Ursum Literary Magazine, Issue Ten, Spring 2022 by Casey LaPlante

Table of Contents Hairspray by Jake Rossi

cover

The Oddities by Julia McHugh

Untitled by K

I’d Rather not Read Dicken’s Tiresome, Incoherent Shrews of Oddity by Kylie Downs 7

It’s Okay to Mourn by Travis Jude Green Yellow (artwork) by Aurora Pool

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A Thoroughly Modern Woman by Juliette Marzo

Two Men by Griffin Carey

He Lingers by Jordan Mcintire

The Eyes That Watch Over Us (artwork) by Aleina Nardi

The Aftermath of the Swamp by Molly Laird

Then Why Was It Successful? by Pearce Boit

BIRDMANDIA by Katherine Benoit

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Frankestella by Amelia Davis

Murderous Smiles by Kylie Matthis

Looking Through a Keyhole (artwork) by Sydney Henry

Complex Machinery of Society by Jessie Talasco

Kiki’s Homecoming by Noah Kroninger

Frankestella, more like Franken-critics by Ryan Ziskin

The Warrior’s Fall by Asher Lakota

Dickens’ Thanksgiving by Ashley Pugliese Error of Oliphant by J. Brown

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I Am What You Have Made Me by Eleanor Gies

To Mr. George Gissing by Mara Wutka

I Don’t Recall Being That Disliked by Timothy Jennings

The Oddities By Julia McHugh Great Expectations: a work Art or not, it is a work that occupies itself with incidents all but impossible1 Incidents filled with strangeness, danger, and excitement, but lacking all the same All the same, it is colourless. It is fatigued. Overworked and imaginative, encompassed with the fictitious Encompassed with the creatures he had called into being But these creatures, these oddities are complex What do the oddities have to say for themselves? The ghost, the teacher, the phantom Alive, but not so much She lives in the past, clinging to twenty minutes to nine Clinging to a desolated altar, a bridegroom long gone, and a dress A simple dress, which, in five-and-twenty years, had only grown yellow and faded Now, what would she say about her actions? Would she own up to them, say that it was worth it? Worth it, to block the sunlight, to teach cruelty, to cage your heart, to never love again Or, would she beg for forgiveness? For long-needed redemption? “What have I done!”2 she says, looking for answers Wringing her hands, distraught, torn up over the past But her answers can’t be found from others, only from herself and the light of the future The convict, the rescuer, the redeemed He’s in the past as well, facing the consequences of his deeds An unfair trial, a job gone wrong, convicted for his crimes But while he paid his time, he grew. He learned. Guilt is a great inspiration. 1

Everything in italicized is taken from Margaret Oliphant’s “Specimens of Oddity Run Mad”

Oliphant, Margaret. "Specimens of Oddity Run Mad." Review of Great Expectations. Charles Dickens Great Expectations: Authoritative Text, Backgrounds, Contexts, Criticism, by Charles Dickens, edited by Edgar Rosenberg, New York City, W.W. Norton, 1999, pp. 625-27. 2

Dickens, Charles, and Edgar Rosenberg. Charles Dickens Great Expectations: Authoritative Text, Backgrounds, Contexts, Criticism. New York City, W.W. Norton, 1999. 297

Putting his life on the line for the greater good, for a step in the right direction What would he say? What would he say, knowing that we draw out breaths as calm as before? Knowing that he won’t interfere with our sleep or startle us with his clandestine figure? Would he be regretful that his actions accounted for nothing? He claims, “All I’ve got ain’t mine, it’s yourn,”3 He claims “I’ve meant it by you, years and years”4 Devoting the love of a father to a stranger he watched grow up This mistaken man wouldn’t be worth nothing, but only he could prove it The clerk, the loyal, the trustworthy Surrounded with secrets, hidden in his little castle Hidden away from the world with two lives Does he hold regrets like the others, or is he stuck in romanticism? Is he ashamed of his ingenuity, his peculiarities? Exclaiming, “Hulloa! Here’s a church—let’s go in!” Exclaiming “Nod away at him, if you please”5 He holds his treasures close; nothing is worth losing And he holds his secrets closer Stories of wild beasts tamed, ravenous stalkers, and the guilty who were freed He doesn’t live with the knowledge, just carries on with a quest for happiness Was it the right move, splitting his life in two? For a person made of separate pieces, only time would tell The creatures have spoken Compositions that were breathed into momentary life Clawing their way to forgiveness, to redemption, to wholeness Did their work mean anything? To them? To us? Of course not, words on a page don’t mean much in the moment, only in retrospection It’s all they were: ephemeral. And how could the temporary leave us with such confusion? Are they truly insane? Could these imaginative figments be more abnormal than us? I think not, for we all are specimens of oddity run mad

Dickens, Great Expectations, 248 Dickens, Great Expectations, 249 5 Dickens, Great Expectations, 162 4

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Untitled -K Emotions pass like wandering strangers, maybe waving or smiling in greeting, maybe hurriedly bumping by, maybe pretending not to be a tourist, trying not to seem obvious, but taking polaroid photos of their surroundings Eventually they leave your line of sight and you don't think about them again, because there are are millions of other things to not think about —————————

I’d Rather not Read Dicken’s Tiresome, Incoherent Shrews of Oddity by Kylie Downs Dear Critic, hear me now. Great Expectations is unmatched The marshy, dreadful atmosphere accredited to writing in which Dickens never did anything so good6 His unsuitable, joyous ending should have been scratched He didn’t succeed! If he had rejected Lytton’s imbecile suggestion he just maybe could7 Think of the imagery. The story is so strange, dangerous, and exciting8 Feeble, fatigued, and colorless,9 it would better be described as The scenes, so admirably painted in part three,10 are delighting― Are in fact rather pitilessly obtrusive11 and lacking class Think of the falseness. The absurd conversations that smack of the stage12 But Mr. Wopsle is just a charming bit of satire!13 And Mrs Joe! So comically unforgiving! Mr. Advocate, it’s nothing more than exceedingly dull pleasantry.14 As I read it, I age! Dickens has made more honest laughter in his day than any man living15 Think of the plot. You must’ve felt a prick of meretricious excitement16 with Orlick’s ambush… Nothing more than merciless pumping-up of grotesque or ridiculous fancies17 Pip’s discovery of his great expectations, however, gives high value to this book.18 Shush! I’d say Pip’s story is a broad waste of sluggish unrealities19 Come now! Dickens’ best piece of work is Pip.20 Mr. Critic, please hush! Think of our expectations. A let-down more bitter than the sweetness of our hopes, the book21

Dickens’ Shrews Ibid 8 Specimens of Oddity Run Mad 9 Ibid 10 I Would Rather Read a Good Review of it 11 Dickens’ Tiresome Clowning 12 Dickens’ Shrews 13 Ibid 14 Specimens of Oddity Run Mad 15 Ibid 16 Ibid 17 Dickens’ Tiresome Clowning 18 Dickens’ Shrews 19 Dickens’ Tiresome Clowning 20 Dickens’ Shrews 21 Dickens’ Tiresome Clowning 7

Well, he had deserved great and well-founded hopes from us,22 from you he got none! Let’s agree to disagree. I’d rather have read a good review of it23 or even a good hook Well, Mr. Critic, we may have just made one

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The Most Successful of His Works Have Been His Most Incoherent I Would Rather Read a Good Review of It

It’s Okay to Mourn By Travis Jude Green

Hilola Bigtree died, I found myself thinking. My mom is dead. It had been weeks, nearly two or three months, but this was the first time it really hit me. It had taken four different people- Gus Waddell, the ferry driver; Whip Jeters, the parks serviceman; Kiwi, the son; Ossy, the daughter- to convince Chief Bigtree to move our family to the mainland. And they’d had to put up with my own fighting, as well- ‘Ava Bigtree in Loomis? Loomis isn’t our home, Kiwi, Loomis is…. Loomis isn’t Swamplandia!’. I joined the Chief as he spent nights awake, and the two of us would sit beside each other at two in the morning with tree-stump-sized buckets of ice cream between us as we spoke in silent voices. I would imagine the conversations we were having without ever opening our mouths, discussing how the others would never understand why we couldn’t just up and leave our home for the mainland simply through our thoughts. The day we moved out, I didn’t look Chief in the eye once- I refused to for the next week. This whole time, here I was thinking we were on the same page, only to be sorely mistaken. Looking back, I wish I had given him a bit more care during those days. I think he was having just as hard a time as I was with the move. ‘My mom is dead’ was the thought racing through my mind on a sunny Thursday morning, the morning light from our apartment window painfully blinding me even as I cried into my Captain Crunch cereal. All that time since she had passed, and this was really the first 9

time I thought about that. Never again would she tuck me in late at night, never would she hold me and my siblings as we sat around the fire, never ever again to swim with the seths. I couldn’t go to her for anything ever again- she simply wouldn’t be there, not even if I really needed her. Ossy’s perfume- a gift from one of her new friends- surrounded me as I felt her weak arms encase me stronger than I knew was possible. I could feel myself falling apart, too busy missing my mom to be embarrassed that Kiwi and the Chief were watching.

Chief let me stay home, that day- I had the apartment to myself, for once, just a small bit of freedom in a strict new world. I still shared a room with Ossy, the two of us in a bunk-bed so that it wouldn’t take up too much space. I had turned my top bunk into an enclave, blankets closing me off from the rest of the world just enough that I have my own area while still being able to talk to my sister late at night. I spent most of my time up there, doodling on the wallsI’d taken up drawing since we left Swamplandia! I drew my family, and the seths, and my new friend Arin. Arin was weird in a way that felt like home, to me. I didn’t like him when we met on the first day of school; We hadn’t gotten my uniform in the mail yet, and I’d just encountered my first real obstacle of the mainland: Loomis girls. After barely surviving them picking on my old torn Swamplandia! shirt, I thought Arin had been making fun of me when he said he liked it. It took a while for me to realize he was being genuine. Arin had his ears pierced, and wore a giant dangling earring from one ear. His uniform was ripped and sewn back together with colorful thread, and he sometimes liked to put on makeup. He made bracelets, too- he’d made me one, with the colors of the Swamplandia! sign.

It was weird, sort of, having a friend. Besides being full of new experiences, Loomis showed me what else I missed on Swamplandia!- things like friends my own age. Arin didn’t seem to mind taking control whenever we would hang out, always having some new idea for what we could do, so at the end of the day, I guess I’d gotten lucky. Ossy had new friends, too; she had joined some secret club- a Coven, she corrected me. “It’s for witches. Like me,” she would tell me. Occasionally we would look at pictures from the Spiritist’s Telegraph together- an old book she’d gotten off the Library Boat. She carried it around with her most of the time, even though she had other books of a similar subject that she told me were more accurate. “It’s talking about ghosts. Ghosts aren’t real, Ossy.” I said to my sister as I was laying out on the itchy rug in our room, pouring over the book. Ossy had raised a thick eyebrow as she turned to look at me, hands still preoccupied with her ‘altar’. “Well… they, like, sorta are? Metaphorically, I think.” she turned back to the table covered in candles and spices and rocks. “They just can’t, y’know, do stuff in the real world. I’m getting the hang of it, still, but I think I could really talk to them if I tried… Metaphorically.” she repeated, humming away. When I told Amanda, my therapist, about Arin and the Coven, she nodded along thoughtfully, occasionally jotting something down on her little notebook. I hated the one-sided conversation at first, but the more I talked the more words kept coming, spilling out of my mouth like a hose. And when I finally ran myself dry, Amanda would pick up right where I left off, talking about these new experiences and explaining things to me in ways I had never

thought about. “My mom is dead,” I would say, and she would say, “It’s okay to mourn.” What a powerful thought.

Yellow by Aurora Pool

A Thoroughly Modern Woman By Juliette Marzo Cruel, heartless, vile women Returning nothing but hell to the boys who love them. Detestable widows, wives, and spinsters Longing to foil the infinite goodness of men which surrounds them. Foolish, ridiculous, offensive caricatures Itching at the chance to produce more misery than can be calculated. What is this art If not insulting? They’re the curse of their husbands’ lives And inspirations to little girls who aspire to be different. They contradict the expectation And discredit the “angel.” Sensitive females feel troubled Yet where is their pride? To be so developed that they are characterized as “shrews” Why, there is nothing more dreadful and empowering. What is this art If not groundbreaking? We are furious creatures And social pests. We use appalling language And bask in our power over those who can’t defend themselves from our evil tempers. But we can change. We can still be angels without a half-murderous blow on the back of the head. What is this art If not the truth? Perhaps it’s just modern.

Two Men By Griffin Carey Two men sit alone in their homes One of marble and one of stones, For one, life is just and fair The other, only “death and disease hangs in stagnant air,” Yet for both the future is grim. For the rich man, alone, and growing old “The stacks of gold only leave him cold,” “Rattling like icy chains across the floor” His prison bars are lavish decor, Unaware of the world around him For “the ‘man behind the curtain’” For “the child laborer or displaced person,” Who lives in” wretched conditions and squalor” and sin Their existence is “oppression, slavery, and degredation,” . Yet the blind man basks in his own inaction And punishes those less whose dreams gain traction, Sitting in his palace with coins of gold, silver, and brass Never spending “time considering the plight of the underclass,” The workers have “suffering indignant enough to fill the pages of novels” After working to the bone they return to their hovels, The “people half naked, drunken, slipshod, and ugly” As the rich and powerful look down on them smugly, Until the reckoning comes.

He Lingers By Jordan Mcintire

He was haunting me. Every place I fled to, he followed without faltering. I tried sprinting until my knees would forfeit and break, but still he remained. He, with dark malicious eyes and a line for a mouth. I sobbed to anyone who would lend an ear stop him, please get him away from me Yet I just received a disturbed expression, immediately after the silent treatment. The people in the uniforms didn’t even offer me a glance. They just moved along, pretending to ignore me. They were kind, however, during the cold room. Bland cement walls, sometimes he would visit, lingering in the corner. They would ask me questions that were related to him. My life was fairly eventful. I don’t remember my name being inmate 43289 though.

The Eyes That Watch Over Us Aleina Nardi

The Aftermath of the Swamp by Molly Laird

September 1, 1989 Ava

The first thing I noticed was the smell. It was a smell that I used to equate with my mother’s cooking, and for a fuzzy, half-asleep moment I wondered what aspect of last night’s dinner was going to end up in our eggs this morning. Then, as the clouds of sleep slowly began to drift away, reality once again took up it’s domineering place and I regarded the small bedroom dimly, trying to keep the image of my mother standing in our old kitchen in my mind. The one bedroom in this apartment was smaller than my old one at Swamplandia, and I now shared it with both Ossie and Kiwi, while The Chief had claimed the living room futon as his own bed. There was also a kitchenette that crammed itself into the back half of the living room, and a bathroom on the other side of the bedroom that had pipes that liked to gurgle and shriek in the middle of the night, bringing images of the swamp into my mind. Some of those images were of pleasant memories - my mother showing me how to pin a Seth for the first time, the shine of the morning sunlight on the thick water in the summertime, my brother and sister and I chasing each other through the mangroves and down the slippery beaches, back when the swamp was our playground instead of our place of employment. Those memories made my chest ache with a confusing mixture of longing and homesickness, but I still preferred them over the other memories the odd noises in the night would drag up. I glanced over my shoulder to Ossie’s mattress, and saw her fast asleep, her hair splayed out in long rivers over her pillow. She took a pill every night to help her get to sleep without 18

being bothered by ghosts or nightmares. Part of me wanted to take one as well, to be able to blissfully float away to sleep without lying awake until morning just thinking, but a larger part of me was afraid. Ossie needed those pills because something was wrong with her, I would think while staring at the little orange bottle. If I take one, then that means there’s something wrong with me, too. At least I was not alone in my nightmares. Sometimes, while lying in my now-typical half-asleep haze, I would see Kiwi suddenly jerk around under his covers, before sitting up and snapping his head around with a bleary urgency. Sometimes he would stare at Ossie’s chest rising and falling, or at me pretending to be asleep, as though he needed to confirm to himself that we were still here, that we hadn’t been transported in the middle of the night back to the tangled island wilderness. Often, when the Chief got home early in the morning from his mainland job, he would creep into the bedroom and touch each of us gently on the shoulder for a long while. I assume he was confirming those things to himself as well. Turning my head away from Ossie, I could see our closet, piled with all of our earthly possessions, our dresser filled with our complete wardrobe of old Swamplandia! Branded tee shirts, and the peeling gift-shop posters of the swamp and of my mother that we had used to cover up the bland brown apartment walls. Kiwi’s mattress was empty, but this was no surprise he left for work before Ossie and I got up. He sometimes came home from night school after we had gone to bed, which frustrated me; here I was on the mainland, sleeping in the same room as Kiwi even, and yet I still missed my brother like I did on the Island when he was miles and miles away. I began to stay up late and wait for him, and the two of us would stand out on the balcony overlooking rows and rows of pot bellied men smoking before going to bed and 19

dogs barking to each other across the dingy courtyard, and we would just talk to each other. Kiwi must have really enjoyed these moments, because he actually told me so. He liked talking to me, he had said once while we leaned precariously on the metal railing. He couldn’t just talk like this with his friends from work. Finally, my stream of thoughts subsided and I glanced at my plastic dollar-store alarm clock, which read 7:19. A pesky voice chirped that I needed to get up or I’d be late for my first day of school, and instantly dred filled my stomach like a garden hose in a brown, chugging water balloon. I quickly tried to think of reasonable alternatives. I could continue homeschooling myself. I could go to night school like Kiwi. The Chief could teach me. But nothing I could come up with diminished the growing reality that I would have to get up soon, and face a new kind of dangerous species that I had never encountered before; high schoolers, in their natural habitat. I had watched lots of teen movies to prepare myself for what was to come, but none of them made high school seem like a remotely interesting place. Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, Friday Night Lights, none of those kids seemed like better company than my pit of Seths. Heathers was intriguing at least, but I doubt that it is very true-to-life. In the days leading up to this one, Kiwi had bombarded me with pop quizzes of “what do you do in X situation?” and “how to tell if kids are teasing you or just joking around” and “what to do and say so as to not get stuck with an embarrassing nickname on day one.” I thought about those quizzes as I stared at the cracked and textured ceiling. They were annoying at the time, but now I hope I remembered the answers. When my alarm clock began to blare, 7:25 shining uncaringly on its blank white face, I decided that there was no more avoiding the inevitable. I 20

slammed a hand down over the wailing clock and swung my legs roughly into the floor, still used to having a bed to slide out of in the morning. Ossie rolled over and began mumbling. I gathered some clothes from my dresser drawer and pushed open the bedroom door, planning on changing in the bathroom like every morning. But what was on the other side of the door made me stop in my tracks. The source of that strange smell from before became apparent, as I glanced up to see The Chief, my father, hunched over the stove in the kitchenette, futilely attempting to cook eggs. “Dad?” The Chief whipped around and smiled wanly at me. “Good Morning Ava!” he said loudly. “Ready for breakfast?” I merely stared back at him in shock. He used to cook with mom, but that had all ended almost as soon as she was gone. His cooking” had mainly consisted of reheating tv dinners and pouring cereal as of late; to see him actually standing at a stove, turning ingredients into food, was incredible. He scratched the back of his neck while an elastic grin spread across his face, waiting for me to say something. I opened my mouth but before I could speak, the door swung open with an impatient rattle of keys, and in walked Kiwi with a grocery bag from the lobby mart. His face crinkled when he saw the ruined eggs. “Really dad? I was gone for what? maybe ten seconds, and already you’ve burnt the eggs. That’s got to be a new record” he shook his head and pulled a loaf of bread from his bag. To my surprise, my father did not start yelling, but instead smiled a forced but wide smile. 'Hy, I like my eggs well-done.’ he said. “And so does Ossie, right Os?” my sister had emerged from the room as well and stood next to me.

“Sure” she said, smiling at me before ducking into the bathroom to change. In the end, only my father and I were brave enough to try the burnt eggs. My brother (I called in sick from work, I’m going to at least have a better meal than what I get there) and my sister (it’s bad luck to throw up before your first day of school) opted for the boring regular eggs instead. While the pit in my stomach I had before was still present, I found that it was slowly being filled, though not with crumbly eggs. Instead it was filled with my father’s earnest attempts to create breakfast for his children, Ossie’s dreamless night allowing her the piece of mind to put together a back-to-school outfit that did not include a turban, and with Kiwi’s tight, concerned hug as I walked out the door, as though I were leaving to go to war instead of to a loomis high school. And maybe that’s where I was going, after all. Maybe my day is going to be miserable. As I walked down the fluorescent hallways on my way to the bus stop, Ossie right behind me, I found I didn't care. Just as long as my family is doing better, and I could come home to their content, smiling selves at the end of the day, that would be enough to carry me through whatever the day might bring.

Then Why Was It Successful? By Pearce Boit I have taken a good, long look at this wonderful review from The Spectator…it is titled “The Most Successful of His Works Have Been His Most Incoherent”, and I must say, this man must be of a…shall we say, lower mindset. See, he seems to call out my story on being too sporadic, too blunt, and a product of rambling. To that, I say you could not be more wrong, my friend! I’d go as far as to say you didn’t even finish the book, and simply wrote this review only three quarters of the way through before using it as kindling for the fire. He starts off this negative criticism by saying: “The reader is led to hope, when he begins the tale, that its course is to run continuously through that low life which Mr. Dickens describes with such marvelous accuracy and such delightful humor…” and then he goes on to claim that my story delves into melodrama and lyrical ranting! You see, no book is good if it stays the same throughout the whole thing. Would you rather have a tale of Pip staying a child and suffering at the hands of Mrs. Joe for 358 pages? I think not. It needed variety! Now, this criticism then goes on to say, “In the uneducated classes character is far more characteristically expressed, if we may use the expression, than in the higher”. Good sir, this is 1861! Few people can understand characterization, never mind even being able to bloody read. Eloquently crafted characters would mean my readers would be confused at who or what someone is, as come on, most of this country is of the lower class. I myself am not a gentleman, so who am I to create a rich character who is entirely realistic? Now, I will give some credit to this critic, as he knows when to give praise where it’s due. He states that “the power of painting, by the turn of a phrase, by a transposition in a sentence, by a movement, by a mode of receiving or accosting another, the bias of a man’s character, is a power apparently of a finer order, but really much less rare and 23

remarkable than the intellectual instrument with which Mr. Dickens fascinates us”. This here is why my book was successful: it’s simple but effective! I did not expect my audience to be professors and scholars, I expected them to be average people, incapable of deep literary analysis. Therefore, I make the story interesting and with plenty of powerful techniques, but keep it all upfront and clear to see. The criticism then transitions into the much more negative part, starting off by claiming “he requires a habit of mind with a definite body to it”. What he’s saying is that I cannot express characteristics and messages without giving them a character in the story to embody them. I return to my earlier point: this is 1861. I cannot just make a message visible from describing an object, or describing a certain air to a room, I must embody these messages and characteristics for my simple-minded readers to see and appreciate! He adds to his point in saying “it is one of the disappointing traits in his recent tales that these mere tricks - the accidents, not the essence of human character - have taken the place of that large assemblage of minute, coherent habits which go to make up such a figure as Mrs. Gamp or Mr. Weller”, which is to mean I introduce characters just for the sake of the embodiment of a trait, only to throw them away a few pages later or change who they are later on. Goodness gracious man, not every character has to be some pivotal part to the story! People exist outside of the main cast, and besides, how can you say they’ve changed later on in the story? If they were only introduced for a few pages as you say, then how can you know exactly how they act? You don’t. You’re being nitpicky. Moving on from this awful point, we reach, at last, the main point of this mediocre criticism. It says here that “Mr. Dickens has made another mistake in the attempt which he has obviously made to construct a coherent tale, though it is obvious that his purpose has often 24

wavered, and that many ‘undeveloped formations’ have been finally abandoned before its close. His genius is not suited to a unity of plot”. My God in Heaven, I don’t believe this man has even finished the book! There are no undeveloped formations, damn you, I simply introduce a number of converging plotlines! The convict, Miss Havisham, Estella, Mr. Jaggers, everything is tied together in the final act of the story! I did not leave loose ends in this tale, and the end of it proves that! I will move on before I lose my cool…it is not wonder people believe I am insane. Now, the critic says here, “The truth is that he gets too much interested in his own plot, and forgets the characters in his interest in the story”. Sir, you are better than this, you really are. That is the bloody point! You ever notice how the story seems to forget about Joe and Biddy at points? That is because Pip has forgotten about them! This book is entirely from the perspective of Pip, not just in terms of being first person, but in terms of his mindset. Besides, years start to go by in the story, not every character can remain relevant. The critic closes off by once again praising the areas in which I excel, but just has to keep flapping his gums about as he closes with “he is very small when he becomes lyrical, and he cannot deal with destinies of his heroes and heroines without becoming lyrical”. Sir, I never became lyrical, Pip did! Pip views himself as a knight in shining armor, to be the one true love to Estella, and to become a rich gentleman with power, money, and fame! You question why this story is so wildly successful, but you’re spelling it out for yourself! Your so-called criticisms are nothing but incorrect views on positive facts. Now, there appears to be one last closing statement at the end, and it reads, “If Mr. Dickens could only see how much he would gain if he could take a vow of total abstinence from the “Estella element in all future tales, and limit himself religiously to vulgar life - we do not 25

use the word in the depreciating sense - he might still increase the number of permanent additions to English literature. This, Great Expectations certainly has not done”.

Good sir, are you telling me how to write my books?

BIRDMANDIA By Katherine Benoit

Here, I finally laid next to my sister. The safety and comfort of my family blanketed me like the warmest hug I’d ever felt (besides my mother’s, of course). Yet, sleep escaped me. My sight fixated on the discolored, leaking ceiling of the hotel room and I traced the drips with my eyes as they dispersed onto the frayed, burgundy carpet. I could not stop thinking of the Bird Man. I still didn’t understand why what we did together happened, why he chose me, or why his scrawny legs and dirty feathered arms stayed plastered in my thoughts. Physically, I had escaped him, yes, but like that dog, I felt tethered to him somehow. The water from the ceiling set a metronome for the plethora of images that flashed through my mind of the Bird Man and of us in the boat. I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t care what happened to him but something drew me out of bed. I pulled my gaze from the ceiling and glanced at Ossie beside me. I hadn’t seen her sleep in so long.

I quietly removed the leathery sheet from my legs, dirt and dried blood adding to the yellow stains from tenants’ past. I stood on the carpet, staring at the curls of scratchy fibers running between my toes. I moved for my shoes. By then I had caught a glimpse of the red light from the alarm clock- 5:37 am. I hadn’t realized how long I’d laid awake thinking of the Bird Man. I pulled my muddy shoes over my muddy feet and what was remaining of my torn jacket over my arms. Then I began my search for money… funny how everything always came back to money, or lack thereof. I crawled the room, running my hands through Kiwi and my 27

father’s pants pockets on the dresser. With luck, I found just enough to pay the fare for the ferry- almost like some higher power put just enough money in their pockets to get me where I need to go- almost like they wanted me to go back. I was ready to leave but something almost made me stay. I quickly scratched a note on the hotel paper pad beside the bed. Im ok. Dont wory, Ill be back. -Ava Bigtree. I put the pen down and turned around to face Ossie, still making up for all the sleep she lost sneaking out for Louis Thanksgiving- what a waste. I wanted to say I told you so but that could wait. I faced my exit, cracked the door, and slipped away.

By the time I made it to the docks it was 5:57 am, just in time for the 6 o’clock Ferry back to Swamplandia! I paid my fare, put my head down, and boarded the boat. It was only me, but that was to be expected at 6 in the morning, and given Swamplandia! had succumbed to the melaleuca that is The World of Darkness. I almost fell asleep on the boat as I watched my family grow further and further apart yet again. The ride was slow and boring. The gray water was calm yet I could tell it was different- stained with despair and loss like the Underworld had begun leaking into it. A breeze sprayed the gray water up at me but I didn't mind it. It was a good reminder to stay awake. I grabbed the cold metal railing, almost freezing my hand, yet I continued squeezing until my knuckles turned white. I saw Swamplandia! in the distance and that’s when I felt it. Indescribable, really, but nervous and proud is how I would sum it up. Nervous, obviously because he’ll be there. But proud in the sense that I’m a hero on her journey. Something drew me back here and maybe it wasn’t the Bird Man, but whatever it was was a task made for me.

The ferry docked and I made my way back home. I passed the Seth pits, and a piece of me broke inside when I remembered my red Seth. She protected me, and for that, I will always owe myself to her, but I still feel like I should’ve protected her too. I kept her in my thoughts as I passed my mother’s diving board and the pit where the dredge sat. So much had changed yet Swamplandia! still felt the same as when I had left. I mucked around the swamp until I found a spare rowboat big enough for me and a small backpack. I didn’t know what I intended to do- I vaguely remembered the direction of the Underworld but I lacked the navigational skills the Bird Man had to actually get myself there. I sat beside the rowboat for a while in thought: did I even want to find the Bird Man? How was I sure he was even still here? Maybe he had died or maybe Whip Jeters had found him. I wasn’t sure, but I wanted to know. I peeled my legs out of the mud and made my way inside the house. I pushed the door open. Its squeak was all too familiar to me. I closed it behind me and was encased with the smell of mom. I guess perfume stays in carpets for a while. I snatched a bag from behind my bedroom door and filled it with two water bottles and all the food I could find that’s left and less than a week past its expiration date, which wasn’t much. I grabbed my father’s jacket from the hook by the door and switched it for my torn one before I made my way out and began my journey to the Underworld again- this time in pursuit of the Bird Man.

The swamp didn’t feel the same this time. As much as I hated to admit it, I missed the Bird Man’s whistling. I missed purposely messing up my hair so he would fix it. I missed having him interlace his fingers with mine as we rowed. Something about not having him here felt wrong. I didn’t really know where I was going but I knew wherever I ended up would be 29

fulfilling enough. I made my way through the water. The sun was coming up but the sky was too gray for its light to provide much guidance. I watched the trees droop down towards the water, their roots outstretched along the banks of mud. I kept rowing. The water lapped up my paddles and I felt nothing but alone. I didn’t have my red Seth, I didn’t have my family, and I didn’t have the Bird Man. I watched a few fish flop along beside my boat but the moment my oar hit the water they darted beneath me. I continued rowing for what felt like years but was realistically only an hour or so. I stopped rowing for a bit to eat a handful of stale crackers. The water was still gray, the sky was still dark, and the vines still hung around me as withered and sad as they did the first time. As crumbs fell in my lap I thought about what I was actually doing. I contemplated if what I was searching for was even worth it, and, in a trance, I took my oars and swung my boat around. I rowed silently all the way back home. I hadn’t made it far, but as I had watched those crumbs fall I was struck with thoughts of my family: broken and crumbling. The Bird Man wasn’t worth losing them again. My arm was tired but still, I continued my pursuit home. Swamplandia! came into view behind a patch of vines and I was filled with relief. I propelled my boat forward until I hit the bank. I threw my bag in the mud and placed the oars back in the boat before dragging it up the shore a little. I was relieved to be home again, but still something didn’t feel quite right. Maybe it was just the principle that my family wasn’t here with me, but I had been alone before. The clouds moved over the sliver of sun that was still visible, shading Swamplandia! and covering it with a gloomy hue. I didn’t really know what to do now, so I began making my way towards the door to attempt to find enough money to get me back to the mainland.

I turned the knob to the door again but the smell that hit me this time wasn’t just my mother’s perfume. I shut the door and sitting in front of me at the kitchen table was the Bird Man… waiting for me.

Frankestella By Amelia Davis Estella the automaton, the puppet ‘made’ cold and unfeeling, strong but a shell Someone whispers, “catch her fancy” The unrequited love, the unfulfilled love but love is only a word Her hold, her inhumanity is horrific, beautiful, magic Retrospectively, a ‘scientific romance’, a ‘voyages extraordinaires’ The beginning of science fiction.

Murderous Smiles By Kylie Matthis

As I lay in bed, completely vulnerable to the world, I began to think: what would life be like if I were someone else? If I ceased to exist at all? I drifted off into the cool void of darkness, and loneliness. As I lay there, devoid of life, succumb to the darkness within, I began to dream. Not a normal dream, no. I have special dreams, ones that no one else could possibly have. My dreams tell me things, things about the future. They give me insight to events that would occur in the near future of the world. But not just any events, only the bad ones. It’s the worst compromise ever, I get to be aware of the bad things and get to know how to avoid them, but the dreams are traumatizing. Devastating. So terribly disturbing I don’t forget them. They haunt me for the rest of my life. Only, tonight is different. In a terrible way. I lay there. Jerking. Screaming in my sleep. I couldn’t wake up. I was trapped. It was the worst dream ever, I had never seen anything like it. In all the dreams I had ever had, I always thought that losing your own life was the worst thing to have to go through. You had to deal with the pain and misery of death itself. Only then, you would wake up and be fine, traumatized, but fine, and in my case, knowing that you were going to die and not knowing how to prevent it. Then you would be so utterly careful to protect yourself that you wouldn’t live your life like you wanted. You would live in fear. But that night I realized that I was very wrong. Losing the ones you care about the most is the worst of all. I woke up the next morning and couldn’t move, like I was set in stone for eternity. I was petrified. My mom came in and now that I wasn’t alone I could move. I felt safer, but not safe. I got to school and she came up to me and said something, I couldn’t quite make out what it was though. I was too busy walking in the opposite direction as fast as I could. Faces were blurring by faster and faster. I kept walking, jogging, sprinting down the hall toward the bathrooms. I couldn’t cope with the pain of looking at her. At her face that would soon be ice. Cold, alone, motionless. She was coming. She knew something was up and she was going to find out what it was. She was my best friend, my family. My sister. Of course she knew. She followed me all the way down the hall. I had to keep going. Right on past the bathrooms, Down the hall. Left. Right. Left again. All around the school until I lost her. “What’s wrong Maya?” I heard a voice say. “Why are you running from me?” Of course. How could I be so foolish to think that I could lose her in a building! She’s twice as fast as I’ll ever be and much stronger, not to mention she helps the football team practice! If I wanted to avoid her, I’d have to go into a science museum. I had to say something. “Oh, hi Jess.” I said quietly. “I, uh, just had to get to math class.”

“Really? A math class in an art hallway? I don’t think so. What’s wrong? Is it another one of those dreams? Maya, you know those aren’t real!” “Really? If they aren’t real then explain that time when Mr. Camden’s daughter passed away suddenly! Or when Aunt Shila ended up in the hospital because of a heart attack! And don’t just say they were coincidences! I dreamed about them just days before they happened, that has to be something!” By now people were heading to their first period classes. The bell was about to ring and we were in the middle of a heated argument as usual. In a few minutes we would be the only students out of class and get detention. I was right. By the end of school we had made up. I still refused to tell Jess about the dream, but I think she forgot about it anyway. We had made plans to go to the movies after school. Our older brother, Shae, had agreed to take us if we bought him some Kit-Kat’s after the movie. When he arrived at the school to pick us up, he said that we weren’t going to the movies after all. Our grandparents were in town and we were going to go to the park to see them. He said we were going to bring the telescope because we were going to look at the stars and planets later that night. I got in the car and couldn’t move. I remembered something. It was vivid, like a memory that was supposed to be forgotten. I sat there. It was like a horror movie in my head. It was dark and eerie. We were at a lake. I was there, and so was Jess. We weren’t alone though. There were four figures at the edge of the lake, adults, maybe 30, and the other two around 60. There was a little shack on the far end of the lake, maybe around 300 yards away. A figure stood inside the window, the blind blocking the face. It was wearing a white shirt, long black hair, motionless. I didn’t know who any of them were, but I could tell something was off, not right. But I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I came out of what Jess called shock. She said that the park was closed and we were now going to the lake. She said it would be getting dark and cold by the time we arrived so we had to go home to get jackets first. I now knew what was off about the memory. In my dream, I only saw what happened. Not the surroundings. Not who else was there. Only what happened and who it happened to. Not even who did it. I now knew what would happen at the lake and I didn’t know how to stop it. I knew everything about it and now it’ll be my fault if I can’t stop it. When Jess dies it will have been my fault. We arrived at the lake and I saw my parents and grandparents. By then it was dark and cold. Thank god we got the jackets. I begged Shae to have them come to the house but he wouldn’t listen to me. Typical. I tried to get us as far from the lake as possible, but everyone was too obsessed with how beautiful the water was. I began to look around in loss of hope. I saw the old shack. I saw the person with the white shirt and the long black hair with the blind 33

over their face. I saw the deep, dark, dead lake, and a dock with an old, run down boat. It was like a classic horror movie set. Only this time it wasn’t just a set. It was real. As real as houses, cars or the chair you're sitting on. I went over to Jess. I figured that I’d better spend as much time with her as possible. I suggested a picture in front of the lake and everyone thought it was a great idea. We all lined up with jees and me in the front row. We found someone in the area to take it for us. After it was taken, we all looked at it. It was beautiful, truly beautiful. I noticed something though. The person that was in the house before, they weren’t there. It was strange. The blind was up and no one was inside. I looked around for Jess to make sure she was okay. Something was off. I didn’t see her anywhere. Actually, she wasn’t looking at the picture with us either. “Hey, guys, where’s Jess? She’s not here!” I asked “Oh, uh, I don’t know. Where did she go?” my mom said, and we began to look around. We had been searching for her and calling for her, doing anything we could think of for at least an hour when we saw something. It was a person. Lying motionless on the sand by the lake. I had been looking at the picture to try and find something when we saw it. We all immediately ran, full speed over to the body. Sure enough, it was Jess. “We need to get her to the hospital. Now. She’s unconscious at least, and she may have a concussion. She’s not doing good.” Shae informed us, his time at medical school finally becoming useful. I started to look around to see if I could find out how this happened, crying my eyes out because I was the only one that knew she wasn’t going to make it. I looked over at the house. The person was back inside, but the blind was up. I could see the person in the doorway clearly now. Her face white. Dead. Motionless in the night. Her smile was so creepy and terrifying it drew me right over. I couldn’t stop myself. I had stopped crying now. I was too scared. I got onto the porch and my parents and brother noticed me. They started running over, screaming, crying for me to come back. But they were too late. They couldn’t run that far fast enough. I was out the instant she touched me. I could still hear their screams. Their pain. I knew I wasn’t going to make it, just like Jess. By now she was probably dead anyway. Shae was the first to arrive by my side. But he didn’t stay there long. He ran into the house after the girl. He found her, but never came out. Next was my dad. Grandfather. Grandmother. Mom. They all lay dead in different parts of the house. Each one as motionless and dead as the next.

The ambulance arrived. They couldn't see across the lake, it was getting too foggy. They left without saying a word, angry that so many people prank called them. I wanted to tell them what happened. What killed them. It was the smile. That stupid smile. It messed with you. It drew you in unwillingly. Once you saw it you were dead. Although you were still walking, breathing, seeing, you were dead. You couldn’t help it. I wondered how many people she had killed already and how many more would be killed. No one would ever know, for, according to the news, the house had been empty and abandoned for years. No one would ever know of the bodies that lay motionless inside, swallowed by the curiosity of human nature. And if they ever did find them, they would never know who killed them, or even who the bodies belonged to. The bones and skin would be too rotted away and the girl would be long dead. I wondered if she put all the bodies in the basement, or in the attic. I knew I was dead. But I didn’t feel dead. It was an odd feeling to have, one unlike any I had ever felt. Maybe because I had never been dead before. Maybe this was just the feeling of death; what it felt like to lose your life after not having lived it. I felt my soul being extracted from my body. A pleasant feeling, knowing that I would get to live on, even though I was dead. My soul would float around like a ghost. I let myself succumb to it. I met death at my part. At my time. I could still see everything the way it was. However, I could now see something else. My parents, brother, grandparents and sister were all sitting at the edge of the lake, looking up at the stars, their backs to me. “Ah, I wondered when you would come around, Maya,” said my mom, not turning to look at me. “We’re dead, aren’t we? We’re not going back. Ever.” I said with question. “No. I mean, we are dead. But we can go back. Not as human. Not as ourselves. But as spirits. We can each choose someone to protect, be their guardian angel in a way.” said my grandfather. “How do you know that, grandpa?” I asked, very confused. “I’ve been dead before. I lost my life in war. But I was saved by someone. Perhaps my guardian angel. However, I would have preferred it be a little sooner. Scared the half dead daylights out of me!” he said with a laugh. We all sat there thinking for the rest of the night. Looking at the stars. We saw seven new ones appear that night. Each star is a symbol of a life lost. But also, a new one given. When one person dies, they get a star. They know where their star is, and why it’s there. A new life is given to that person, because they have been freed from their body and can now live their life. As the person they want to be.

Looking Through a Keyhole by Sydney Henry 36

Complex Machinery of Society By Jessie Talasco There is nothing that is not social and historical And in the last analysis political A frustrated spinster An irrational and vindictive female figure Bedecked in her withered ball gown An alternately vicious and pathetic woman An abused and abusing female A vivid and lasting image Paralyzing our thinking about time and change Miss Havisham’s choice Self inflicted isolation A tortured manner of living To be consciously malevolent Impotently raging at the forces that work against her Unsatiated female passion Repressed desire to punish She fails to understand the system that works against her She seeks only to revenge herself Paralyzed in thinking about time and change The power of repressive forces Agents of society at large Unstated principles and cultural dynamics at work A gap between opportunity and desire Mirrors failure Failure to make private dream a public reality Failure to create an identity outside her private sphere Changes challenge the privileged status and frustrate individual identity Adopted attitudes A competitive system that renders all subordinate to profit and exchange value 37

Human relationships measured by monetary gains The prerogatives she enjoys limit her exchange value Learned to be proud and expect to do little to earn her reward Intentionally disempowering her She loved him not with a strength or energy of passion but with a susceptibility Passion’s potential to make her vulnerable Fear that he was right Made her more not less vulnerable This most pessimistic perspective Unmasks the illusion The vicious circularity of individual and social misery A comment on the entire system within which she and other characters operate A complex system which has made her reclusiveness inevitable History’s self fulfilling prophecies The world depicted offers no alternative

Kiki’s Homecoming By Noah Kroninger In the months since Kiwi reunited with his family, the “Hell’s Angel” had been largely forgotten. Instead, Kiwi now bore the title “Loomis Lionheart” in recognition of his second act of heroics. If saving Emily Barton caused a flood of recognition, rescuing his own sister from the Florida swamp triggered a tsunami of publicity, merchandise, and most importantly, money. After the expertise shown in his plane maneuvering, Kiwi was promoted to head pilot, a title that also brought a salary he could only dream of weeks prior. On top of this, Mr. Barton, CEO of the Carpathian Corporation, had decided to make Kiwi the face of the World of Darkness. After a string of injuries resulting from failed adherence to safety regulations, the bigwigs wanted to distance themselves from the theme of death that they previously boasted throughout the park. The World of Darkness became The Expedition Zone, designed to portray an African safari. After countless renovations and millions of dollars, the new park was complete, accompanied by a logo with none other than Kiwi Bigtree, beaming front and center in a full lion suit. Kiwi, having turned 18, was given a large share of stock in the Carpathian Corporation, equating to roughly $7.2 million. He no longer worried about SAT practice words or attending college; it all seemed somewhat pointless when he could make a 45-minute “celebrity” flight over Loomis and bring home four figures. However, Kiwi wasn’t fully accustomed to life as a celebrity, even after his stint as a lifeguard hero. He wasn’t comfortable with the social interactions that were included with the status of a national treasure. Sure, he talked to hundreds of strangers a day at Swamplandia! when he was a child, but these conversations were 39

limited to questions about bathrooms and show-times. Signing autographs and being greeted with cries of “it’s him!” wasn’t as good as it sounded. It felt as if everyone knew him better than he knew himself, a rather unfavorable position to be in. Things weren’t looking too good with his family either. Ossie was struggling to adapt to life on the mainland, her overly romantic view of life not meshing well with public high school. She was constantly bullied because of this, reminding Kiwi with a strange nostalgia of his time at the bottom of the social food chain. Some nights he wished to be sweeping the floors of the Leviathan, where he could ignore the insults thrown his way and have periods of peace and quiet. It was strange, Kiwi thought, how it was often easier to silence others’ insults than their compliments. At least when being made fun of you weren’t expected to shake hands and pose for a picture. If Ossie’s problems weren’t enough to deal with, Ava had assumed a quiet, numb disposition since her time in the swamp. This stark change from her old, lively self made her feel like another stranger on the sidewalks of Loomis, one of the few who didn’t know about the incredible Kiwi Bigtree. Those days alone in the wild must have really shaken her, to the point where Kiwi felt unable to provide any support for his little sister. Then there was the Chief, who remained strangely unchanged after everything that had happened. It would seem that almost losing two of your children and having to foreclose your life’s work would lower your confidence or at least force you to mature. Well, it was as if nothing had changed in the Chief ’s life, that this new reality was a short family business trip. Kiwi’s relationship with his father had gotten even worse since the time when he left for the mainland. His father seemed to resent his stardom with a bitter jealousy that crept into every one of their conversations. When he wasn’t mad, the Chief talked about using Kiwi’s 40

fame to revitalize Swamplandia!, as if it was a magic potion that could turn the rotting structures of the park into gold, attracting visitors across the world. Needless to say, the pair wasn’t on great terms, further preventing Kiwi from trying to help his sisters. At the World, Kiwi now lived in one of the VIP staff rooms, typically reserved for high-ranking managers. He felt guilty at times, considering his suite was larger than the hotel room the rest of his family lived in. This being said, on many occasions Kiwi had offered, almost forced the Chief to take some of his money, if not for him for Ossie and Ava. Every time, his father refused, his pride too large to take handouts from his runaway son. This made Kiwi’s blood boil, but seeing as his sisters were both under 18, there was not much he could do for them, save calling child services on his dad (which he seriously considered almost once a week). Kiwi still sat on the roof of the World with Vijay, actually more frequently since Ossie’s rescue. Vijay got all the perks of being best friends with the state hero, including a new salary, less work, and an instant conversation starter with girls. Kiwi often envied this position, preferring the sidekick role over the superhero; the sidekick didn’t have to stop while grocery shopping to talk to an eighty-year-old woman about his heroics almost once a week. During one of their conversations on a night with a particularly vibrant sunset, Kiwi blurted out “I’m done” with such nonchalance that it shocked him into a stupor. The two words fell from his mouth like snowflakes, gently piercing the air as they reached the gravel under his feet. “Huh?” Vijay replied, “have a little too much to drink while you were out flying with the CEO?”

“No Vijay, I’m serious. I’ve been thinking a lot about this. I can’t take it anymore. The fans, the publicity, my dad, it’s all too much.” “Oh, Mr. Big Shot isn’t content with being a national hero. Maybe when you go international you will be famous enough” joked Vijay, but Kiwi could see the seriousness in his eyes as he talked. “Cmon bro, what are you talking about? You have it all. Where would you possibly go?” “Back home,” Kiwi mumbled, inaudible to his friend. “Hey Vijay, thank you so much for everything. You are such a great friend. I couldn’t have done anything on the mainland without you.” “Okay dork, I thought we worked on you being cool and not saying stuff like that,” he began, but his voice trailed off as Kiwi picked up his foldable chair and headed for the doors. “Love you man,” Vijay called out, just before Kiwi slipped out of sight. The next day, Kiwi didn’t report for his 9 am “Early Bird” flight. When a furious instructor came to his room, he was met with a poorly written note, outlining Kiwi’s formal resignation from the World of Darkness. At the same time, Kiwi was on Gus Waddell’s morning ferry ride to the swamp, sitting by himself in a sea of empty seats, floating on top of the expansive ocean. When he stepped off the boat and was met with the entrance to Swamplandia!, Kiwi felt choked up, hit with a sudden wave of emotion. He hadn’t loved his childhood, but being surrounded by his family’s old park made it difficult not to reminisce about his old life and beloved mother. Kiwi spent the day roaming his old stomping grounds, taking in the sights with a bittersweet burning in his chest. The old buildings were just as beautiful as he had remembered 42

them, but stood against the swamp as if they were hunkering down for a battle against nature in which the latter was clearly winning. Algae ravaged the Pit, filling the voids left by Seths in tangles of rust orange and dark green. Vines crept through open windows of the gift shop, long arms that seemed to reach for long-forgotten pieces of merchandise. In a strange sense Swamplandia! almost appeared more complete in this new state, fully taken by wilderness in the absence of man. Animals could be found everywhere, crabs scurrying over wooden planks and feathery swarms of night-black buzzards perching on every solid surface. Kiwi even imagined he saw a bright red juvenile Seth, quietly patrolling the underbrush as if looking for something. Although he was never the biggest fan of nature, as Kiwi took in his surroundings he began to smile, really smile, not just move the edges of his lips upward as he posed for a picture. He felt at peace for the first time since sitting with his family after finding Ossie, forgetting all the complexities that came with unwanted fame. Kiwi had made up his mind before returning to the park and now there was no doubt. He pulled a crumpled sheet of paper out of his pocket that he had stolen from his family’s hotel room, a long, ugly list of the accumulated debt his father owed. In his other hand, Kiwi held his checkbook, a gift given to him from Mr. Barton after his sudden affluence. On this checkbook, he had already addressed checks to the plethora of businesses and individuals seeking compensation from Swamplandia! Finally, Kiwi pulled out a small, poorly made sign he fashioned one night in his suite back at the World. He leaned it against a nearby gate and admired his handiwork, satisfied with the modest effort he had constructed. Kiwi heard the honk of the ferry horn and rushed to catch his trip home. He was eager to see his family, even the Chief, and share with them his newly formulated plan,

stopping to take one look back at his sign with the bright blue inscription, “CARNIVAL DARWINISM”.

Frankestella, more like Franken-critics By Ryan Ziskin Very fine writing, occasionally.24 1985. At the best a disagreeable story.25 1938. A writer whose parts are greater than his wholes.261968. Estella… the experiment gone wrong right. 27 2010. Contemporaries know nothing of my intentions; my goals; my ideals. They devote their lives to my work, only to speculate. Only to create something from the bottom of their minds where there is nothing. Passion prompted the printing of my paperback. Desire to create multidimensional dramatis personae, The need to fabricate a plot packed full of action. My writing is not disagreeable, but an adventure meant to beguile. My parts may be greater than my wholes, but it kept people coming back week after week… month after month. Contemporaries have too much time on their hands, that they spend it discovering new ways that I wrote my novels wrong instead of focusing on what matters: the money. But regardless of material reward, my stories are my own, and others’ don’t affect me, because those of my time understand my work.

Forester, E.M. “Autumnal England.” Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens. Pp. 631. Robinson, Henry Crabb. “I Would Rather Read a Good Review of It.” Great Expectations pg. 620. 26 Orwell, George. “Charles Dickens.” Great Expectations pg. 641. 27 Orford Pete. “Dickens and Science Fiction: A Study of Artificial Intelligence in Great Expectations.” Link. 25

His enterprise was crowned with such success.281861. Dickens never did anything so good.29 1862. Wonderful as fact, and admirable as art.30 1862. A story that is new, original, powerful, and very entertaining.31 1861.

The Warrior’s Fall By Asher Lakota

For brave Macbeth--well he deserved that name, Twas Thane of Cawdor he hadst won, Wast a valiant cousin! A worthy gentleman! But horrid images doth unfixed his hair, Heard not his steps, Duncan, for they were a knell, That summoned him to heaven or hell, His country soon sank beneath the yoke, It wept, it bled, and with each day a new gash, O Scotland, Scotland, Macbeth hadst failed, Now confined, bound in by teeming doubts and fears, Even Macbeth of Cawdor would sleep no more, That is until Macduff, from his mother’s womb untimely ripped, Sent Macbeth to Duncan

Dallas, E.S. “Dickens as Serial Writer.” Great Expectations pg. 620. Gissing, George. “Dickens’s Shrews.” Great Expectations pg. 627. 30 Ibid pg. 628. 31 Saturday Review. “Dickens’s Comeback.” Great Expectations pg. 617. 29

Dickens’ Thanksgiving by Ashley Pugliese “It is part of the novelist’s convention not to mention soup and salmon and dumplings” Virginia Woolf Penitential codfish and barrel of oysters. Apples and put straws. Cold Meat and buttered toast. And a brewed jorum of tea. Hundreds of times, Dickens mentions food. Although it’s straightforward Cuisine doesn’t diminish its richness. From a country bumpkin To snobbery. In London, it is not custom to put the knife in the mouth. In London, a gentleman only acts propper. Activating our taste buds With frustration and rejection. Estella’s first meeting with Pip: Dismissal… With a side of beer,bread, and meat . With distaste for the common Upon his sponsor's meeting. Decides to remain standing, Leaving Magwich to his hot rum and water Alone The fondness of food and drink Serves Dickens views On a silver platter. Readers eat it up As if it’s Thanksgiving dinner.

Error of Oliphant By J. Brown

Oliphant, are you there? I think not, for your claims are beyond those of any stable mind. Have you no credit to give in your writing, Specimens of Oddity Run Mad? That which runs the most mad is you! You first claim Havisham with sanity. A woman, abandoned, spending twenty five years alone. She loved him. Is it not so clear to you that she went mad with that very love? Dickens says himself: There is no doubt that she perfectly idolized him. Alas, her feelings were used and abused, and he practiced on her in that systematic way. Her suffering is clearly shown, but even so, beyond this heartbreak and pain, you acclaim, perfectly sane, much as appearances are against her. I ponder how far from sane you need to be In order to think that she might still be so. What’s more, you attack the escape of Magwitch. Does not Strike sharp upon the course of the story, or Stand out from its general level, You say? No, Magwitch’s escape is more than such, a style that engulfs the reader and strikes the mind. The journey fills with adventure and bonding, that of which we would not see without the scene. “If all goes well,” I said, “you will be perfectly free and safe again within a few hours.” Pip cares, and that makes the reader care. If void of emotion, the ultimate demise of the convict would not lead to such depth of sorrows, 48

but I suppose those emotions might be beyond someone as insane as yourself. Beyond that, upon his ultimate demise we cry with pip. I felt my hand tremble as it held mine, and he turned his face away as he lay in the bottom of the boat. The solemn goodbye is an end to an emotional journey, of which the likes of your heart seem not to know. In every way, you say, Mr Dickens’s performance must yield precedence to [other companions works]. What madness brings you to this conclusion? Have you no shame in the claims you make beyond the simple stem of what you seem to understand, into the stem of emotion? Oliphant, this is your error. You lack the logic to understand these feels, both of pain and longing. Your critique is a reflection of your own mind and of which you knew. This emotion is much of which makes Dickens’ work the masterpiece still relevant to date, but it is clear that slips beyond you. That whom claims such madness to its work is but the only madness present.

I Am What You Have Made Me By Eleanor Gies Born to “a country gentleman and a brewer”32 and A mother, who died young Loved, So much you were never told no “Unaware of morality principle and social restrictions”33 You lived in a dream But didn’t wake up until it was too late “The marriage day was fixed, The wedding dresses were bought, The wedding tour was planned out, The wedding guests were invited. The day came, but not the bridegroom”34 You became cold And hard Your desire was to “save other poor girls from being hurt”35 As you were You raised me To “become proud [and] to become hard, Instead of [teaching me] how to love”36 You praised me for being hard, Encouraged me “to attract and torment and do mischief ”37 Then scolded me when I become proud towards you You “stole [my] heart away and put ice in its place”38 32

Wu, Le. “The Impact of the Mechanism of Projection on Methods of Education in Great Expectations.” Theory and Practice in Language Studies, vol. 11, no. 2, Feb. 2021, p. 182+, Gale Literature Resource Center. Accessed 8 March, 2022. 33 Wu, Le. “The Impact of the Mechanism of Projection on Methods of Education in Great Expectations.” Theory and Practice in Language Studies, vol. 11, no. 2, Feb. 2021, p. 182+, Gale Literature Resource Center. Accessed 8 March, 2022. 34 Dickens, Charles, and Edgar Rosenberg. Charles Dickens Great Expectations: Authoritative Text, Backgrounds, Contexts, Criticism. New York City, W.W. Norton, 1999. P. 143. 35 Wu, Le. “The Impact of the Mechanism of Projection on Methods of Education in Great Expectations.” Theory and Practice in Language Studies, vol. 11, no. 2, Feb. 2021, p. 182+, Gale Literature Resource Center. Accessed 8 March, 2022. 36 Wu, Le. “The Impact of the Mechanism of Projection on Methods of Education in Great Expectations.” Theory and Practice in Language Studies, vol. 11, no. 2, Feb. 2021, p. 182+, Gale Literature Resource Center. Accessed 8 March, 2022. 37 Dickens, Charles, and Edgar Rosenberg. Charles Dickens Great Expectations: Authoritative Text, Backgrounds, Contexts, Criticism. New York City, W.W. Norton, 1999. P. 229. 38 Dickens, Charles, and Edgar Rosenberg. Charles Dickens Great Expectations: Authoritative Text, Backgrounds, Contexts, Criticism. New York City, W.W. Norton, 1999. P. 298.

There is no one to blame for my pride but you For “I am what you have made me”39

Dickens, Charles, and Edgar Rosenberg. Charles Dickens Great Expectations: Authoritative Text, Backgrounds, Contexts, Criticism. New York City, W.W. Norton, 1999. P. 230.

Mara Wutka

To Mr. George Gissing: I hope this letter finds you well. I am writing in response to a criticism you’ve written on a work of Charles Dickens that I reside within. Upon reading your certainly pointed argument on the women in Great Expectations and their oh-so-lovely defining qualities, I have found that I have an opinion of my own to share with you. While it's certainly fair to say that I live on the marshes of England, have known Pip most all of his life, and am conveniently now married to the same blacksmith as his late sister, I must admit that our similarities die there. Mrs. Joe Gargery and I are not the same, on any level. As you put it, she is a “shrew of the most highly developed order.”40 As you also put it, all us women are “foolish, ridiculous, or offensive,”1 and to be included in this accusation most definitely does not tickle my fancy. Mrs. Joe--such a joy to have around. I used to hear all sorts of stories about her from Pip way back when. You wrote that she was indeed “more or less [a] detestable [wife],”1 and I cannot disagree with you there. Now, I certainly don’t mean for you to take this the wrong way, but I must admit, Mrs. Joe was much more pleasant to be around after the accident, when her opinions on anything and everything were no longer voiced. I don’t wish such a thing that’s happened to her to happen to anyone, but I will admit that it made her much more agreeable. You dedicated a portion of your criticism to her in particular, which is well deserved, but then you continued to say all the women were evil like that, that they, as a whole, “produced more misery than can be calculated,”1 which I don’t like.

"Dickens' Shrews." Review of Great Expectations, by George Gissing. Charles Dickens Great Expectations: Authoritative Text, Backgrounds, Contexts,Criticism, by Charles Dickens and Edgar Rosenberg, New York City, W.W. Norton, 1999, pp. 627-29. 40

Now Estella, oh that darling Estella. I don’t like that girl much, if I’m being completely honest with you, but that's mostly due to Pip. Now, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but Pip is an idiot. Estella only broke his heart because he let her. From what I understand, she’s been upfront with him from the very beginning, and yet, he’s burned bridges with everyone else so that he could pursue her. He told me that he couldn’t ever be with me because I am not as beautiful or as rich as her. I can hardly blame that on her, but I still harbor a distaste just for her nonetheless. She leads people on wherever she goes, and is an accurate depiction of the “social pests”1 with which you associate Dickens’ women. I find it rather narrow minded that you’ve categorized all of Dickens’ women under the same characteristics, and have not thought to mention that maybe we aren’t all like that. Believe me, I’ve read the novel myself, and perhaps I’ve missed some key details about my own character that would paint me as an unpleasant, manipulative old hag, but I think not. Not all of us are “laughable foils for the infinite goodness and patience of men about them.”1 The opinionated, uptight women are just the only ones getting all the attention. Whilst I agree that a lot of the women represented in this novel are shrews written “in the liveliest spirit of satire,”1 I am honestly quite offended that I’ve not been excluded from this lovely bunch of individuals. In any case, I hope you can now see that whilst some are, not all of Dickens’ women are simply just “ornaments of their sex.”1 That is all I’ve time to write to you tonight, my candle is dying out and my eyes are falling shut. I hope this letter does not offend you as much as your work offended me, and I hope you have a lovely rest of your day. Much love, Biddy 53

I Don’t Recall Being that Disliked by Timothy Jennings Dear Julian Moynahan, I have read your criticism of Charles Dickens’ story, Great Expectations, a story which centers around me. I am Phillip Pirrip, or just call me Pip for short. I’ve climbed out of the common life, living in a household owned by a blacksmith, to the wonders and greatness of being a gentleman. I was excited as ever to read what you have to say about my journey, but I’m at a loss, I’m not sure what you mean by me having lots of guilt, my criminal affairs, and my journey having lots of people that dislike me. When you referred to me helping Mr.Magwitch as “criminal guilt,” I remember it as fear and survival. The man said he was going to eat me! You also said I have an obsession with “criminal guilt.” First of all, I do not think of myself as a guilty man, just someone caught up with people who aren’t so wonderful. And where does the criminal guilt come from? With all of these references to Magiwtch, Jaggers, and Orlick, are you trying to make me out as some sort of criminal? “I would suggest that Orlick rather than Magwitch is the figure from the criminal milieu of the novel whose relations to him come to define Pip’s implicit participation in the acts of violence with which the novel abounds” (Dickens 657), makes my head spin. When had I ever acted violently? I don’t understand why you call me the “hero” of the story when you try to make me look like a criminal. Lastly, you try to make the argument that the people I met along my journey were meant to be cruel and mean to me, while at the same time propelling me to becoming a gentleman. Estella was exploiting me when I was younger, but that was because Miss Havisham directed her to do so. I don’t think she necessarily disliked me. Even though Estella at one point “Receives her chastisement at the hands of Bentley Drummle” (Dickens 661), her and I still fall in love. 54

Maybe? It’s confusing. One version of my story makes it seem like we do fall in love at the end while the other says we don’t. But I don’t think Estella ever disliked me, although she was cruel when we were young. You said Mrs.Joe and Pumblechook served at characters meant to punish and hurt me, but Mrs.Joe was just “bringing me up by hand.” It was her job to do so. I also never truly wanted any revenge on my dear sister. I would never want to act cruel to other people. Yes, I have felt awful for how I’ve wronged Joe and Biddy, but my life had grown separate from theirs. I am a gentleman now, and Biddy and Joe now have satisfied lives of their own. All in all, I think my life is overall satisfied. I think my journey had more to do with hope rather than guilt. For instance, your story passage that you tried using to illustrate my criminal guilt, “While my mind was thus engaged, I thought of the beautiful young Estella, proud and refined, coming toward me, and I thought with absolute abhorrence of the contrast between the jail and her. I wished that Wemmick had not met me, or that I had not yielded to him and gone with him” (Dickens 655), represents my hope more than guilt because I am still desperately hopeful of a life with Estella having a significant part in it. I don’t want anything to do with a jail, and everything to do with Estella. My journey to being a gentleman may have been rough, but the places and people there weren’t there to cause me guilt or hurt me, but were there to take me to where I am today. I appreciate your review, Mrs.Moynahan, but I’m afraid I don’t recall being that disliked. Sincerely, Pip Pirrip.