SLATE 2012

SLATE SUNY ULSTER

ART AND LITERATURE MAGAZINE

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ART & DESIGN CONTRIBUTORS Gulnar Babayeva James Becker Yaara Ben-Dor Amanda Cabanillas Jori Figueroa Melissa Harjes Kyra Helgers Timothy Helgers Dustin Hudler Roberto Lusk Marissa Markle David Mathews Kiera M. McAuliffe Elizabeth McGovern Brendan Meyer Krasimir Momchilov

Lisa Morales Lindsey O’Leary Cassiopeia Ottulich Tom Parker Dina Peone Anthony Michael Reffelt Gabriel Rose Tyisiah Santiago Amber Schuler Michael Skinner Jane Stolyarova Michael S. Truxell Shiloh Z. Vanaver Peter Vellos Leanna White Lauren Yaro

LITERARY CONTRIBUTORS Anonymous One Anonymous Two Meghan Dahlgren Cathleen Espinosa Adrianna Gibson Kyra Helgers David Mathews Elizabeth McGovern

Lindsey O’Leary Dina Peone Anthony Michael Reffelt Peter Vellos Brooke Wimberley R J Worden Lauren Yaro

Cover image by Lauren Yaro Back cover by Gabriel Rose

SPRING 2012 2

SLATE STAFF ART DIRECTOR / DESIGNER Gulnar Babayeva

FOUNDER Michael Hurwitz

ASSISTANT DESIGNER Lauren Yaro

PUBLISHER Department of Art, Design, Music, Theatre & Communication

EDITOR Dina Peone

PRINTED

by ColorPage

FACULTY ADVISOR Robert Pucci

VOL IV Published each spring, The Slate is the Literary and Arts magazine of SUNY Ulster.

Produced entirely by students, The Slate showcases the best creative efforts of students and features poetry, essays, fiction, theater and visual arts, including fine art, graphic design, communication arts, photography and more. The publication endeavors to reflect the incredible diversity of experience and talent of the SUNY Ulster student community.

Very special thanks to B. Robert Johnson, Director of Printing & Graphics at SUNY Ulster for assisting designers during production.

SUNY ULSTER

PO BOX 557 STONE RIDGE NY 12484 | SUNYULSTER.EDU | 800.724.0833

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ART

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& LITERATURE Anthony Michael Reffelt Sky Digital Photography 5

LOVE HURTS As I stood in front of the antique mirror in my washroom, I took a good look at the man staring back at me. Sometimes my own face is barely recognizable at first glance, making it hard for me to even remember the paths that have led me to where I am right now. Not being pressed for time at the moment, I stared at myself hard, scrutinizing each individual detail on my rugged, not-yet-shaven face.

Right above my left eyebrow I noticed the white – almost translucent looking – scar about two inches wide. Memories of that bitterly frigid February morning when I was only six years old came rushing back to me. I remember how cold the icy water had felt on my face as I fell into the lake, turning my entire body numb only seconds later.

Continuing to stare at my reflection, I detected the small bump on the bridge of my nose that I never did get around to having fixed – not that I would want to now anyway. My daughter says it gives me character.

The thin wispy lines near the corners of my eyes (my ex-wife used to call them “crowsfeet”) had been making their presence known for many years and were now becoming more pronounced. Laugh lines on either side of my mouth were evidence of many happy years.

Bringing myself back to reality, I half shook my head and peered one last time into my large blue eyes. “Two beautiful crystal-clear waterfalls” is how my ex-wife used to describe them while gazing at me with so much love it seemed impermeable.

I chuckled at myself for getting lost in the past once again. After taking one final glance at myself, I shut the bathroom light off. I walked down the long staircase into the kitchen, proceeding outside through the distressed wooden door.

Blake Young, a tall, slim man about the age of fifty stood in front of his old red pick-up truck.

His large tan cowboy hat covered his forehead 6

and left a shadow just below his brow. A golden piece of hay stuck out from between his small pursed lips. A country song played on his pick-up truck’s radio in the background.

The ample-sized red barn in the distance had turned a pale shade of pink from the hot Alabama sun. Blake’s body was also a product of the Alabama sun, making his strong body glisten with a golden brilliance that often attracted women. Blake had no interest in them.

His plaid shirt was quite worn and dried dirt covered the sleeves and edges of the flannel material.

At first sight, Blake appeared to be a man who had experienced the trials and tribulations that life sometimes brings to undeserving people.

He wore no wedding band, but a picture of a young lady – most likely in her twenties–was displayed below the dash. She shared some of the same facial features as the man, indicating that she was probably his daughter.

A beautiful white and cream colored horse that had been grazing in the field beside the spot where the man was standing walked toward him and nuzzled its head into his chest upon approach. An instant smile lit up the man’s face. This was the type of smile that is sometimes seen on the face of a proud parent after their child has done something to touch his/her heart. Clearly this man was very close to the animal who had now returned grazing in the lush green grass. The man appeared truly content with the life that he had created for himself–but appearances can sometimes be deceiving.

The farm that Blake was now the sole caretaker of sort of fell into his lap. Uncle Jake, Blake’s father’s brother, could no longer manage the hard work that it took to care for a farm day in and day out. He now roamed the halls of the North West Senior Home conversing with his wife; she passed away twenty years ago.

A couple months ago Blake received a letter from Uncle Jake’s attorney asking him if he would be willing to help, and in turn acquire

Kyra Helgers Julie’s Dance Digital Photography 7

the farm after Uncle Jake’s passing.

Admittedly, Blake had an ulterior motive when he agreed to help his uncle out. His daughter Veronica had married her husband Liam three years ago. At the time, the newlyweds and Blake and his ex-wife were living in Montana.

Just weeks after their wedding, Liam coaxed Veronica into moving out to Alabama for a “simpler way of life.” Blake has seen her one time since then. Two phone calls and one visit in three years.

When Veronica had been told by her mother that Blake was moving within close proximity to her and Liam’s home, Veronica felt the need to make her intentions and feelings clear to her father. Last week, Blake received a handwritten letter from his daughter that read: “Dear Daddy, Before I say anything else, I want you to know how much I miss you. It kills me not being able to come to you for advice in times of need or have you there to comfort me when I can’t stop the tears from flowing. I miss your laughter, the nights that we would stay up until sunrise just talking about our dreams like best friends do. You were my world and those memories can never be taken away from us.

They are ours to keep. To get on to the real reason why I am writing, I need to inform you of a few things. I am a wife now. This means my husband, Liam, is my priority. We have built a life together and we cannot have anyone interfere with it, not even you Daddy. As much as it hurts me to tell you this, it must be said: You can’t visit me here at our home, or anywhere for that matter. My family is Liam now and his desires come first. I will try to write to you every now and then if time allows. No matter what, please know that I love you more than anything in the world, but life changes. Please forgive me. I love you.

Today was the day that Blake was going to confront his little girl’s husband whether he liked it or not. He hopped up into his old pick-up and began his drive to Veronica’s house in Alabama; dirt and dust polluting the air behind him. After hours and hours of driving without stopping, Blake was only a few miles from their house now. Weary-eyed but determined, he seemed to have made it to their tiny town at record speed. He looked down at the return address on the envelope and slowly perused the numbers of the homes, finally finding 182 Sycamore. Blake pulled up to the curb and quickly began the trek to the front porch of what he now knew was his daughter’s home. Instead of ringing the doorbell, he tightened his right fist and banged on the door as hard as he could.

“May I help you?” asked Liam from behind the half-opened door; confusion written all over his young face.

“Let me see my daughter,” Blake croaked out.

“And you…must be…her father?” asked Liam.

“OH! We’ve got a smart one here! Someone get the boy a prize! Whoooo!” mocked Blake.

“Um, hold…on…I….”

“I will NOT hold on! What have you been saying to my little girl? Why have you been treating her like this?” Blake’s voice almost cracked, but he composed himself at the last second.

Always and forever,

“Veronica, sweetie? Someone is here to see you. Would you like to come out on the porch?” Liam called up the stairs. “She might be a while. Maybe you should sit on the porch or…”

Your daughter,

“I’ll wait!” Blake roared.

Veronica”

About five minutes later, Blake saw someone coming down the stairs…but it wasn’t Veronica. This was a terribly frail, pale-skinned young girl who could barely make it down the

After tearing apart the only photograph of Veronica that he had around, Blake thought for 8

a moment…“Liam.” Blake had hissed under his breath. “It’s that good-for-nothing Liam forcing my little girl to lose contact with her family and I will NOT have it.”

steps. Her blonde hair was tucked behind her ears much like Veronica used to wear hers, but Veronica had dark brown hair. Step by step, the closer the girl got to the door, the more Blake started to see tiny remnants of someone he used to know…someone he loved. She reached the door and Blake stared into the girl’s clear blue eyes.

life. Her bony hand reached up towards the top of her head, and with one fluid motion, the blonde hair that framed her face was lifted up and in its place was Veronica’s smooth, bald head.

“Oh my g.…Veronica…” Blake managed to choke out. “Wha… I mean why…?”

“I didn’t want you to see me like this daddy,” she said through her tears. “I wanted you to always remember us how we used to be; the best of friends. I’m sorry daddy, I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Daddy, I told you not to come here,” she said in the softest voice he had ever heard in his

Cathleen Espinosa

David Mathews Figure Charcoal

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Melissa Harjes Digital Photography 10

ONIONS ARE LIKE LAYERS Lay me bare and peel my layers off one by one with your eyes.

First comes my outer layer; my shell.

My heart left a permanent burn on my sleeve from the years it was worn there. My wrists are permanently stained with blood and criss-crossed with freeing bars. My once storybook eyes are gone, messily gauged out as a last resort. My mouth is stitched shut with false promises and sealed with sweet lies. My cheeks are torn and scarred from the bite of my fingernails hungry to peel off the mask that consumes me. My ears are plugged by headphones screaming loudly to block out the silence that deafened me that day. My hands are frozen in angry fists, the knuckles torn and bloody from all the times they slammed themselves against things. My thighs are covered in the freeing bars, bleeding out all my insecurities. My knees are weak, permanently grown into the ground now and broken from all the rough landings. My feet are perpetually in motion, dragging me away from painful goodbyes and back onto the ragged road that is my life. My shell may be damaged beyond repair, but take me as I am for beauty isn’t skin-deep.

Next comes the inner layer.

My heart is bruised and battered, shattered from all the abuse it took for so many years.

My heartstrings are tangled up in my ribs, unable to function properly anymore. My optical nerves have images so painful burned into them that they’re the only things I see when I close my eyes; I never see darkness except for in what remains of my heart. My veins and arteries are so clogged with bad blood that I need a filter, routinely changed, in

order to ever function up to par. My long-term memory is cluttered and filled with convoluted memories. I often wish for a dust buster to clear away the cobwebs and wipe it clean. My short-term memory is overshadowed by the long-term, repeatedly scarring me every day even as I make newer, happier memories. I’m haunted by ghosts of the past, whispering and shrieking into my eardrums at all hours of the day. My voice box is so heavily scarred that I can’t seem to find the words to say to ever ask for help, no matter how badly I need it.

My inner layer is messy, but with a little spring cleaning and a tender touch, it will really show the real me.

Finally, peel it all away to reveal my core, the very center of my being.

My love has been tainted and tarnished, forever stained with broken promises and false I love yous, but it will always be true and strong. My pain is a fine tuned instrument, allowing me to shriek it out to the sky unnoticed to everyone around me, for their ears cannot hear such excruciating frequencies.

My mind is dark and tortured; morbid in every imperceptible way from past experiences. My emotions swing from dark to light; a straight glimpse into my soul when I let the real ones show. I’m haunted by nightmares, repeating the days of loss over and over in my dreams. My dreams, however, are my freedom, painting me more optimistic and allowing me to relive the happy moments of my life. My core is strong, no matter how much damage it takes.

Lay me bare, and you will see more than you ever thought possible. You will see the truth behind my lying eyes.

Meghan Dahlgren

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Krasimir Momchilov Kukeri Pastel 13

A SOLDIER’S EPISTLE He was born to be a fighter He was born to fly But on a piece of paper Three words that made her cry ‘Going to war’ Was the last thing she wanted to see But that was what had been written And that was what it would be She kissed his strong lips And tried to hide her pain Then waved goodbye as he boarded the plane And she wondered if she would ever see her husband again Two months had passed without a word Then one day; she finally heard Silent tears fell; as she quietly read ‘Missing In Action’ was all it said Three words that she never wanted to hear Three words that she had always feared Three words that had destroyed her life Three words that made her an army wife Now living in a nightmare She wonders if he’s alive She prays that he’s alright And that his troops survive It’s been almost a year Since he first left home And now another letter Is waiting by the phone She’s afraid to open it For what it may contain Perhaps a pair of dog tags But she can no longer refrain Inside a piece of paper Sitting by the phone Four words that make her cry ‘Your soldier’s coming home’ R J Worden 14

Amanda Cabanillas Digital Photography 15

Amanda Cabanillas Digital Photography 16

CHOOSE LIFE There are too many children taking their lives that should still be here and brimming with life. Weapons and pills and pain are so easy to come by, it’s insane. There’s too much suicide, too much hate, and not enough love and acceptance. If you took the time just once a day to tell a stranger they were beautiful and that it was okay, maybe fewer would jump and less bullets would pierce the brains of our children who so desperately wanted for the love that they lacked. And maybe there would be less pain in the world if you took the time to really listen instead of spreading poison words into their bloodstream, filling them with hate and hurt because something about them just doesn’t fit society’s norms. Death is not an option; it is not an escape; it is an end to everything and should not be greeted early by our children and loved ones. It should be welcomed when it was meant to be, coming to us instead of us running from it. Life is short as it is. Why cut it even shorter and throw sorrow and guilt onto the shoulders of those who care about us? Life is hard but then again, no one ever said it was easy. Life is beautiful

and tragic. Life is a roller coaster and a sunset, or maybe it is a sunrise over a field of flowers blooming in the spring. Maybe it is a shadow over a stretch of sharp rocks along the bottom of a canyon. Maybe it is dark and painful. But so what? It may be dark and painful, but it is still beautiful if you really look at it. The stones protrude into the air with strength and grace, giving protection to the soft ground underneath them. Beauty is everywhere if you just stop to look. Love is everywhere if you give it a chance. Life is everywhere even if you’ve given up on living, for it has not given up on you.

Suicide isn’t the answer. Don’t even let it be an option. It creates more questions than answers and no question should ever be left unanswered. So stay strong and hold on, for there is always someone there reaching out their hand to hold. Take it and live, take it and love, take it and grow into the beautiful person you were meant to be.Choose life, for life is beautiful and that is what you were meant to be.

Meghan Dahlgren

Dina Peone Digital Photography 17

David Mathews Figure Watercolour

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Michael S. Truxell Figure Study Pastel

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WHEN YOU WENT AWAY I have forgotten your smell. You left me. My heart fell.

The scent of your hair, the smell of your skin.

I have never met another with such a sweetstrong scent. I inhaled while kissing your neck.Your skin, so soft against my lips and against my fingertips. I miss you. I hold this remembrance of you, yet there is no proof you existed. Just a few photos and a patch on my heart. You left me and along with your smell you took the memory of your voice. I can see you now, sitting on the floor reading or drawing with your things scattered about, across the carpet. I can remember the soft cushion of your lips as they pressed against mine but still your voice escapes with the wind.

When you left, I searched and I searched, and I scoured my tent touching things you touched, holding and smelling things you

Serenade me a prelude to a story with no end.

Lullaby me in your arms to a drowsy calm.

Sing away the world around us to a world without time.

See through my eyes, a painted sky, golden and glazed.

Fold, torn to blue Orange glow of fallen leaves.

Hear whispers in the cold.

A bittersweet silence Penetrating our little world.

Sweet, sweet, silence.

Your warm, chilling breath

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held. Hoping for a feeling. Hoping to sniff up the last remnant lingering of you. I buried my nose in cloth and between the pages of books, and toughed it against your knife and wrapped it in your necklace but still nothing.

You left and you took everything I long for: your voice, the soft stroke of your fingers, the perfect shape of your body sinking into my soul as we hugged, and your scent… my favorite smell. Looking back, I can see you walking away. I see you turning the corner of my uncle’s house. I wish you would have turned around. I loved you as you walked away. I still do. I should have run back and kissed you one last time. I think back to that moment and I want to cry, but I can’t because when you left you also took my eyes…my tears…my heart.

Peter Vellos

grazes through my hair like the soft hands of an infant.

Your eyes like fire, warm my soul on the darkest night, on the coldest winter morning.

Your hands drop to mine like the golden autumn leaves to the ground below.

Your lips part slowly, sweetly like the petals of the red rose.

Delicate, smooth, silk but the rest rests a memory.

Anthony Michael Reffelt

Yaara Ben-Dor Digital Photography 21

Leanna White First Snow Charcoal 22

THE TIME KEEPER Tonight the sky is pouring rain. The winds are fierce and ruthless. Thick cumulonimbus clouds sail among the turbulence. One, dark gray, becomes translucent as it swiftly moves, uncovering the pregnant belly of the full moon.

Midnight is born.

Deep in a damp wood, a remote, glowing cabin billows blackness from its arid chimney.

Inside, a dying fire is fed by female hands with long and slender fingers. Petite and frail yet elegant, her flesh is bony and pale as the terminally ill. The woman, kneeling, pushes chopped wood onto the hearth.

Jane West lives alone, preferably, after twenty odd years of awkwardness. Here she manages to work undisturbed on her poems, musical compositions, paintings, and sculptures. Privacy, however, does not promise the absence of distractions. From her off-white, tattered garb, she extracts a golden pocket watch. She clicks it open, admiring the glint of the flames on its cracked glass. It has never once ticked in her possession. She wears it as a reminder that time waits for no one.

“Everything transient,” Jane thinks obsessively.

She carries the weight of dark bags under her eyes. Her cheeks are sunken with worry that she might miss valuable moments if she surrenders to the thief that is sleep.

In a burst of restlessness, she jolts from the chair, sending waves of dust throughout the room. Spiders scurry into crevices. From a blanket chest she unfurls a woolen cloak and drapes it around her gaunt shoulders. Pulling from a moth-eaten pocket a box of matches, she decides to strike one for a rusty lantern.

Outside, a raging tempest swallows the firmament with a moaning belch. Jane rushes out of the cabin into the pouring rain and opaque fog. With the speed of a wounded horse, the tired woman runs traditionally. Branches pull back on her hair as she fumbles forward into the forest. Boots, trudging, sink in the mud.

They kick up leaves and snap twigs that scratch against her ankles. The gust of her movement extinguishes the lantern. This doesn’t hinder her at all, for she knows the route intimately.

Jane ascends a narrow staircase that is ornamented by black and white photographs hanging slanted. The attic is her sanctuary. Hardly anything is touched, but the clutter makes it appear lively. Stacks of outdated encyclopedias mount the floor; volumes of history tower over the antique furniture. Every surface is coated densely with at least a decade’s worth of dust. One gable has a small, round window that permits illumination of a measureless network of cobwebs.

The destination is reached when she runs out of breath. Panting, she pauses and presses her palm against the coarseness of a cool stone wall. After her respiration slows, she enters the field through welcoming wrought iron gates.

Rows of marble glow magnificently in the moonlight. Jane saunters solemnly, appreciating the stillness. Here is peace for the deceased and inspiration for the restless. She takes out her broken pocket watch and looks at it again; more lovingly now.

Floorboards creak under the rocking chair whereupon she gazes, lost in reverie. She sits with a statuesque posture, yet her head hangs like in a confessional booth. The shadows dance for her. They change costume and shape across the stage of her consciousness. The heavy raindrops’ beating on the roof keeps her pulse in the parade. The hours, in a flock, wing away.

“If only I could stay,” she fantasizes about immortality.

Without keeping sight of her feet, the dreamer trips over something and plunges over sideways. Her skull hits the corner of somebody’s headstone and she loses consciousness, landing face-down in an open grave.

“Where am I?” Her voice trails weakly.

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“The Southview Cemetery,” a strange old man responds.

Startled, she opens her eyes and sits up from a stiff mattress in a dingy, undersized shack.

“Who are you?” She inquires cynically. Her jaw, agape, invites a fly. The old man swats at it and startles her more.

“Chronos,” he replies. “I’m the caretaker here. I found you passed out in a hole.”

She looks at him microscopically, noting the suspicious kindness in his bulging eyes. She examines the leathery texture of his cheeks, the depth of his every pore, a hair coming out of a wart on his square chin, and the angles of his crooked nose. She traces the map of his labyrinthine wrinkles, puzzled by the adventure.

“How long have I been here?”

“I heard you cry out about an hour ago. It took me a while to find the source of the sound.

You haven’t been out long.” He hands her a drink of water. “How do you feel?”

She reaches to her forehead, finding a bandage wrapped around her skull. “Fine, I guess.”

“What’s your name, Miss?”

“Jane West.” She sips the water. It is ice-cold.

“Like the setting sun.”

“Pleasure,” he grumbles, turning to a piece of marble. He picks up an instrument and begins to chisel into it. “You might want to get some rest,” he adds.

“Rubbish. I never rest. What are you doing?”

“Engraving your name into this stone.”

“What?! Why?” “Because you’re dead, silly. You’re drinking embalming fluid.”

“I am not dead! You’re a lunatic!” Infuriated, she leaps for her life out of bed, shattering the glass against a shovel, and plows through the shack door like a bull to a red flag.

“First stage is denial,” mutters Chronos.

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“Ridiculous,” Jane hisses to herself, tearing off the bandage and tossing it aside. “The nerve of him!”

The rain is fallen. The storm is passed. She marches triumphantly to the now closed wrought iron gates and tries to open them.

The structure does not budge. She grips and yanks and repeatedly fails. Irritated, she growls and punches the gate. There is no pain.

“There is a way out,” a small voice peeps to her.

“Huh? Who’s there?” She scans the perimeter nervously.

“Down here.”

Jane lowers her eyes to the ground to find an earthworm inching toward her. “This can’t be happening.” She pinches herself on the wrist.

“All you have to do is embrace the dirt,” the worm insists calmly.

“I must have fallen asleep. I am having a nightmare. Am I truly confined to hallowed ground for all eternity?” Jane in vain tries again to open the gate and fails. Panicking, she clutches onto the jutting stones of the wall and attempts to climb over the eight-foot barrier.

“Useless,” the worm informs her with a subtle squirm.

The stone wall grows higher as she continues to scale it. With every step, the height stretches upward exponentially. Jane whimpers when she realizes that the earthworm is right. She jumps off the growing wall and instead sits with her back against it, huffing anxiously. She stares at the worm briefly, considering his advice.

“Embrace the dirt or else be damned by the dream,” peeps the worm.

Jane contorts reluctantly and shrinks to hug the mud. The soggy sludge cakes over her face and makes a swamp of her favorite dress. Sinking slightly in the moist muck, she snorts at the stench of the corpse-filled terrain.

Not a second sooner than her acceptance of the ground does the haunting gate screech open independently.

“Now you may drift,” the worm enlightens her.

A moment of silence.

In awe, Jane rises from the soil. She is certain of her departure but she suddenly doesn’t believe her ears: within the stitch work of her tarnished dress, an incessant ticking begins.

Dina Peone

Kiera M. McAuliffe Digital Photography 25

BURNING THROUGH ETERNITY

David Mathews Mixed media Malcolm Coggs was the ripe old age of thirteen the first time he and I spoke. He found me among the rocks which lined the edge of the river a few miles east of his house.

He sat atop one of those rocks, hugging his knees to his chest and looking out at the water, when I appeared. I settled beside him, silent though clearly he yearned to be consoled.

Malcolm kept his eyes on the water, muddy from the rainstorms that had drenched the town a few days earlier. He wore a long-sleeve shirt and dress pants, both the darkest black imaginable. His hair, which at this point in time had grown long enough to graze the nape of his neck and to hit his eyelashes every time he blinked, deflated over his head like a wilted flower.

I, too, wore the costume of a mourner, the more traditional suit with a black tie. Malcolm’s mother had insisted he wear the same, but he tossed the suit on the floor of his room instead. He would later incorporate that long26

sleeve shirt in his everyday attire.

I never introduced myself. It didn’t matter to Malcolm who I was or could have been, anyway. He just needed another presence, one he could open up to, and I was glad to fill that role for him. I was born to fill that role for him.

With the intention to speak, Malcolm cleared his throat, though it did no good. His voice came out as coarse as the rock upon which he sat: “Jack, my grandpa died.”

But he didn’t need to say it. We already knew everything about each other.

See, when Malcolm was a child, his family moved into this little house in the middle of the woods, miles from the village where Malcolm attended school. His paternal grandmother had passed away not long before, and after her death her widower was joined by

the family of his only son, Malcolm’s father.

amicable.

Grandpa Coggs was not as much of a mess as Albert Coggs had suspected. He ate well, slept well. He did not shy away from others, though a cabin in the woods would seem the best place to hide away one’s self. He laughed just as loudly as he did before, whenever little Malcolm came scampering into the room, butchering a song he’d heard on the playground. He still carved intricate statues from the pear wood which surrounded his house, piled as firewood by the front door, and more importantly, he taught Malcolm how to do it.

“What happened to him?”

One day, while his father worked and his mother shopped for groceries, Malcolm played with a toy train set he had received from his grandfather for his previous birthday. He pushed the cars along the floor, though the tufts of carpet prevented the wheels from moving smoothly, and quickly he glanced over at the burning logs his grandfather had set fire to earlier that afternoon. He saw something that made him pause.

“What’s that?” Malcolm asked, his finger aimed at a sculpture of a man in a military uniform, chin up and hands at his sides. The sculpture, placed carefully atop the fireplace, had always been there, but Malcolm had only just noticed.

Grandpa Coggs sat in a nearby armchair, one of the two leather Barcaloungers he and his wife had bought to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary. He set aside the newspaper he was reading and pulled Malcolm into his lap.

“That, m’boy, is Sergeant Frederick Albert Jackson. But we used to call him Jack. Would have called him Freddy, but he said it ‘minded him of his mater.”

“Did you know him?”

“Sure did. He was the closest friend I ever had, and the bravest man I ever met. Never was a soldier better than old Jack.”

Malcolm eyed the statue. The little wooden man had a steely body, bound in that professional pose, but his face was open,

“He died,” Grandpa Coggs replied with a shake of his head. “Took a bullet for me. He was only twenty-eight.”

“That’s sad.”

Grandpa Coggs pulled Malcolm back a little, held on to him tighter.

“Only a handful of people showed up at his funeral. A man that great, and no one knew him. No one remembered him.”

“No one?” Malcolm squeaked.

This thought frightened him more than any other, more than the idea of monsters under his bed or in his closet. He saw the face of the statue transform from a friendly visage to one marred by loneliness. He leaned back into his grandfather.

“Well, I’ll never forget,” Grandpa Coggs said.

“That memory is carved into my head like I carved him into the wood for others to remember.”

“How did you make the statue?”

“Would you like me to teach you?”

Malcolm nodded. Anything to take his mind off the Sergeant.

So, Grandpa Coggs brought Malcolm to the front of the house with a carving knife and he spent the afternoon teaching his grandson his methods of sculpting. Malcolm found the techniques fascinating, and as he and Grandpa Coggs spent more time together, he learned more about the late Sergeant, more about his grandfather’s past. Isolated in the woods, Malcolm had no other children with whom he could play. Grandpa Coggs became his best – and in some ways, his only – friend.

Until I came along.

But, to be fair, by that point Grandpa Coggs had died and Malcolm was a wreck. It wasn’t 27

hard to replace him.

to me. Three men would live on in one.

In any case, Malcolm had spent all those years listening to his grandfather’s stories. Now that Grandpa Coggs had passed, he needed someone to hear what he had to say. I had no stories of my own. The match was perfect.

Not that I was enough. An obsession can never be satiated, and that’s what Malcolm’s fear had become. He obsessed over the idea of leaving an impression on the world. He shaved off his hair, except for one strip down the middle, which he slicked up with pearscented hair gel. He went through almost an entire tub of the stuff every week. When he could convince his parents that he was old enough, he tattooed two five-point stars on the backs of his hands.

“Who’s going to remember him?” Malcolm asked me.

“If no one else, you are.”

“Who’s going to remember me?”

He made a good point. Those who aren’t forgotten are those who have led interesting lives, made important discoveries, invented revolutionary technology. Yet, even those people could only be remembered so long as there were people left to remember them.

If Grandpa Coggs could remember the Sergeant, he could tell others the tale.

Malcolm could listen to those stories, and he would remember not only the Sergeant, but his grandfather. Malcolm could relay all of that

People did notice him, but perhaps not for a reason he would have preferred. Everyone thought he was crazy: the students, the teachers, the townsfolk, even his own parents.

He believed at that point that every second of his life was being recorded by a plethora of hidden cameras and instantaneously broadcast to millions (if not billions) of viewers worldwide. That idea did not bother him in the least, but the fact that so many people would not believe his theory aggravated him to no end.

Amanda Cabanillas Digital Photography 28

In time, Malcolm came to the conclusion that all those people who thought he was out of his mind only made such claims, because they were a part of the setup. It made sense to assume that they had sworn to secrecy.

He asked me if I was in on it, too. I told him I wasn’t. In reality, he never would have even considered such a paranoid delusion if I hadn’t planted the idea in his head.

I was only trying to help. I could serve just one purpose for Malcolm, and that was to aid him in coping with life after the death of his grandfather. I didn’t even come up with the concept of the cameras myself. Actually, I took it from a movie Malcolm and I once watched together.

The Truman Show had always been a favorite of his. He loved Jim Carrey. But as we sat in front of the television set in his living room that evening, I thought of how perfect a situation the movie presented. Truman had meant a lot to people all over the world, people he didn’t know and would never get the chance to meet. If Malcolm could see that making that sort of impression on the world was possible, then maybe he could let go of some of his anxiety.

“That could be happening to you,” I told him.

“You don’t even know.”

Certainly, Malcolm loved that idea.

Unfortunately, as I already mentioned, obsessions don’t just disappear like that. More often than not, they never disappear, not truly.

He wanted confirmation that his life was like The Truman Show. So, he asked everyone around him what they thought of the idea, and they said he was insane. He could never get the answer he wanted, but no longer was he satisfied with just standing out in the crowd by looking different from everyone else.

And anyway, Malcolm had always known that physical appearances meant nothing in the face of eternity. To gain the sort of attention he craved, he would have to do something, not just give himself a ridiculous haircut. He could have used his talent for sculpting, but

he didn’t enjoy that anymore. He still carved intricate statues from the pear wood he would find lying around the yard, but only so that he could remember the procedure, remember all that his grandfather had taught him.

Instead, Malcolm found his perfect method for fame as he and I sat under the moonless sky one night. He had made a small fire in the middle of the front yard. Nothing unusual, nothing he had never done before.

But this time, Malcolm took inspiration from the light. His eyes glowed with the reflection of the roaring flames and the idea the fire had sparked in his mind. He stood up.

“Come on.”

“Now? It’s almost midnight.”

Malcolm flashed the world’s creepiest grin.

“No time like the present.”

We left without extinguishing the fire. In fact, Malcolm knocked some of the kindling loose as he stomped away, too determined to notice. He had gone around to the back of the house, where his parents kept a jug of gasoline in case of emergencies.

Malcolm grabbed his bicycle, set the gasoline on the middle section of the handle bars. I stood on the pegs on the back wheel and held onto Malcolm while he peddled us into the village. It wasn’t the safest configuration, but Malcolm had little concern for safety at that moment.

We went to the school. I watched as Malcolm poured the gasoline around as much of the perimeter of the building as he could. When the jug was empty, he set it on the ground by my feet and removed from his pocket the lighter which he had used to start the fire back at his house.

He looked at me for several seconds, daring me to stop him. I wouldn’t, of course, and he understood that. There had been plenty of 29

time to protest. After all, I had known exactly what he was going to do the second he thought of doing it.

At this point, it may seem as though Malcolm and I share some sort of telepathic connection, but the basic truth is much simpler than that.

Actually, I probably should have mentioned this sooner. We are the same person.

That is, Malcolm is the person, the seventeenyear-old human being with a severe mental disorder. I’m a product of that damaged psyche, nothing more than a projection of Malcolm’s slightly more rational side. I could no more control Malcolm than he could control himself.

He approached the building slowly, knelt down and carefully brought the lighter to the gasoline. But he was quick to jump back as soon as the spark took and the ground blazed.

We watched for minutes as the fire spread, eventually to the parts of the grass and the building which Malcolm had been unable to

line with the gas. He stared in awe, his lips parted slightly and his eyes as wide as he could make them, to take in as much of the image as he could.

I sensed another spectacle occurring somewhere behind us. While Malcolm admired his burning school, I looked back and noticed smoke rising above the trees in the general area of Malcolm’s house, the same orange light that bathed the two of us in that moment.

“That’s awesome,” Malcolm whispered.

“Yeah, but...”

Malcolm turned to me. I nodded toward the direction from which we had come. As he saw in the distance the flames which engulfed the woods his jaw dropped.

Two fires in one night. They’ll remember him now.

Brooke Wimberley

Lindsey O’Leary Acrylics

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Dina Peone Transformation of a Burn Survivor Digital Photography 31

LISTENING A Memoir A few angry tears well up in my eyes as I slam the door behind me. So this is what storming out feels like, then. A single rebellious droplet of salt water slides down my cheek. I swipe at it with my sleeve and it disappears into the thin fabric. I’m halfway down the driveway when I realize I’ve got no idea where I’m going or what I’m doing. I can’t go back, not after my dramatic exit. But I’ve got nowhere to go and I’m starting to notice the raindrops saturating my clothing. I look around for a moment, turn on my heel, and head for the woods.

The stillness hits me first. The fog seems to envelop everything in a deep grey shroud. The only thing in motion is a drip from a tiny gap in the canopy above me. I wander for a while until I come across a low hanging branch that I can sit comfortably on. As soon as I put my weight on it, water soaks through the back of my pants.

Great. But it’s warmer against the tree so I relax into its curves. Everything is silent.

And then I do something I’ve been needing to do for a long while. I start to talk. I’m not quite

sure why, but there’s nobody else around to call me crazy. So I continue. I’m talking about my life. Why I stormed out. The fact that I can’t concentrate on anything anymore. How my parents don’t think I can get into college.

How I’m always lonely. The way my teachers look at me, like I don’t care. That society is collapsing.

When I finish my rant, I look up. The woods are dark and the moon’s light filters through the leaves. I check my iPod. I’ve been gone for three hours. I get up slowly, knees cracking, and start the short walk home. As I reach the doorstep I smell chicken soup. I’m about to open the door, but I pause for a moment.

I turn and smile at the wall of trees.

“Thank you.” I open the door.

I know I’ll always remember this night. The night that the trees listened.

Kyra Helgers

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Timothy Helgers Darkroom Photography

Melissa Harjes Digital Photography

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Kiera M. McAuliffe Digital Photography

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CHANGING SUMMER As the weather changes the colors the flourish, the flowers they bud overnight and bloom in the light, The sun shines as the wind sounds the chimes, and the rainy days are grey, The rain waters the trees bringing little red budding leaves as the wind blows it rattles the trees, you can hear the birds are singing, and you can hear the bullfrogs croaking, the crickets are whistling, summer is approaching.

Peter Vellos

GOODBYE HEART As the days pass by my heart sinks deeper, it’s drifting away, slowly down through my toes. thy dearest heart is fleeing for the dirt, the stone and the sea it’s leaving to the earth and leaving me.

Peter Vellos

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Dustin Hudler Digital Photography

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MS. ASHAMED Dear Ms. Ashamed How was your day?

I'm asking hypothetically cause you won't say But please, tell me anyway I wanna know What made you lie?

What caused your pain?

And the tears from your eyes Tell me how you feel And don't be ashamed You know I won't judge So don't be afraid You hide behind secrets That torture your day Bearing too many demons You're too guarded to slay I want you to tell me all your secrets Let down your guard A young woman's life Shouldn't be so hard But you'll keep it up And I'll keep on trying Cause your secrets are like oxygen And life's nothing without lying So hey Ms. Ashamed How was your day?

I'm asking rhetorically Cause I know you'd never say R J Worden

This place is a rat maze.

Go on now. Get your cheese.

Dina Peone

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Jane Stolyarova Still life Prismacolors 38

James Becker Stack Mixed media Shiloh Z. Vanaver Watercolour pencils

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Dustin Hudler Digital Photography

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Depression? I laid in that ditch for too many years.

(I loved the cold. I kissed the dirt.) It nearly consumed me.

Eventually, in boredom, I climbed out.

Now I just look in occasionally, tossing a penny.

Dina Peone

***

Bark underneath deep hand reached peak like bird on top mountains greet the sun David Mathews

Timothy Helgers Digital Photography

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Gulnar Babayeva Prohibited Digital Photography

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Lindsey O’Leary female.

Digital Photography

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Gulnar Babayeva Digital Photography

AMNESIA I blow my wish upon the moon that it would rain stars down between us so I could follow the stardust trail back to your bones again.

You left a hand print on my eyes so I saw your ghost everywhere I went. People called me crazy because I only ate things that tasted like your skin and I only drank things that filled me with your soul. I remember the day you left, speaking to me with your eyes because words had turned to butterflies and I wasn’t

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fast enough to catch them. Ever since then I’ve only been half empty and forget everything except the one who seems to have forgotten me. I only hope these jumbled sounds resonate within your heartstrings and call you back to me soon for the impression you left in our bed is growing cold.

Meghan Dahlgren

Lauren Yaro Digital Photography Amanda Cabanillas Digital Photography

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RISE VS FALL

UNTITLED

Why decide to fall when you can rise into love and grow towards the sun?

I love the way you hate me and hate the way you love me.

Lauren Yaro

I can’t live with or without you, near or far from you.

You melt my under-ice, and douse my fire-coat.

As chaste was too familiar, lust For shiny and new hinder dust And I must keep paint fresh in hue For lecherous me turn to rust However, what should isn't true Why must I misconstrue my cue?

Forgot the roll, undone the game Assuming love is meant for few David Mathews

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Your hate is sweet, your loving bitter.

A double dose of soft hate with angry love.

Do I love hate, or simply hate love?

Anthony Michael Reffelt

Lauren Yaro Eye Love You Mixed media

EXTRACTION Mother’s hands are the warmest.

Silky soft as wax, her palms are pebble-smooth and creamy pudding.

Dad has callouses.

Lukewarm skin.

Raw cuticles and a sandpaper touch good for pulling out loose teeth.

Mother wipes away the tears.

I alone taste copper.

Dina Peone

Without a porch Without a stove Without a fridge Without a loaf Of home-made bread Without the home With the biggest hallways you've ever known The world is stuff, that's my home And I wonder where the humans breathe Furry, Fuzzy, Friendly hugs breaking backs Unconditional Love that's a fact But shelved stuff can't love you back In the closets with the clothes Behind all the mannequins with the hoes Room by room without memories or frames and I wonder where the humans breathe David Mathews

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FACING THE INNER FEAR It was a casual day

And not mean, but she

I rode the county bus to College

Tried to manipulate me

Nice, bright sunny day

By claiming I was disrespectful

Then someone I knew and feared came But I ignored her My enemy that is supposed to

She was trying to make me

Be my parent was in my sight

Talk to her and reconnect for

Mood changed, heart skipped

Her self-centered schemes

But I decided to be strong

She threatened if I was going To treat her that way, she wouldn’t

She tried to talk to me

Pay me in Child Support

But I said nothing

But Court orders says she must

It only enraged her Though I tried to tell her

Feeling an inner battle in my mind.

I was now grown up

I then focused my energy to calming

And free to make my choice

The negative, I had to focus again for classes Seek inner peace

She was still unhappy

So I called for my heavenly father,

I was being assertive

And my angelic companion for courage

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I remembered my loved ones’ wisdom

I was emotionally drained

And heard the voice of my hero

Still breathing hard in relief

Offering his wishes to do well in college

And tired from running Couldn’t think about much else

I also envisioned an orb of energy Forming a water drop dripping down

She tried to say she hated how I treated

Catching in my hand, and flowing it

Her, and to remember to honor her

Around my arms and palms

As said in the ten sacred rules She knew my faith and tried to make me

The energy was emitting white light

Guilty of disobeying her and showing disrespect

And soothing my cords of stress Cleaning away the shadows of lies

But I know what’s in my heart

Keeping my mind clear

Truly matters and that I have the right To not let her back into my life

Upon arrival to college

After all the pain and scars she caused

I ran to the building, looked back

I can feel I did nothing wrong

And she didn’t follow

And handled it with respect

Why she was on board the same bus

And kept it positive as best

I can imagine was to go

I could be using what I have

To another town elsewhere ?

Adrianna Gibson

Dustin Hudler Digital Photography

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THE AFFAIR As a young bride and mother to three kids in three years I wasn’t left with much time for obsessing over tedious yard work. However, having a thick carpet of green grass, that was also free from weeds and pests, was somewhat of an obsession of mine…for a while anyway.

I found that if you have moles in your lawn you have grubs. Moles eat grubs, grubs eat your grass’ roots, and the lawn dies. Ugh! Rather than go through the same thing with pesticides that I went through with my ex and the herbicides, I sought some alternatives.

I wasn’t raised very environmentally considerate and that’s exactly the kind of someone that a lush lawn like that needs. Hell, I didn’t even know what organic meant until I was twenty-five. My problem was, I had married a tree hugger. The kind of man that would wash out peanut butter and mayonnaise jars for recycling, or more often than not, leave them in the sink for me.

Enter the traps. Mole traps. Spring loaded, toothed contraptions, on which I spent two hundred dollars, that you place over the mole mounds every couple of feet. My problem was that I wasn’t strong enough to set the springs. I asked my husband, at the time, if he would. He said, “Sure, of course!” Never happened…as with most of what I asked of him. Those traps are still in the weathered box, speckled with mold on his porch.

Me? I wanted Lawn Doctor, and I got it. But, every spring it was the same conversation with my ex and I felt the same tug-o-shame.

Finally, I gave up and I gave in. The dandelions drove me crazy. So, in my efforts to be more ecologically friendly, and to please my husband, I bought a dandelion picker…a long-handled, two-pronged, fork-like thingy that you stick deep into the ground beside the dandelions to loosen the roots. I paid my little kids a nickel a piece to go around the yard with their buckets in a wagon, and pick up the derooted dandelions. It was back breaking work for all of us, and short-lived. I’m sure I must have been pregnant at the time. I was always pregnant.

I couldn’t stand the work, and I couldn’t handle the dandelions. So, I broke down and bought a bottle of weed-killer. When my ex-husband went out I would secretly spray the weeds.

Oh, the satisfaction it gave me to watch them die over the next couple of days. When the bottle was empty, I would surreptitiously sneak across the street, throw it away in my neighbor’s can, and go buy another one. I was having an affair with my Weed-B-Gone.

Then, much to my dismay, in my lawn wanderings I discovered raised tunnels all throughout my backyard. MOLES! I knew nothing about moles. After plenty of googling 50

While I waited for the man to set the traps, my elderly neighbor suggested chewing gum. She must have caught me in her garbage. She said that the moles would eat a piece of Juicy Fruit and choke on it. So, I set about wandering my three acres with a big pack of gum, sticking pieces into mole tunnels every few feet. That didn’t work either.

Not willing or wanting to suffer the defeat of the moles I asked around some more, and my friend Lauren suggested nematodes… beneficial insects, and nature’s way of controlling grubs. Nematodes are microscopic wormlike creatures that live in the soil and feed on grubs. Now, treating your lawn with nematodes, that’s a process. First, I was told that I had to keep the worms in the refrigerator until I was ready to use them, like worms when you’re going fishing. Then, I had to mix them with tepid water and spray them over the entire lawn. That wouldn’t have been so bad, if it didn’t need to be done just before sunrise. Having three kids, and more than likely one on the way, sleep was a precious commodity. We also lived just above some wetlands, so mosquitoes swarmed at dawn.

Eventually, I did suffer the defeat of the critters and the weeds. I never did achieve the golf course-like grass that I had obsessed over

Timothy Helgers Rayogram for many seasons. A few years later I got a divorce instead, and with that came the realization that it wasn’t the dandelions, moles, or grubs that were really driving me crazy all along. It was the passive-aggressive mornings,

weather-beaten boxes, and the fact that the only flowers I ever got were dandelions. That’s another story.

Anonymous One

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Kiera M. McAuliffe Digital Photography

4/5/94 Sweet beauty of mine you have served me well.

My faithful companion and loving friend.

Secrets of mine were only yours to tell.

With me you sat until the bitter end.

Time has taken me, through death I have gone.

You were my muse and my canvas your strings.

Because of you, in music I live on.

Songs written you play the beauty you sing.

Your neck in rosewood, your body in blue.

Mirror to my soul, a world with no bound.

Your sound echoes nothing but what was true.

A safe place from hell, with you that I found.

Man and machine together as one.

My life in eternity has just begun.

Anonymous Two

Kiera M. McAuliffe Digital Photography

DEAR UNIVERSE Dear Universe, Mother Mary, Man on the MoonPlease send help. I am a loose cannon to the human race. I will never be on time. I have always had a Marilyn Monroe complex and I have not worn underwear in years (even when I probably should have.) I day dream like it’s a second job and I always forget to feed my fish, Fred. When I was little I wanted to be Spanish. I can never do what I am told and secretly set up a page for my mom on Match.com.

OHH- And I have a secret layaway at Marshall’s but I ran out of money last night because I was out drinking on a week night (totally worth it though.) In other words please send money too.

Love, Lindsey p.s... and I’m a total flirt as well.

FUCK. I’m sorry. Lindsey.

Lindsey O’Leary

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Yaara Ben-Dor Digital Photography

WHEN THE POET PULLED OUT HIS TONGUE ***

It is not enough to speak but nobody else was conscious of this.

It’s easier to live, knowing life is easy.

Yet some say life is as easy as you make it out to be.

Others still state that how you view life determines how you live it.

Logically, if you change how you view everything‌ everything becomes easier. including life.

And everyone enjoys an easy life.

Dina Peone

Anthony Michael Reffelt

When the poet pulled out his tongue, philosophers fainted. artists went blind.

He held it up high in the palm of his hand and wrote with blood onto the wall:

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Dina Peone Self Examination Digital Photography

Yaara Ben-Dor Digital Photography

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Amanda Cabanillas Digital Photography

Gulnar Babayeva Digital Photography 56

Amanda Cabanillas Digital Photography 57

Tyisiah Santiago Digital Photography 1,2 Kiera M. McAuliffe Digital Photography

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Lisa Morales Sew negative Ink

Lisa Morales The Fragile Mixed media

Jane Stolyarova 1,2 Fabric Study; 3 Heart Prismacolors 61

Lisa Morales Mixed media

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Jane Stolyarova Prismacolors

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Marissa Markle Dali Mixed media

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Lisa Morales Sense of Self Acrylics

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Jane Stolyarova Self-portrait Prismacolors

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Cassiopeia Ottulich Mixed media

There lives a young girl who loves flowers and feathers and dresses that twirl.

Lauren Yaro

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Lindsey O’Leary 1 Self-portrait Gouache 2 Figure Study Oil Pastels 3 Figure Study Acrylics 68

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Lindsey O’Leary Figure Oil Pastels

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Dina Peone Ghost lover Acrylics

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Gulnar Babayeva Ink

David Mathews Acrylics 72

Michael S. Truxell Chalk, Charcoal 73

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1,2,3 Roberto Lusk Studies Graphite

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Gulnar Babayeva Hunger series: Ice-cream Charcoal, pastel

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A POET’S IMPRISONMENT The poet in me wants out of this alphabet imprisoned within a sentence twenty-six to life We moan in vowels with infantile reason We carve pictographs into the deepest cell walls Struggling with the shackles of consonants our tongues writhe in baffled curls that resemble the curves of ancient symbols but no words escape our contorted lips So we swallow the key never knowing what it is Logic doesn’t exist Only feeling Dina Peone

A CHANGE OF DIRECTION The pills are in the cabinet, and the rope’s under the bed, the knives are in the drawer and the gun’s against my head The river is less than a mile away I suppose I’ll flee by midnight I’ll hold my breath as I dive in and be forever out of sight But wait, if I must hold on, if not for me, then for a friend, I simply cannot make tonight the end.

Lauren Yaro

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TENGO UNA VIDA DURRA Yo tengo una vida dura, working every day, sending money home.

Yo tengo una vida dura, missing my children, hoping they don’t forget me.

I do this all for them, to learn, to eat, to sleep in comfort.

Yo tengo una vida dura, during the day I break my back, con pala y carreta, Y los fines de semana waiting for mi esposa, I miss her, she works when I don’t.

Yo tengo una vida dura, I go out searching for work, cien dolares mas will do the trick.

Now my kids can eat, now I can eat.

Yo tengo una vida dura, my body is dead, adolorido every day, is it worth it?

When I return will I be too old a jugar con mis ninos?

Los extrano, what I would do for them!

Peter Vellos

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1,2 David Mathews Charcoal 79

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1,3 Anthony Michael Reffelt Digital Photography 2 Peter Vellos Digital Photography 80

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Excerpt from Abbott's Family An original screenplay by Brooke Wimberley A BLACK SCREEN The sound of footsteps on a linoleum floor.

A door creaks open.

SECRETARY (V.O.) Mr. Dermann? Your eleven o'clock is here to see you.

DERMANN (V.O.) Send him in.

SECRETARY (V.O.) All right. But I have to warn you, sir: He's a bit... fuzzy.

INT. DERMANN'S OFFICE – DAY A little bobble–head baby figure sways on the desk.

DERMANN, young and enthusiastic, perches in his office chair, scanning papers in his hands. He attempts patience, but this meeting is the craziest he's ever had.

He shuffles the pages.

DERMANN Says here you graduated high school at the top of your class, earned a degree in enigmatology, and you make your living creating crossword puzzles for a local newspaper.

He flips to another page.

DERMANN (CONT'D) You don't have any experience with children, and you are...

Dermann pulls off his glasses. nose and sighs.

He pinches the bridge of his

He puts his glasses back on. He clasps his hands on his desk and smiles at the presence opposite him.

DERMANN (CONT'D) A puppet.

Across the desk sits ABBOTT, middle–aged puppet. back at Dermann with a straight face.

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He stares

ABBOTT Yep. Dermann waits for elaboration.

Abbott says no more.

DERMANN Hmm. May I ask what exactly a puppet would want with a baby?

ABBOTT I'd like to be a father.

DERMANN Sure, but couldn't you find yourself a nice puppet lady to fall in love with and with whom you could raise a, you know...

Dermann flicks the baby bobble-head.

DERMANN (CONT'D) ... puppet baby?

ABBOTT No, sir.

Dermann shoots Abbott a cautious look.

DERMANN Why not?

Abbott gestures to his lower half.

ABBOTT Nothing below the belt. Dermann halfs-tands, peers over the edge of his desk.

True to his word, Abbott's torso ends with the hem of his shirt.

ABBOTT (CONT'D) In fact, I don't even have a belt.

DERMANN No, you don't.

Dermann relaxes into his chair. gether.

He organizes the papers to-

DERMANN (CONT'D) Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Abbott, but I really can't approve your request for adoption.

Abbott throws his hand over his heart.

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ABBOTT So, I... you're saying that I... I have no chance of ever becoming a father?

The bobble-head baby's head bobs all over.

DERMANN It's just that your resume provides very little information about – Abbott scrunches up his face, catching Dermann off guard.

DERMANN (CONT'D) --you, and I'm not sure that you, being a puppet, would be able to satisfy the needs of a – Abbott continues to scrunch his face, looking more and more repulsive.

DERMANN (CONT'D) All right! Look, I'll consider your application further. But I'm going to need two letters of recommendation. Letters from people – puppets – uh, those close to you who can provide some evidence that you would be capable of caring for a child.

Abbott folds his arms over his chest – challenge accepted.

ABBOTT Not. A. Problem.

Dina Peone Digital Photography 84

Yaara Ben-Dor Digital Photography 85

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Peter Vellos Digital Photography

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Cassiopeia Ottulich Mixed media

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Elizabeth McGovern Acrylics

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Cassiopeia Ottulich Mixed media

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RISE

THE PURSUIT

Can you feel a whole lot with that mechanical heart?

Algid blood swims through metallic veins, can this mind escape this questionable chain?

The world is spinning round and I got no place to go every day I have the blues and I just don't know, what to do but to look at the stars I can see my path from here it isn't too far, I must make a move I gotta get going The tune in my head is what I'm pursuing.

I will wait for the fog to clear that has come to inhabit this brain Like a Phoenix emerging from its ashes, this bird will rise from the rust once evoked by the rain.

Lauren Yaro Without the pit, we may never appreciate heights.

Dina Peone 90

Peter Vellos

Jane Stolyarova Prismacolors 91

Shiloh Z. Vanaver Watercolour pencils

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Brendan Meyer Pastel

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David Mathews Graphite

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THEATRE

EATRE THEATRE THEATRE THEATRE TH 96

HEATRE THEATRE THEATRE THEATRE 97 T

PROOF

BY DAVID AUBURN DIRECTED BY STEPHEN BALANTZIAN

CAST Catherine...................................................................................................................................................Geneva Turner Claire............................................................................................................................................................Elizabeth McGovern Hal.................................................................................................................................................................Tim VanEtten Robert.........................................................................................................................................................Bill Russell

PRODUCTION Set Designer..............................................................................................................................................Robert Pucci Technical Director/Lighting and Sound Designer ..............................................................Zack Jacobs Costume Designer................................................................................................................................Aletta Vett

NOVEMBER 3-6, 10 -13, 2011

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DIRECTOR’S NOTES PROOF came to me two years ago as a required text for our acting class right here at SUNY Ulster. Aside from knowing it as a Tony Award and a Pulitzer Prize winning play, I knew very little about the story. I didn’t see it on Broadway. I never presented a scene from it in my early career as a student actor (the play’s popularity makes for a “go-to” scene for young artists.) What first caught me after reading Proof was David Auburn’s beautiful text. As you’re about to see, the play surrounds the lives of brilliant-minded mathematicians. Yet Auburn goes beyond the math, capturing complex, alive and often funny characters. A good play like Proof reaches beyond the surface raising many questions about our humanity. In the play Catherine and Hal reveal math as beautiful, elegant and describe proofs like music. We theater folk immerse ourselves into the world of the play. We aim to expose the beauty in our work. We ask ourselves: How can we get deeper within our work? How can we reveal our own universal truths ? I hope you enjoy the work presented here. I sincerely thank you for your support of theater and of our program.

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“

W

orking on the SUNY Ulster Production of Proof by David Auburn was a great privilege. I have been in larger casted productions in the past but this was a cast of only four members. Although there is a wonderful feeling in working on a big project with lots of artists, there is something quaint and intimate about a small cast-member production.

We really got to know one another and the amazing crew who helped make it happen. It has also been an honor working with Stephen Balantzian. SUNY Ulster’s new Theatre Coordinator. Stephen gives the actors encouragement and works individually with them, finding ways to bring out the unique person while giving room for exploration of the artist within.

Everyone went above and beyond. There were so many hard working evenings rehearsing after our own school and work schedules day after day. I rehearsed whenever possible; memorizing, repeating, reviewing the lines and language in my car, practicing in the shower and even while waiting for an oil change. But every day I had the feeling of fulfillment. It was so wonderful to be working with such incredible souls and artists. Watching everyone do his or her part in the process of creating a set and producing this show was so inspiring, from seeing all the little details of set building, lighting, sound, costumes, acting, directing, managing, props, makeup and promotion. There is a community that builds a life to share the story that lives to the day that we finish our last performance and strike down the set. Afterward there is silence. The theatre is empty. Once afternoons and evenings are open, that’s when you start to miss it all. We will always have the memory of this wonderful experience.

Elizabeth McGovern

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Photography by John Halpern

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Leanna White 102

GRA DP E

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H I C

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Gulnar Babayeva

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Leanna White

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Amber Schuler

Jori Figueroa 106

Tom Parker

Gulnar Babayeva

Michael Skinner

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Lauren Yaro 108

Leanna White

Tom Parker

Leanna White 109

Lauren Yaro 110

Jane Stolyarova Prismacolors 111

SLATE SPRING 2012

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