling at the back of his throat, triggering his gag reflex, and it is growing, expanding. He opens his mouth as wide as he can, jaw becoming sore, getting as close to the mirror as he can, trying to find the source of his pain. It takes him only a second to spot the ring of white. It is a lily flower, winding its way through his windpipe, towards the overhead light. Theo can see the first small green leaves unfolding, as if he is watching a time-lapse from science class. He screams, surprised at the sound of his own shrill voice. He gets a hold of the stem and pulls, sobbing when he feels something strain and dislodge itself deep inside of his chest near his diaphragm. Theo’s eyes widen in horror as he finally sees the length of the plant – its intricate roots. It seems to go on and on, and he starts to dig

Graffiti faster, jagged fingernails cutting up the inside of his mouth as he desperately tries to rid himself of the new, smaller plants twisting upwards, blocking his source of air. It chokes Theo when his fingers can’t move fast enough. Bloody stems begin to grace the sink and floor below, quickly wilting as they separate from his body. Theo is hysterical, bawling, watching his fingers become covered in damp petals and leaves. His jaw is aching from the effort, and his throat is raw from all the leafstalks rubbing against it. His roommate rushes in, and Theo just cries harder, squeezing his eyes shut as another jerk in his chest emphasizes the unrooting of another stem. Theo heaves harder, and all his roommate can do is stare at Theo’s shaking frame, laying across the shiny, linoleum floor. “I don’t want to love anymore,” Theo sobs, retching dryly. Another petal sticks to the roof of his mouth. “Please – let me breathe! Let me go – please -!”

Until the Sun Rises from the West Waad Hassan

Winner of the Sister Eileen O’Gorman Prize for Short Fiction Her story, just like her mother’s, is dishonest. If you ask her about it, she will tell you that they came like a herd of goldfinches migrating through the frozen winters. She will tell you that they came like a colony of bees looking for a place to settle in. She will tell you that their arrival is temporary, an act of nature, that will be fixed in due time. She will skip over the parts of the story when the goldfinches shed their feathers in her hands and flew away bare and boney. She will not tell you how she stitched the feathers into the layer of the sky on top of her house. No, she will smile and tell you, the sky was always this yellow. The women in her town came like an erratic wave of energy: uncontainable and dark. They came in every shade of grey, in wool and silk coats, naked, barren, pregnant, colorful, limping, and running. They came from every corner and all nestled underneath her feathery sky. They came overnight and around dawn and sometime in the afternoon. They came from every country and some did not have a place to come from but they came nonetheless. Bissan woke up exactly at seven in the morning. She made her way out of the bed and into the bathroom. She showered in ten minutes, she got dressed in 15, she packed her bag in five, and made her way to the kitchen. She sat at the counter and watched her mother carefully pour olive oil from a big jug into a smaller bottle. She was eating her sandwich, which was so conveniently ready for her, as she observed the morning show. Her mother would finish pouring the oil, wash her hands, turn off the dishwasher, unload the dishes, and disappear into her room. She would return in a few minutes with a comb and the olive oil bottle in hand. By that time, Bissan would’ve moved to the couch awaiting her arrival. Her mother, still silent,

Graffiti would gently pour some of the oil on Bissan’s hair and start combing. Bissan doesn’t remember the last morning she had when she did not have to sit for twenty minutes as the oil dripped from her skull drenching every single strand of her. She used to be soothed by the sensation of the tip of the comb as it made its way down her hair brushing slightly over her ears. Now, she sits there as if confined to the couch held back by the branches of the olive tree her mother hand-picked the olives off. She doesn’t understand why her mother wakes up at sunrise, pick olives for half an hour, and then proceed to go through the effort of squeezing the oil out. Every Morning, they would have fresh olive oil and fresh olives. They never cooked. Midways through her chain of thoughts, she remembers that she had not breathed in sometimes, so she inhales sharply. She holds the air in until she can’t anymore and then lets it out in a loud exhale. She looks down at her watch earning an exhausted grunt from her mother. Just a few minutes more. She wants to snatch the bottle away and chug it all. She wants to choke on it. She looks to the left, another grunt, to gaze into their neighbor’s house through the window. There she sees the mother brushing her daughter’s hair too, she uses lettuce oil instead. The women in her town are silent like a mutilated carcass of a roadkill waiting to be discovered on the side of the road. They move in circular loops of action after action after action. These women came on a December night, together, and remained in this town since. These women have black eyes and brown hair. Their daughters have black eyes and brown hair. These women are automatic, programmed, and always busy. These women have work to do. Bissan walks down the road for half an hour. She takes two lefts and one right passes by all grey buildings, all occupied by women and their daughters. She enters her designated building where she works with ten other women. They all have tightly wrapped buns and grey suits on. She wants to claw at their eyes, force their mouths open, she wants to make them speak. They stay there for six and a half hours. She takes the same road back home. On the way, she is the only one who stops and sneaks into a

Graffiti little hallway. She caresses the cracks in the concrete walls until her fingers land on an, especially big one. She nudges her finger into that crack making the hole deeper. It stings as her finger scrapes against the stones but she keeps pushing one, two, and three fingers into that hole. She pulls back when she is satisfied with damage: she has broken two fingernails and blood has started to flow. She takes the same road back home. At home, the rest of her day passes numbly by insignificant. She doesn’t go to sleep because she has not slept since the women started coming. Since the silence grew from the outside in, into the house, through the ceiling and the vents, from the ground, and formed a hollow circle in her room. Sometimes, she tries to reach for it to pull a piece away from the walls and shove down her throat to get a taste. She watches from her window the empty roads and wonders why it doesn’t rain anymore. When the women came, they came like a flood. They came in rainstorms, in thunder, in black and white. They came because they were forced to. Bissan picks up a pen and writes on the walls: Once upon a time, the women were all gifted into a small town far far away. They arrived in a ray of sunshine, like the beauty of life. They arrived in happiness, in songs, and in colors. They arrived and stayed and grew. She scratches that and writes again: Once upon a time, these women were given to a small town far away. They came in rays of yellow, like the beauty of life. They arrived in songs in colors. They arrived. She scratches that and writs again: Once upon a time, we were sent into a town far away. We came like cattle, like childbirth in reverse. We came bloody and blue. We came because we had to. We arrived. We stayed. She wants to walk down the stairs and into the kitchen. She wants to find the jug of olive oil and smash it on the ground. She wants to let her hair down, take off her cloth, and runs outside. She wants screams and sings and speaks until the light in her mother’s room turns on, the light in her neighbor’s house turns on until it starts to rain. If you ask her, the women in her town came and will continue to come until.

Abstraction - Rachel Stasolla 70

POETRY

Possibility Ashlae Guilliams Catch us before we fall. A lonely world, in which we want it all. Trying our best to pass every test. Working this hard to build our own nests. We won’t always win, nor always lose. A destiny that is ours to choose. Losing your footing is always the greatest test. One that can cause quite a big mess. A flying leap of faith is what it’s called. Would they make the same decisions if they were in your shoes? “Catch me, please!” You’re calling for my help on the evening news. To help or not is something I must choose. Teetering in and out of consciousness. Battling this so-called selfishness. Trying to be who you want me to be. Trying to be someone the world would want to see. Who am I to grow to be?

Ode to Finals Ashlae Guilliams Something you won’t believe, Juxtaposed with something so serene A feeling that cannot be soothed By cotton-candy blues. Stress in the air, Finals are near, And all that is here, Is birds; Singing. Papers strewn Trees in my view The library air conditioner, Singing. What do you do? When the light turns off on you, And you’re too tired to move, Because you want to see it through; Your studies. What do you do? When you walk out this room, And there is no one but you; Leaving. A sense of accomplishment, You’re done. You’re through.

Graffiti A sense of shame. You must think this is a game; You lose. Chemistry, Physics, There is so much to do Reading, Writing, That paper doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t belong to you. College. Friendship. Life. Strife. Melancholy blues, Serene Views, Passivity; The feeling I choose to Amuse.

Bag Lady Ashlae Guilliams Fantasies and histories Trying to solve these mysteries But— Numbness is a sanity Can’t get attached emotionally Guarded is enough to be— Saved— Saved from humanity; The people who could hurt me Lost— Are you going to look for me? Will you try to define me? Or take the time to understand me? Briefly— I reflect on all that I see And suddenly I feel crazy Retreat— Don’t give in to your anxiety Isolate from society Stop— Being imprisoned by your misery Being the definition of a bag lady You may not want to hear it, but are you listening to me?

Red Riding Hood Ashlae Guilliams Little Red Riding Hood, Hiding her eyes from the woods. It’s cold, it’s dark, the rigid air, The sharp menacing feeling radiating from your stare. Trying to laugh, but my voice isn’t working, Tears in my eyes from hatred lurking. Grandma, Grandma are you there? Please protect me from his harsh stares. No, Little Red, she says to me softly, You have to fight the wolf without me. Get your education, show ‘em who’s boss, Either that or live at a loss. So, I start my journey through the brush, I feel his insults starting at me in lust. You’re such a whore, a failure, a freak, No, no that’s not me. I’m smart, I’m beautiful. I’m here, still here, What did I do to make you not care? That’s when he did it, he came so close, He said he loved me, then gnashed at my throat.

Graffiti Damn it, how could you? I stared in disbelief to see the wolf revealed, To see the wolf is me.

Untitled - Heather Krannich 79

A Haircut Karina Negron Seeing you sit on the stool, your eyes donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look up as I hold the buzzing electric clipper, I stand behind you. Watching you wipe your eyes, as I start from the back of your head, I stand behind you. As you watch the hair fall off your shoulders into your hands. The buzzing traces around your ears that would hear me sing to you on our long car rides. I stand behind you. Watching your lack of sleep show on your face, I stand behind you. I shave the sides of your head, wishing I can shave away the pain that grows inside you. Watching your hair fall onto your lap, you pull out the rest. This is all I can do, Stand by you and watch. We look in the mirror together, only to stare back at a reflection.

Lie Cristina Masi we were addicted. addicted to each other, and the feelings that followed intoxication from our fascination. and we both know whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s best but we continue to test the flame that refuses to burn out because while our mouths deny, our eyes will never lie.

Little Black Dress Helena Rampersaud Little Black Dress You will be worn tonight But try not to cling to my body so tight Even though I love the way your lacy skin Itches against my own As you pepper the ends of my collarbones with playful butterfly kisses And I know you love your new haircut But I just can’t go out so late with that deep “V” in my back ‘Cause I’ve been told that’s too much skin That you are exposing me That I am trying too hard to draw attention to myself But we know that haircut was just for you Your petite silhouette Forever being teased by the wind Shelters my petite silhouette Forever running after the wind The wind that gets on your nerves But never to your head Thank God, you have always stayed by me And let’s keep it real Short girl to short dress Your height doesn’t matter You can’t help it if you’re small You were designed by a mastermind to be that exact way Know that your size doesn’t make your stitches any looser Nor your sequins any less shiny I have to take the subway home tonight So please don’t get upset when I cover you with my jacket

Graffiti What covers you may hide you But it will never change you And shhhh…. don’t try to argue It’s not you It’s not me Because in those late hours there will probably be a man It won’t matter his age, background, the color of his skin What will matter is whether or not he is the jealous type And if he is Then he won’t like that you’re holding my body so tightly against yours He’ll want to be the one peppering the ends of my collarbones with butterfly kisses His hands, not every man’s, his hands Ready to rip you apart Tearing at your mouth and taking my pride with it I promise I’ll try to fight him off No man should get between you and me I’ll fight my hardest but you won’t be able to help me Pessimists will try to tell me that it was all my fault Friends will try to tell me it is all your fault But I know it’s not your fault All you want is to stay close to me You make me feel beautiful Even with messy hair And knobby knees covered in razor bumps It’s his fault? It’s lust’s fault

Graffiti But in the end fault wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter People will play the blaming game The man will be out there doing God knows what, quite frankly I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t care Because you will be ripped to shreds And I Will be alone

Caged Chest Taylor Ridgway Our chest and lips pressed up against each other. Warm and caged in with no air to escape You inhale my voice while I inhale your words And we exhale a silent conversation Our hands speak another language, creating tongue twisters, and every now and then your hands slip and fall in the cracks of my caged chest sliding between my thighs reaching deep into my soul. Stretching into my spirit and attaching yourself to my mind. Breaking through the walls of my memory taking away the thoughts of old hands that have been there before you. Reclaiming my body, mind and spirit. Releasing your soul into mine the galaxy of our stars stop at a sudden stillness but stay connected more than ever. And when itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s finally over, we let go and we breathe. The suffocated air we took from ourselves in the first place.

Band-Aids Are Made For Girls Like Me After“Barbie Doll“by Marge Piercy Melissa Steen I always thought that little girls like me would one day become like the silhouettes I saw on Cosmo or maybe was it Vogue or Seventeen. I always wanted one of those plastic Easy-Bake Ovens or maybe a two-story Barbie Dream House. Yeah, that was on the top of my wobbly Christmas list year after year. I always wanted to play with the blond scrawny boy that lived across from me and my mom never said no or told me I couldn’t compete in chintzy flip flops or a pastel skirt because of the white forever marks that played tick-tac-toe across my knees and looked like the pretty stockings that my mom used to make me wear. I always wondered why my mom used to buy band-aids in bulk or Neosporin and rubbing alcohol like they were eggs and milk. I ran through them quicker than striking my dad out of a game of Sevens or Rummikub. That was before I knew what pain meant. That was before I knew I would be handed down a real-life Easy-Bake and told that I needed a MAC palette with my nails painted every Sunday night.

Graffiti That was before a screen told me that I needed to give it everything that was in my pink plastic piggy bank. Before my mom had to worry about anything else besides band-aids to give out and slap on. Because only I knew that they would help, just like her kisses that made the pain run away like me in those chintzy flip flops and band-aid knees.

The Six Block Walk Melissa Steen Lufberry I see it now. The white worn striped crosswalk. It’s the starting point. Three, two, one go. Let’s walk home. I’m a big girl now. No cop needed to help me cross. I’m in High School. I don’t need anyone to help me out. My sister showed me the way. It’s six blocks. Walking by the wooden picnic table spotted with stains that lies next to the dumpster. The scenery is fantastic. I pass the Beverage Barn. They sell beer. Someone once said that a man sold weed inside. Next. Silverton I don’t like you. I only remember picking up sweet gum tree seeds when I walk. A dollar a bag. That’s the rule. I smell old puzzles. 2,000 pieces. Damp. Where water bugs lurked, and mold lined the cover’s rim. Rummikub and Boggle. The games we used to play for hours while my dad pulled weeds in the back of the house. The taste of saltines and skim milk shoved down my throat. Next. Carrollton I’m starting to get cold now. The wind is whistling. The trees are bare, but only because the leaves ran away. Snow and crows take their place. Only a few are left. Everyone is gone now. Silence. My shadow keeps me company by walking behind me. A friend to talk to. Almost there. Only three more blocks left. Why didn’t I get a ride home? Next. Edgerton Here they come. The empty yellow school busses. It’s like watching the

Graffiti same horses race. The first one out, is the first one done. I lost. I always lose. I constantly walk fast so I can beat them home, but I always lose. I don’t like it when people look at me. I don’t need your charity. I already lost. Please don’t judge me. It’s good exercise says my mom. It’s only six blocks. You live so close, you don’t need a car! Why do we have the buses anyway? We’re in Wantagh. Where’s your BMW? Next. Manchester Last block. Finally. Wait, no. That means homework. That means going to bed at 4am and waking up at 6am just to repeat this. Five days a week I must walk this stupid sidewalk. Why don’t they fix this stupid sidewalk? Why is it so close to the road? Don’t they know that girls like me can be picked up by the screeching wind and tossed to the side like garbage from a driver’s window? Why doesn’t anyone shovel their sidewalk? One step and I’m lost until the salter comes by later at night. But this is the last block. I just want to go home. Next. Stratford Home. My feet are wet from climbing little gray and white snow piles. Socks like little sponges, soaking up any speck of water. I’ve been locked away for eight hours. I forgot that life continues outside the cinderblock walls that my dad used to live behind. I forgot that the weather channel said it would snow at twelve. But all of this isn’t new, as it is my seventh year walking these blocks. I see houses transform into mansions and walk by the remains of old car accidents. Rims, glass and wires litter the streets. I guess it’s time for a new BMW. What color will it be this time? Next.

I Rememberâ&#x20AC;Ś Melissa Steen When the Pansies and Crocuses used to stand tall from the ground. Purple and yellow and white petals; easy to pluck from their home. When the rusty red wheelbarrow would toddle and toot from side to side. Constantly moving secondhand woodchips; creating landslides. When the sprinklers would trickle and feed little children if it got too warm. Clogged with muck and grass; a seasonal tradition. When the sparrows would sing good morning to me. Never missing a day; always finding delicate blue shells from new choir members. When the uncut grass would tremble and plead to be left alone. But on Saturdays the mower would be released from its cage; ready to prowl. When the buckets and pales would clatter and clang when heaved into the dirt. Used to create new recipes; mud was always a delicacy. When the brittle chalk would scratch and stick to the bumpy concrete path. Quickly withering away; Da Vinci jealous. When the three-curly brown-haired children would run and giggle through the streets. Especially when their blond-haired friend came along; until the mosquitoes swayed.

Gram - Christina Modica 91

Remembering Ubaldo Melissa Steen “Non ti preoccupare, tutto fara’ bene.” That’s what he used to say to me and I always remembered that; like when those Spanish girls; three or four of those bitches in that girl gang of theirs wearing their Public-School uniforms trolled the side of the street that I lived on. I went to a Private Catholic Elementary School. Every day those girls would test me with their hollers and hungry eyes. One day I was walking home on the other side of the street because mom told me to “just ignore them”. Dressed as an easy target; a lonely girl; walking alone when those out of control pests called me everything vulgar but my name. One pushed; I didn’t fall. One ran; I ran. One got me down-got me by my hair; I screamed and salty tears fell down my soft cheek. Got my books, ran home, face damp.

Graffiti People didn’t care but he knew for a while now. He grabbed my hand and I pointed at some big red brick houses where those girls were stationed. He worked at Wonder Bread Hostess. He was a hard-working immigrant. He was relaxed, met with the guys, always dressed up on his days off and always saved me some sort of sweet. “Non ti preoccupare, tutto fara’ bene” and that’s exactly what he said. There were two or three of them sitting and prowling on those claimed steps of theirs owned by people that didn’t give a shit. We strolled over; I saw them real scared now. He said some words and my life went on.

Untitled Patricia Alfonso The air within my lungs is flammable, the walls of my body soaked in gasoline, My generatorâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; My heart, implanted with landmines. How can you come in here engulfed in flames of passion, not expecting an explosion? -fireworks

You Don’t Have to Be so Afraid Inspired by Anne Waldman’s, “Fast Speaking Woman” Christal Hussain Since I must chew ice cream proper Since I must neglect slang, and interpret the standard dictionary so proper Since I must not negotiate my wages, or that would be improper Since I must not associate my boujie sways with their choppy tongues Since I must hate Eve too because she made me bleed Since I must hush about all that feminist stuff when my husband speaks Since I must not have filth Because I must remain untainted Water that cleans flowers that clean water that cleans as I go I’m an erotic lady I enjoyed the Sex museum. I could guide your awkward fingers to my warm and cozy depths until your owl-eyes dim down. Vanilla everywhere… I’m a voluble lady I cannot bite my tongue. I won’t bite my tongue, or it’ll bite me back I’m a bad gyal type of lady I’m a hot gyal who nuh fight ova man and I like my chicken well curried. I’m a “always want to get high” type of lady Because marijuana never killed anything besides those observations I’M A “HATE EXPLAINING MYSELF” TYPE OF LADY I’m a manly lady I’m a modest lady I’m a hard to please lady

Hi, I’m Christopher Sanders Christopher Sanders I saw you. I was six years old when I first met you But I didn’t know you. You wore fancy suits, And I still didn’t know you. Your name is, WAIT! I forgot, NO, I don’t care. You had a chance to be in my life, But you left. You are, were my father. All I wanted to do was know you, But you wanted me aborted like I or “IT” as you called me was nothing. I am your son, but you hated me and that’s why you had to run. But you have a new life now. Your married with kids of your own A son; my half-brother. I wonder what you told him or your daughter. No, still nothing about “IT” The family you have. WOW! I thought you didn’t want kids, but a career with the bachelor life. But now I see. “IT” was me. You didn’t want me. That visit to see me was just a way to not pay for your mistake. It was just a child support case. I’m fine by the way. I make good grades,

Graffiti I have lots of friends. I’m in college to pursue my dreams. I’m weird, persistent, strong, creative and a hard worker. I love to write and read And I’m healthy, I thought that’s all a parent really needs. I don’t hate you. I am your son and you are my father. You have your life and I have mine. All I wanted was to know you. I saw young boys in grade school being picked up and hugged by the fathers. Where were you? I played baseball as a kid and I was a good pitcher without my father in the picture. Every day I wondered and prayed that I would know my father, But you have a son and a daughter. I’m grateful for the child support you provided But I have to move on without my father. One day I will get married And have children and I will tell them about my father and my siblings. I will graduate college, become a Journalist and also a Writer. I know I will be great father with who I had as a mother. Goodbye Dad! I’m glad I got to know you. I’m your other son by the way, I’m Christopher Sanders.

True Love Christopher Sanders You hear of true love In movies and books But not based on Popularity or looks. True love has a mind of its own, Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s like King Arthur pulling the sword from the stone. Some find a solace or moment in time, But when it comes to true love you never waste time. Being free to love is a right from above. That person who stands by your side, Holds you in the dead of the night sky Is your true love who was sent from above? Love takes many forms with a smile, touch, kiss, or look. Within a heart lies a story to be told For love is an intensity with everything shot up. Deep in my heart love holds a key of unimaginable mystery. One-day love will show its face, And I am searching every database. This thing we call love is something wonderful That was Sent from above. Love stares us right in the face, Gives us compliments that turns our face into a tomato cake. Yet nothing was spoken Nothing was said. No words were needed

Graffiti Because our hearts were said. Our voices break, our hands shake, And we become blind to what we are saying. Love is like a game, We are just trying to stay within your lane. One look is all it takes, One look that just takes my breath away. For you are mine and I am yours Together forever till the end of the world.

HSM Maximilian Grabler 1915/1933 My husband was a preacher. He never shut his mouth. For most of his life I simply shut it out, but once I spoke up, got mad, and put him out. Hell is often associated with fire and flames, but I solely feel hell when clouds cry in pain dropping teardrops that supply us with rain. Red morning skies predict scattered showers outside my door in a matter of hours. Whenever that happens, I act like a coward. The blinds are shut when storms come to rage and have been since thirty was my age. I won’t face the rain until I’ve drowned in my grave. I can’t be buried beside him nor at where the church is. I am a sinner, a terrible person. I jinxed him. I cursed him. My lips are dry. I can’t speak. I’m choking on words I said madly with intentions of joking. Don’t sleep in the rain with your mouth wide open!

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The Monster, I Maximilian Grabler I opened the door, In order, to escape the monster! But it has always found me, Regardless, of where I’ve hid! I’ll run like I’ve ran until I can run no more But can you truly escape what you truly are? There is a monster that is comprised of hatred, deceit, greed, lust, and pride. Bad to the bone and made up of lies, Often disguised as a likeable guy Until the mask falls off its face of demise Exposing the monster as all I despise! It’s hungry for fear and feeds off my cries, Thirsty for sadness getting drunk as I cry. For long as I suffer the monster will thrive. My pain its pleasure, my addiction its high. To escape this monster I must open my eyes To search and hunt for a place to hide! Where to run next? I can’t decide! I know I’ll be found, it’s a matter of time. Often I pray that I won’t survive For if I am prey I am not alive. At times I have smiled I cannot deny, But most smiles fade once the bottle has dried. This chase won’t subside unless one of us dies! I can’t get away, trust me I’ve tried. There is no escaping the monster, I! I slammed the door, In order, to escape the monster! But he will find me,

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Graffiti no matter where I hide! Never will he stop chasing me, Nor will I cease to run, But you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t escape who you are inside! There is nothing to fear, but the monster, I... Once the closed mind had locked the door and shut the blinds, it was alone with its reflection trapped in the window. At least until self-awareness began picking the lock and enlightenment shined through the blinds. If there is nothing to fear, but the monster I, Then there is nothing to fear for the monster is I! To escape this monster I must open my mind And never go back to what I left behind. I solemnly swear that Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d rather die Then be consumed by the monster, I! If this chase continued until one of us died Then what would become of the monster and I? I must face this monster or else I will die. Unlock my brain, open the blinds Go to a mirror, look deep in my eyes And finally face the Monster, I! To love oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s self is key!

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What Older Sisters Do Maximilian Grabler We drive in a straight line because, thankfully, I am driving. She sits shotgun in a fur coat with her freshly painted fingernails choking the neck of a bottle she holds like a baby. My car brakes are worn so I pump my foot on them when I see a red light three blocks ahead of us. I don’t have an aux cord. Bowling For Soup rings out my Sidekick’s speakers. We sing along, laughing like hyenas at a comedy club because the two of us sound like a duo of tone-deaf werewolves howling at a tall London lamp post, we’d confused for a full moon after a long weekend in the pub. I woke up this morning to a phone call. “Come pick me up” “No.” “Why?” “I’m going back to bed.” “come on, seize the day!” “Fine.” Here we are. I didn’t sleep well last night. I can’t remember the last time I did. Whenever, I try to take the snooze ship to dream harbor I drown myself in the nightmarish whirlpool of insecurity causing me to turn to in my bed like a NASCAR driver circling the track as my thoughts race more than Randy and Corey LaJoie. Am I a good person? Do I have a bright future? Do I make others happy? I wish I had somebody to ask. Somebody like an older sister, but I don’t have one. I have her. “I want a cigarette!”

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Graffiti “We can’t smoke in the car.” “Then pull over!” I pull over and we get out for a smoke. Reaching for a Newport, she offers a Marb Light and a lighter. I take only the lighter. “Do you want a shot?” “No, I’m driving.” and its 10:35 A.M. I should mention that. I don’t. We get back in the car. “Cuzzo, am I good?” “Like good looking? Duh! You’re my cousin. We share a lot of genes” “I mean like you think I can do good right?” “Like be successful? Sure! I’m sure you’re going to make your future ex-wife super happy with all the money you make.” … “That’s not…” “I’m kidding! You’re smart enough to get a prenup.” “You’re not following me here. Am I a good person?” “I don’t want to talk about this.” Silence echoes. She turns the radio on and cranks it up, humming along to Justin Bieber’s “Love Yourself ”. The sun reflects off her blonde hair. It’s so golden I’d swear Midas was her barber. So golden, I imagine it makes jealous girls want to dye. “You’re the closest thing to an older sister I have. I really want to know I’m not alone.”

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Graffiti She looks me in the eye with her Snoop Doggy Dog approved iris, and takes out a brand new hundred-dollar bill. “Here!” “I don’t want your money.” “Take it.” “No.” “I’ll give you some advice. If a pretty girl offers you money take it! You must be doing something right if someone who gets everything handed to them wants to hand something to you.” I take the money, smile. “Now let’s get lunch! I’m buying.” I’ll let her buy lunch. I guess that’s what older sisters do.

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Wisdom for an Owl Maximilian Grabler Smoking tree, with his head in the clouds “Who am I” asked the owl as most of God’s creatures do assuming there even is a God! Leading to another question all living things ponder. “The answers don’t matter” said the salmon. “Just go with the flow! Some may make allegations that we are living in denial, but things are moving swimmingly in my eyes!” “Every life has a purpose” replied the ant. “Do your part and your colony shall flourish! With the help of your community there is no hill you can’t climb!” “Agreed!” barked the dog. “Loyalty is key. However, keep in mind, through experience I’ve learned if you want your pack to prosper, be no friend to man.”

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Trans-Atlantic History Lesson After“History Lesson” by Natasha Trethewaya Thimmy Garbenius I am four in this photograph as well, the soothing glare of the sun on my round cheeks My stubby fingers barely able grasp the wheel As I steer my vessel towards the horizon’s peak The bough of my ship swaying to the rhythm of the waves as it zigzags, with ease, through plump, rocky islets strewn about like pebbles by giants of Norse myth’s with the same ease my grandfather assembles a car transmission In this photo, my grandfather gave me the captain’s hat as I sat in his lap, in a lifejacket that would barely fit my arm today he was merely 52 at the time, yet age has not changed his ways still rocking that ash white moustache, the barren dome on top, and Ray-Ban pilot shades in between His hand helping me steer my vessel to where we are staying for the night while I only had childhood fantasies in sight

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Life’s Golden Thimmy Garbenius Where is she? Where did she go? She must be lost among the black, brown, and white nonsense of this house, our house, which I leave with a spring in my step But always return to with haste and an ecstatic heart The tall black counters, emitting the sweet fragrance of dad’s smoked salmon The white doors, whose only purpose is to separate me from my family And the brown, wooden tables, where the smoked salmon is devoured, right in front of my nose, if I’m lucky I get tossed a couple blissful tidbits from my mom Look, there she is! This woman, my mother, has left me sometimes Leaving me with nothing but sleep and endless gazing at that damned, white front door I manically stare at the brass handle: “how does it work?” I ask myself But then she returns, with light feet she ascends the front porch I would recognize those steps in a crowd of a thousand, Those rapid five steps up the porch hits me like five adrenalin injections straight to my heart Almost making it burst through my chest She walks through the door like an angel stepping through a bright, white cloud And embraces me like a tender flame envelops a stack of firewood “do you want to take a walk?” She whispers emphatically “Yes! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” I frantically chant as I charge towards the white front door Every time it opens, a new adventure awaits Enjoying the refreshing, moist breeze from the lake as a family of ducks quack by

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Graffiti Jumping in an invigorating pool of mud on a rainy day Running through a field of tall grass, daisies, and dandelions I love walking the woods the most, because in there I will hopefully find, the biggest stick there ever was

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Yellow Cross Over Blue Sky Thimmy Garbenius From jagged mountain ranges, luminous midnight sun, and majestic reindeer of the north To vast plains, lulling green hills, and pastures of lumbering cows of the south A yellow cross over a blue sky will forever mark my heart From stampedes crossing streets, heralding stone castles, and hordes of commuters of the east To expansive coniferous domains, Denmark-bordering coastlines, and historically rooted dark-red cabins of the west A yellow cross over a blue sky will forever mark my heart From early winter morning hockey with Van Halen’s “Jump” blasting between whistles, To late summer nights at the lake passing around a bottle of Absolut chased by a carton of orange juice A yellow cross over a blue sky will forever mark my heart From smelling sunny side up eggs as stripes of morning sunlight peers through the shades To the pandemonium brought about by a bewildered Golden Retriever creating a flurry of bed sheets and pillows A yellow cross over a blue sky will forever mark my heart From having to choose between a career in hockey or academics close to home To deciding to pursue them both across the Atlantic A yellow cross over a blue sky will forever mark my heart

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Ceramic Sculpture - Christina Modica 111

Soulless Sound Kyra Higham Ever at night when The silence Captures the town It starts to rain white Adding specks of color In this dark world I hold my palms Towards the sky The snow melts as soon It meets my hands A temporary part of life Snow collects without So much as a sound Like the light shining in Your smile as you cup It close to your face â&#x20AC;&#x153;Hey, what does this World sound like?â&#x20AC;? Even if I try to reply it Falls on deaf ears to You Tell me you are in pain Say this world is lonely I will try to find you Wherever you are... Do not leave me behind Never again Take my hand and we Will join as one

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Graffiti The snow carries on Falling so gently And collects on the ground You gradually fade away Like an out of focus Photograph and I cannot Do anything but embrace The parts of you that remain I just wishâ&#x20AC;Ś I wish To hear your voice One more time, just one more time... Let my name escape your lips From your glazed eyes A raindrop appeared And rolled onto the sky That is your face In this bleak world Time stands still Except for the fluttering snow Your body is becoming ice And your mouth has No words left to speak We have given up Trying to understand Our puzzle piece minds Hear my voice Smile again Can you do that? I have no more tears Left to shed I cannot Thaw your cold heart

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Graffiti If it were possible Take my voice away And give it to the person Standing in front of me If I wander this world Without you Just... Take me Where you are Even if the words Cannot be said Our story is Is about to end Forever Even if I shout Your name I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get you or your voice back To this descending snow Please do not stop falling Take me away Everything short-lived My voice My life Fade to white

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Side One Morgan E. Ericson I made you this mixtape to show you how much i love you. But i forgot that you hate the Doors and think love songs are written by people who have lost all traces of themselves. But i remembered to include the song that reminds me of how it feels when you forget i exist. The one that sounds like slamming car doors and exhaling cigarette smoke. That song. i remembered the one that brings me back to a time when you held your anger inside instead of spewing it against the bedroom walls. A time when you would look at me and not with disgust. i remember a lot of things that i wish i could forget.

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Dreams Shannon Assenza Dreams find me. They are the heavy thoughts that lift me from the earth. They tell me the truth, They scare me. They welcome me when I need a place to stay, They sadden me. They haunt me, They carry me to serenity.

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Love in the Cold Shannon Assenza Snowy mountains roar. The kind of love that grows old, Blows through the pine trees.

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Beyond the Snow Shannon Assenza Grandpaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hand holds mine. Cold snow shivers softly. The end brings heaven.

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Desire Shannon Assenza As a child, I did not desire to be in love. I desired a simple love in its truest form, to have love all around me, floating in the air, swinging from the trees, laughing through the dirt. Not a love that is Consuming Blinding Painful. I wanted a love that I could color inside the lines and play deep in the grass with, but I got consumed in the dirt and drowned in the mud.

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Resurrection Shannon Assenza My Soul Expands Filling My Heart With Clarity

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Carry On - Rachel Stasolla 121

Heroes Shannon Murphy When I think of heroes I don’t think of genders Not heroes versus heroines. I think of people. When I think of heroes, I think of people who’ve Changed the world. When I think of heroes, I think of chain-breakers, People standing tall, Pulling apart the metal bars placed In front of them for no reason other Than to keep them underwater. When I think of heroes, I think of the person who Threw the first brick at Stonewall, She started a revolution. When I think of heroes, I think of the writer who Had all her work destroyed. Leaving only fragments behind She paved the way for me, And those like me. When I think of heroes, I think of the person who Continued to get her education, Even when told not to and Spoke for those who couldn’t. She’s rewarded for her work By receiving three bullets— the face, shoulder and neck— but she continues to fight.

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Graffiti When I think of heroes, I think of the people who Stood up to the villains That wrote the script. The people who shouted “Me too” even when others refused to believe them. When I think of heroes, I think of brain power, Passion that can’t be Put out with water. When I think of heroes, I think of the person who Raised me, taught me, And loved me, She helped me grow Into my mind— a crazy landscape, half covered in thorns and rose bushes— underneath trails of unfinished thoughts— ideas that need to water. When I think of heroes, I think of people who’ve changed the world.

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Play Dead Shannon Murphy Every day, a new notification pops up on my phone. What now? What else would it be CNN telling me there’s been another one. It was at a college campus, during the middle of the day— lunchtime spent with friends or faculty, instead hiding under tables, holding your breath, faking dead. Maybe in the middle of the night, at a club it’s dark, you can’t see, you can barely even hear. It happens suddenly, finding cover, holding your breath, faking dead. Possibly a concert, or a music festival, listening to your favorite artists, it’s loud, it’s crowded, you don’t know but it started. Holding your breath, faking dead. Or it’s a Sunday, and you are worshipping your god, surrounded by the ones you love. It’s not loud, it was peaceful, you were hopeful .You keep praying, holding your breath, faking dead. For those who haven’t been here, we ask ourselves “What would I do?” We send thoughts and prayers but we weren’t the ones who saw it happen or held their breaths or played dead or lost their lives.

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Because—12/14/12 After“Whereas” by Layli Long Solider Brooke Hadgraft Because I sat on the floor of an all-glass connecting hallway with my best friend Kelsea. We were studying for our Biology test on cell structures (and other topics I did not care about). Because we went from minutes of laughter and procrastination to seconds of urgency. Because our free period study hall turned into a two-hour lockdown drill. Our school’s security guard ran through the halls demanding we drop our things. He had his hands on our backs to help propel us fast to the nearby chorus room. I don’t even sing. Because we sat for two hours of a muted nightmare sitting so close to each other we could feel the heartbeat of our peers. Unaware, clueless, and disconnected from the world of cell phones to even have an idea of the reality. Because we were only told on the loud speaker that this was not a practice drill... this was real. Stay still. Don’t move. Don’t talk. Don’t be seen by the classroom door. Lock door. This is a lock down. Because two hours later, helicopters flew above Newtown High School and the rumbles of the helicopter quivered our building like an earthquake. This was a sound I never heard at school before. Because NHS Principal Dumais calmly and sadly informed us that a serious shooting occurred at Sandy Hook School. Around 9:35 in the morning and 1.4 miles away. Because rumors spread when we left lockdown to finish the remainder of our classes that the shooter was supposed to come to our high school after. Walking timidly and afraid; we were supposed to feel safe.

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Graffiti Because our somewhat Norman Rockwell style of town became a tourist attraction. Because I lived down the street from my NHS off of route 34. My father dropped me off at school every day. A cameraman’s lense would touch the window of my car documenting that yes... we were indeed still grieving. Breaking News. Because nearly five and a half years later, I am still grieving today. I say I am from Sandy Hook, CT, and people don’t know how to react besides saying something along the lines of “I am so sorry” or “is that where that shooting took place?” Because my heart only continues to break when I scroll through Facebook and read about every school shooting rapidly happening in the United States as well as many other acts of gun violence. Because I stood at the podium of Manhattanville College speaking at our campus’ #NeverAgain March for Our Lives on March 23, 2018. Sharing what it’s like to experience tragedy first hand and have 26 funerals to attend and not enough boxes of tissues to absorb the tears. Because what should’ve been the last school shooting sparked a revolution for more sick-minded individuals to gain inspiration to hold a gun... to kill. Because with every heart break, every “thought and prayers” post, there still isn’t a change being made. Because through a pen and pencil, I am using my voice to fuel that change. Because I find myself, at least once-a-day, recalling not only the heartbreak of 12/14/12 but the sense of love. Because I remember the end of my school day on 12/14/12 very clearly.

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Graffiti Students, teachers and staff, some that I have never before spoken to, came up to me to just simply hug. Those were the most genuine hugs I’ve ever received. Because it is moments like those where love rose victoriously and gives me hope in the humanity of our country. Because the unfortunate reality of tragedy is that until it happens to you, one cannot fully empathize and understand how serious it can be. My town was not some ‘hoax’, Alex Jones. We lived through this. Because no matter how scary it can be to be in a school-system today, I still want to be a public school teacher. That passion burns brighter and hotter by the day. Because Nelson Mandela once said, “Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.” Because I address that education will be the only weapon I carry in a school building. Because the world needs change... now. Start with a simple act of kindness. Life is precious and the world can always use more love. Because... love wins.

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To Be An Immigrant After Etel Adnan Stephanie Toledano To open your eyes, to check the time, to turn off the alarm clock, to stretch, push the covers, put on your slippers, to scratch your nose, to go to the bathroom, close the door, brush your teeth, rinse your mouth, splash water on your face, dry your face with a towel, to open the door, to think about your boss’s message, to wake up the kids, kiss your husband good morning, to walk into your room, to turn on your phone, to take off your pajamas, put on comfortable clothes, fix your hair, put on earrings, to walk out, to smile at your husband preparing for breakfast, to take a breath, to knock on your daughter’s bedroom, wait, hear her voice, enter, ask your daughter to help you respond back to your boss, to sit on the corner of the bed, to explain, hear the silent taps of your daughter’s fingers, to wait, to see your phone given back to you, thank, to turn around, to hear your husband calling your name, to hug your daughter, to exit her room, to walk To the kitchen, to see the dining plates full of omelettes, to sit at the dinner table, say grace, pick up your fork and knife, to watch your husband turn on the television, cringe, eat, look up, to feel tension at dining table, see the bold headlines, stop chewing, hear the reporter talk about the latest immigration policies, to look at the window, want this story to be over, to switch to the weather forecast, to look at the time, look at your children, hold your daughter’s hand, tell your husband to hold your son’s hand, to remind them the procedure in case something happens, see them cry a little, cry yourself, to tell them to have faith. To put on your jacket, grab your purse, to check you have everything, to remind yourself that neither you or your husband have a license, to watch your children walk out the door first, smile, worry, blink a couple of times, to walk outside, walk down the stairs, to hear the engine roar, hop into the seat next to the driver, see your husband’s hand turn on the key, to see people, see cars, pass homes, to tremble, to caution your husband, to annoy at his assurance, to play with your hair a little, to watch every street corner, pray again in whisper, to turn on the radio, to push aside past thoughts, miss your family, think of the future.

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Graffiti To drop off to work, walk into the mansion, put on your apron, notice the to-do list on the cork board, to walk to the closet, to twist the knob, pull out the mop and clorox, to carry the chairs aside into another room, to mop the floor, to hate your job, remind yourself that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s for necessity, think of your kids, to put the items away, to retrieve the multi surface cleaner, clean the dinner table, leave it, to walk back and get the vacuum, to pick up the toys in the living room, to plug the cord, start the vacuum, to hear the vacuum suction, to feel unsafe, to feel frustrated, blame the government, cry, wipe the tears, deal with the back pain, to question authority, helplessly imagine a future without your kids, to redefine liberty, redefine freedom, to remember your sacrifice, remember your struggles, to pick up the vacuum as you walk up the steps, to appreciate your job, appreciate your home, appreciate that you are alive. To listen to the sound of the gunshot replay in your mind over and over again, to reach the second floor, to see your dead friend on the floor, remind yourself he is not there, wonder what happened to his children, to refocus on work, to realize your lawyer cannot help with the situation, to stop vacuuming. To hear the door open downstairs, answer your boss, hurry downstairs, to try to talk in English as best as possible about the drawings the kids drew on the wall, to be handed the paycheck, thank, walk out, to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, to call your husband, wait, to bear the company of silence, to dream of someday leaving to Canada.

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The Problem with Self-Love Carmella DeCaria My mother always told me never To compare my body to others. “Baby,” she said. “Come and sit.” I was raised to be a strong woman and With the pressure of perfection from society I had let the number on the scale persuade me otherwise. My mom gripped my hands in hers Rubbing her coarse thumb Over each one of my fingers and explained I would never look like Katie or Sarah And I shouldn’t.

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Women Carmella DeCaria Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not like most women instead I function better independently. In fear, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be persuaded or misled By the vengeful army of women who confidently Speak their opinions about others Way of being rather than stand alongside in support. United the by the experiences their mothers And grandmothers shared. Women have lost the significance Of encouraging the good in each other. I watch as my own friends surrender To the vicious language of smothering their words behind like a trail and render themselves with the gratification of further lifting themselves higher abusing our gender.

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Painting Classes Waad Hassan I saw you crumbling with the last feel of winter, you took away my shade under gullible droplets of water. Now, everything is abstract. I miss your grammar, starining me with whispers of the upcoming spring. You gave all the colors. Now, the seasons are dull.

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Reflection Waad Hassan Sometimes, I wake up open the fridge and stare. I remember that one day I will visit my parents like a packages of meat under the fluorescent light. It’s not the sadness that forces the door shut nor the feel of my mother’s heart stale meat round the water bottle, nor the taste of my father’s plasma on the edge of my lips as I drink. It’s the reality that happens: I see myself in the fridge the harp of my body pulled apart like a cow after slaughter and I become my parents staring in from the outside.

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October 1, 2004 Lubov Ella-Maria Castelot In the cold, quiet family room, all the mirrors are covered His body lying there The sunlight bathing his face In the red wooden casket A stiff white damask fabric gently enfolding his body A soft white pillow cradling his head For this is a journey we all must take Dear father remember the love we once shared The places, the fun, Made life a beautiful thing.

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Blue Scarf Lubov Ella-Maria Castelot Last time I saw you You gave me that scarf, The way it feels, so soft Bluish clouds spinning around my neck and shoulders, Heating up, like your warmth in the winter. I was your love, But when the summer came You didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need me, You tossed me aside Leaving my heart broken, I waited for the winter to come Imploring for warmth and support.

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My Heart Lubov Ella-Maria Castelot One love may hide another love I knew that. Loosing love is terrifying Feeling your heart beating against mine, Addictive. I hope youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re doing fine up there Now that youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re gone and I am still here.

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Youth Lubov Ella-Maria Castelot I am looking back at my youth When childhood wasted away. The dreams got distant. When did I evolve? I cannot recall.

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Survival Katherine Matuszek Weeds peek from cracks in hot concrete and I mistake their sad, shrinking state as one last sigh, but instead they shout: Life just wants to be!

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Into the light Afterâ&#x20AC;&#x153;Poem (As the Cat)â&#x20AC;? by William Carlos Williams Katherine Matuszek As the moth flew towards the glow of the porchlight its wings glided navigating the darkness until it stopped limbs caught in the center of the waiting Spiderweb.

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A Note After “This is Just to Say” by William Carlos Williams Emily Behnke Tuesday morning was garishly bright and when I pulled up to the curb in front of your house I scraped the rose bush with the hood of my car. Forgive me—it would have been beautiful if it had lasted through the winter.

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Mountain Lion Emily Behnke Mom saw two gold pools watching us through the window. The mountain lion waits, a frenetic tangle of bold, sinewy body.

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Cascade Stephanie Daly And then I saw them— the wisps of fire— fluttering, falling by my feet my lungs began to scream and the mud molded between my toes as the blood-lined alpines loomed and shook and roared above me I wouldn’t allow my gaze to wander from my sinking feet and so I looked closer to find the scorched wings of a monarch butterfly and then another— one by one, ash-colored and empty I reached my hand out and as I looked up, noticed, behind the clouds of black smoke, myriads of monarchs clutching to the redwoods like a newborn clutches to their mother’s breast. Ablaze, the trees shed them— a cascade of fire— and I, now waist deep could only look down to find that the mud— now as dark as the pupil of my eye— has frozen over.

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Walking at the Beat of My Own Heart Stephanie Daly My heart, screaming and sprinting while my gaunt legs struggle to keep up I justwanted to find a place where the howling wind hushed so my head could stop spinning and that’s when I found the willow trees, who haven’t succumbed to autumn’s gloom just yet and so I entered the dome, I followed their whispers until suddenly the cold evaporated from my body and the silence came. Unfamiliar territory. Pews, glass stained windows illuminated by streetlights, the dusty piano how did I get here? The vastness is going to swallow me and so I keep moving step by step by step I glide into darkness. Oh, sweet darkness. It swoons me. Neutral. I am balanced here. I don’t feel here. The corridors of this chapel are where I will remainwatching, from a safe distance, day go into night out the tiny window as I listen to my spent, weary heart try to beat some life into this neglected church.

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Hair Straightener Emelie Ali

Winner of the Robert Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Clair Prize for Poetry Your devious, delicious teeth sink in Singeing history with contagious dust Clawing at my throat, I straighten with rust Covered metal to be European. Tear out la isla, spheric brown coffin Curls on mi cabella, desperate, must Decolonize my will in frantic lust To reclaim my sense of Caribbean. In exhaustion I embrace myself, rich With these ripened roots in tight, laurel lace Crowning, crawling to no longer bewitch Ourselves. Screech and search, our place We cannot find within this whitened ditch In exhausted tried passion, we embrace.

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An Elegy for 60’s Radio Shannon Gaffney

Winner of the Robert O’Clair Prize for Poetry Goodbye, panic. I buried it, and I show it no remorse under synchronized beats and trumpets of thin air. I daresay, when they said “Make love, not war,” – I heard it wrong. The chance John talked about is gone, and now we know he hit his wife, but that’s life, and Jimi would’ve kneeled at the Anthem for the NFL, if he’d made it past twenty seven. For six minutes, Bob told me the war was Judas, but in that time last week, they played three different songs. I never noticed they changed, ‘cause I was looking down, at the remains of four digested margaritas, and I wanted more. we’re all masters of more. i saw on TV, the biggest shooting in american history, but at the bar, there are only wild thoughts and Versace on the floor, more, more, more, and on my way to work, after telling me that climate change was a myth, they said, give it to me, I’m worth it. I rolled down the window. It was a little warmer for November.

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136 Miles Waad Hassan

Winnerof the Robert Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Clair Prize for Poetry

The day after the war ended the meadows came barging in they brought the bodies of purple lilacs and rusted wings of mutilated crows and a faded pink satin ballet slipper and maybe three bullets and maybe something else The day after the war ended she spilled olive oil in the living room and pinned empty papers on the fridge and pulled the doors of their hinges and broke the spacebar on the keyboard and surely other things too The day after the war ended she did not hold her ground and one hundred and thirty six miles from where she left one last masterpiece the rest of her lies open like the body of a ravished animal

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ESSAYS & ABSTRACTS

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Clarity Laura Elebesunu

Winner of the Dan Masterson Prize for Screenwriting 1

INT. COFFEE SHOP - NIGHT (PRESENT)

AVA, 22 year old female with medium brown skin, long black hair, and slender frame, storms out. The door slams shut. Ava gets into the passenger seat of the car and speeds away. A downcast CARMEN, 21 year old female with a sun-kissed complexion, medium length curly hair, and toned body, slowly locks the door. Tears stream down her face. She makes her way toward the register, slowly removing her name badge and apron. Placing them both underneath the counter with one hand, she grabs her coat, scarf, and canvas tote bag with the other. She unplugs the twinkling fairy lights hung up along the wall and shuts the main lights off. The dark wood interior makes the place now as dark as the sky outside. She exits the shop. A Christmas wreath hangs on the door. She walks to her car, furiously wiping away tears. 2

INT. AVAâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S CAR - NIGHT (CONTD.)

An everyday affordable used car with a clean interior.

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Graffiti

Ava enters, throws her tote in the passenger seat. Crunch. Lifting the crumbled gift bag, she notices the tag “For Ava,” and her tears return. Discarding it, she locks in her seat-belt, puts in the keys, and drives away. 3

EXT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY (THREE MONTHS EARLIER)

Bright morning sky overhead with light, puffy clouds. The sounds of birds are interrupted by light suburban traffic and... The loud chatter of a coffee machine and light jazz music from the coffee shop, which rests alongside a bookstore and various local shops, gets louder as the view gets closer to the shop’s glass wall. Through the window we see Carmen hard at work. 4

INT. COFFEE SHOP - DAY

Carmen puts a topper on a cup of steaming hot coffee and grabs a scone. She smiles and hands them to a CUSTOMER, a mid-40s business-type. CUSTOMER Thank you! It’s such a pleasure that I get to start my morning looking at a beautiful girl like yourself! CARMEN ...Thanks CUSTOMER You know, you look just like my first ex-wife, a lot cuter than she looks now though. I met her at a coffee shop just like this and when she rung me up I -

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Graffiti CARMEN That’s uh really nice to hear, but I’m sure you have to get to work now. Have a nice day. CUSTOMER Well actually, I wanted to know what time youThe door chimes. Carmen turns away with relief. ELI, 21 year old male with dark brown neat yet curly hair and an athletic build, courteously holds the door for Ava. CUSTOMER ...Guess I’ll just have to come back later. CUSTOMER swiftly exits, bumping into ELI, who continues making his way to the counter. Carmen’s oblivious. Her eyes follow Ava as she settles down on a cushion in the corner of the shop, places her messenger bag down and pulls out a book “Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype.” She nestles into a comfortable position and begins reading. Eli adjusts his apron and name badge and leans close to Carmen.

She’s cute, isn’t she?

ELI (whispers)

CARMEN jumps and swats Eli’s arm. CARMEN Gosh darn it, ELI, you’ve got to stop sneaking up on me like that.

It’s just too easy!

ELI

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All That Glitters is Greed Samantha Theusen

Winner of the William K. Everson Prize for Writing on Film Erich von Stroheim’s Greed (1924) demonstrates money’s power over a group of three strong-willed characters. McTeague, Trina, and Marcus all fall victim to the film’s themes of luck, crime, and covetousness, as shown primarily through their decisions and the symbolism of color and mise en scène. Despite their conflicts, these characters all share the same gluttonous desire for wealth, and as a result, suffer the same fate: death. Von Stroheim establishes deterministic and naturalistic elements as well, not only deepening the film’s symbolism, but also making connections between an ignoble world and reality. […] The color gold is shown repeatedly throughout the film, representing greed. The first setting is the Big Dipper gold mine in Placer County, California, and one of the first intertitles describes the metal to be “hard to get and light to hold.” Wealth is difficult to acquire, but once someone has it, it’s unimaginable for him or her to let it go; it’s easy to envelop oneself in a life of luxury. This intertitle foreshadows the direction of the film: McTeague, Trina, and Marcus create conflict over Trina’s winning of the lottery, and it’s impossible for them to lead their previously normal lives in the presence of $5,000. From this point on, objects colored gold symbolize the characters’ covetousness.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;The Victorian Woman in Art: The Muse, The Artist, and the Criticâ&#x20AC;?

Shannon Gaffney

Winner of the Sister Margaret Williams Prize for Literary Criticism In Victorian art, the female body was constructed for the male gaze. Women were often pictured as submissive, helpless, and vulnerable, only to be saved (or raped) by a man, the decider of her fate. Further, women were reduced to two separate, rigid identities-- one, the pious, dutiful virgin, the other, the hot-blooded, promiscuous vixen of sin and sexuality-- both of which were artistically portrayed and judged by men. It is important to note, however, that the women depicted in art were not the only bearers of their sex to be plagued by misogyny and sexual objectification. Female artists and art critics struggled to allow their work to survive among a male dominated field. They fought to escape their role as an objectified muse, weaving pre-feminist theory into their work. As a muse, an artist, or an art critic, the Victorian woman battled for creative survival in a patriarchal system. [...] As modern feministâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s critiques emerge, such as those of Nead and Zimmerman, the restrictions of Victorian female art critics become even more apparent. Would a modern Anna Jameson have written differently? Perhaps. However, the only change would be in a shift of culture and the inception of feminism-- not in her passion or intent. Moreover, she would still have a lot of work to do, as the shadows and traces of the patriarchy still linger today. In the Victorian era, and in the modern world, the dismantling of gender roles is necessary to truly see the female muse, the artist, and the art critic for what they are-- contributing, valuable, human members of culture.

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THE CONTRIBUTORS Emelie Ali, also known as Emmie is a 2018 graduating senior with a double major in Sociology & Creative Writing, along with a minor in Women and Gender Studies. She has been writing poetry as a hobby since she was in Middle School, and she loves the unexpected and abstract nature of poetry. Her poems are about the things that live in her soul such as race, sexuality, and the intersectionality of existing. With an unclear future, she simply hopes that those who come across her poetry feel her energy and connection with the words, as it gains new meanings in their lives. Shannon Assenza is graduating in 2020 with her BA in Early Childhood Education and English with a concentration in Creative Writing. She has a passion for singing and musical theatre, as well. She hopes to inspire others with her writing. Emily Behnke ‘18 is a senior majoring in English Literature. In 2015, she won the Robert O’Clair Prize for Poetry. In 2017, she was included in Z Publishing’s New York’s Best Emerging Poets. John Bonelli is a junior at Manhattanville College majoring in Digital Media Production and is looking to work in games media in the future. Daniel Cortorreal is Communications and Media Major and a second semester junior. He is expected to graduate in 2019. He is originally from the Dominican Republic, and his interests include playing guitar and writing poetry, fiction and nonfiction. Caleb Crocker is a junior at Manhattanville, expecting to graduate in 2019. He is an English and Philosophy double major, and is really quite bad at talking about himself when prompted. Carmella Decaria is a senior majoring in Creative Writing and minoring in Communications. She is expected to graduate in May and looks forward to what her future holds.

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THE CONTRIBUTORS Lubov Ella-Maria Castelot is a junior at Manhattanville College majoring in Psychology. She anticipates graduation May 2019. She is a member of Nation Society of Leadership and Success. She was a winner of the Common Reading Essay Contest in 2016. She gives back to her college by working at the library. She enjoys writing poetry and narrative writing. Her relaxation consists of fine art drawing and painting, as well as creating various crafts. Stephanie Daly is an Education and Communications major expecting to graduate in 2019. She is inspired by several women poets of the 20th century. Laura Elebesunu, ‘18, is a Digital Media Production Major with minors in History and Music. Her multifaceted interests led her to take Prof. Bens’ Screenwriting course in the Fall of 2017. It was there that the idea for Clarity came to be and where the first act was completed. Included is an excerpt of the first act of Clarity, a story about a girl struggling to figure out answers to life’s many questions that arise through navigating the intricate bonds of love and relationships via her best friend Eli, separated parents, and new encounters. Morgan Ericson is a junior at Manhattanville College who is expected to graduate in Spring of 2019. She is an English Literature and Creative Writing major. In her free time she takes photographs of her cat and drinks large amounts of tea. Amanda Feeney is a Marketing and Communications major with a Sociology minor. Amanda is graduating this May, and hopes to work in publicity or internet marketing. In her spare time, she hopes to be able to continue writing and sharing stories. Shannon Gaffney is a senior, graduating from the Castle Scholars Honors Program with a BFA in Musical Theatre and a BA in Creative Writing. During her time at Manhattanville, she has contributed many poems and stories to Graffiti and has been featured in almost every issue. She was the 2015 winner of the

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THE CONTRIBUTORS Freshman Essay Award for her paper, “The Disney Princess: Her Evolution as a Feminist,” and she won Second Prize in the Tales for Supernatural Contest, for her story, “Someone Else’s Skin.” This year, she was the recipient of the Robert O’Clair Prize for Poetry and the Sr. Margaret Williams Prize for Literary Criticism. Thimmy Garbenius is an international student who grew up in the small town of Nykvarn, just south of Stockholm, Sweden. He is a biology major and business management minor graduating this spring. He has been part of the Valiants men’s hockey program through all four years at Manhattanville College, where he was an assistant captain during his last two years. Following graduation his goal is to go to graduate school and pursue a career as either a chiropractor or a physical therapist. Max Grabler is a 22 year old entertainer who does stand up comedy, poetry, music, screenwriting, and other mediums of expression personally and under the stage name of Bad Trip. He is a double major in Philosophy and Creative Writing. To describe him would be impossible or indescribable. Ashlae Guilliams is a first generation college student born to immigrants from South America. She is graduating this semester with a Bachelors in English with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Psychology. The poems she has included not only highlights the struggles of college and planning for our futures but it also shows how we often our own enemies. Many of us have been disillusioned by the image of College portrayed in the media but you will always be successful if you ‘shoot first and call whatever you hit your target.’ Brooke Hadgraft is a junior this year at Manhattanville College pursuing her degree in Secondary Education English with a concentration in Literature. Brooke is a DIII Field Hockey defender and one of the top strongest female athletes in the weight room. She also is the Editor-in-Chief of the Castle Scholars Honors Program’s newsletter, Castle Voices. She is honored for her first feature in Graffiti.

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THE CONTRIBUTORS Waad Hassan is a Palestinian international student double majoring in English Literature and Creative Writing at Manhattanville College. Waad is currently a junior and will be graduating, a semester early, next winter. Waad is an avid writer who’s been published in Graffiti Magazine in previous issues. Recently, her poem “Hollow” was published in Z Publishing’s Best Emerging Poets of New York and her short-nonfiction “Maybe I survived a War One” was published in the Ocotillo Review. She hopes to continue publishing her work as she pursues an MFA in Creative Writing in the near future. Kyra K. Higham breathes and sleeps writing using her blood as ink. She loves writing poetry and short stories in her spare time and loves to improve and expand her style. Her date of graduation is May of 2018 with a BA in English (Creative and Professional Writing) and minor in Anthropology. After graduation, she’s off to move to Madrid, Spain to teach English to Spanish elementary school children. A very exciting time! Christal Hussain is a current junior whose major is English with a concentration of Creative Writing. She’s also taken various Women and Gender Studies courses, and enjoys studying women’s activism and liberation movements. After graduation, she plans on becoming certified to teach in New York City District public elementary schools. One step at a time, she will hold herself accountable for guiding the youth towards their best capabilities. Heather Krannich ‘18 is currently a senior Philosophy major and the Student Body President at Manhattanville College. They dabble in many areas, from writing and photography to physics and psychology, but they’ve yet to figure out life’s actual purpose. Cristina Masi is 19 years old from Trumbull, Connecticut. She is a sophomore student at Manhattanville College. Her major is Communication Studies with a minor in Sociology and another minor in English with a concentration in Creative and Professional Writing. She plans on graduating in 2020.

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THE CONTRIBUTORS Katherine Matuszek is a junior at Manhattanville, English Literature and Communications double major, and the Associate Editor for Graffiti. She is always on the hunt for good bookstores and coffee. Shannon Murphy is a senior at Manhattanville, set to graduate this May (if everything goes according to plan—fingers crossed). She’s majoring in Creative Writing with hopes to write screenplays in the future, or turning her poems into children’s books. Karina Negron’s major is Creative Writing and she is expected to graduate in 2019. She has a passion for her career and can’t wait to learn more. Her goals of wanting to become a stronger writer so she can share more of her work. Helena Rampersaud is a sophomore majoring in communications and creative writing. She has been performing spoken word poetry since she was thirteen, and is currently the president and founder of Catchall, Manhattanville’s spoken word group. She also works at Manhattanville’s Office of Institutional Advancement as the social media coordinator. Rebecca Rebeiro is a junior at Manhattanville College, and she is currently double majoring in Creative Writing and Art History. She is also pursuing art and she works predominantly in abstract expressionism. Taylor Ridgway is a senior. She is majoring Creative Writing and Professional Writing. She expresses herself through the words she writes finding her inner peace that are printed on the page. Christopher Sanders is a freshman at Manhattanville College majoring in Journalism with a minor in Theatre. He is going to graduate in 2021. Christopher has found profound happiness with Manhattanville and its students. He’s part of many clubs and organizations. He is flourishing as a great writer in many areas. He is a good man, a good friend, and a positive member of Manhattanville College. One day he will be a great Journalist and Broadway Actor. #Manhattanville2021

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THE CONTRIBUTORS Rachel Stasolla is a Junior at Manhattanville College where she will graduate in May 2019. Her major is Bachelor of Fine Arts with a concentration in Graphic Design, and a minor in Digital Media Production. In her untitled piece, she explores the use of photography and graphic design to create a compelling composition. Melissa Steen is a Senior at Manhattanville College and will be graduating this upcoming May. She is currently studying Psychology and Studio Art. Melissa will be completing her undergraduate degree within three years. She plans to continue her studies in Art Therapy in the Fall at a graduate level. Melissa also enjoys expanding her passion in art and poetry whenever possible. Samantha Thuesen is a junior at Manhattanville College double majoring in Creative and Professional Writing and Digital Media Production. She hopes to one day find a career in writing for film and television, and until then, create things that makes people happy. Stephanie Toledano is a freshman this year at Manhattanville College. Since at a young age, she had always been fascinated by the creativity and imagination in stories, especially fiction. Through the influence of family motivation and the inspiration of meeting well known authors such as Anthony Doerr, Stephanie continued to pursuit the dream of becoming a professional writer. She is practicing and fulfilling her dream one step at a time. At her previous high school Rye High School, she received various recognizable awards each quarter in her English classes. During her senior year, the school’s literary magazine Zephyr published her first story in their 57th volume titled “Luke”. Stephanie’s story “To Be An Immigrant After Ethel Adnan” is her first story to be published in the Graffiti Magazine. To Stephanie, her Christian faith and her family are two of the most important aspects in her life that inspire her to keep moving forward.

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