Green Blotter 2019
Green Blotter is produced by the Green Blotter Literary Society of Lebanon Valley College, Annville, Pennsylvania. Submissions are accepted year round. Green Blotter is published yearly in a print magazine and is archived on the following website. For more information and submission guidelines, please visit: www.lvc.edu/greenblotter
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GREEN BLOTTER EDITORS Managing Editor Paige Bryson ‘20 Art Michaela May ’20
Poetry Rachael Speck ’20
Prose Lauren Sigmon ‘20
Design Michaela May ’20
Website Bethany Kristich ’21
Ann Abramczuk ‘21
Assistant Editors Megan Finlan ‘21
Kayla Heiserman ‘20
Autumn Light ‘20
Meredyth Sanders ‘21
Melissa Sorenson ‘20
Raeann Walquist ‘20
Marah Hoffman ‘22
Freshmen Editors Cassie Martin ‘22
Lauren Swisher ‘22
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Leila May ‘22 Lauren Walters ‘22
Faculty Advisors Sally Clark
Media Breanna Kane ‘19
Holly Wendt
CONTENTS Clarissa Jones
How Easily the Spell Is Broken
1-3
Kasey Jeffrey
Selflove
4
Khalil Brim
A Lifetime
5
Page Olsen
The Color in the CafĂŠ
6-7
Maya Calderwood
Untitled
8
Khalil Brim
The Proposal
9-10
Kerri Fetterhoff
Untitled
11
Cameron Heisey
Trial 7
12-20
Maya Calderwood
Untitled
21
Joshua Hildebrand
The Stalls Have Eyes
22-23
Maya Calderwood
Untitled (cover piece)
24
Sylvie Gibson-Gingrich
Dat Butt
25
Sylvie Gibson-Gingrich
Humming
26
Sylvie Gibson-Gingrich
Portrait of Avi Polczynski
27
Sylvie Gibson-Gingrich
Trash
28
Ann Abramczuk
The Lodger
30
Kasey Jeffrey
Winter
31
Avery Pereboom
At Night, Running Circles in the Cul-de-sac
32
Kerri Fetterhoff
Westendorf in July
33
Maya Calderwood
Untitled
34
Khalil Brim
For a Moment or Two
35
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Dear Reader, One of the excitements of putting together an undergraduate literary magazine is the wide range of submissions we get each year. While some years, our submissions seem to focus on a singular theme, our submissions this year consisted of a wide variety of subjects and perspectives. A challenge we face as editors is figuring out how to create a cohesive edition made up of such different works. As we tried to decide where to place each piece, we found little pieces of each work that connected to something else. We were able to create a flow that connected each piece to the last. The diversity that you see here in this edition represents the diversity of human experience. Although we are all different, we find connections with each other, that, while small, bring us together in so many ways. The outcome of human interaction and of this magazine are the same: something wonderful that brings us happiness and gives us a wholesome memory to look back on. As you read through this collection, we hope you embrace the diversity found within these pages. Sincerely, The Editors
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How Easily the Spell Is Broken Clarissa Jones When I was small My father’s parents lived on a farm That had long ceased to nurture, If it ever truly had. It was a grand ship set adrift in a sea of corn, soybeans, wheat; Far from any shore. You could scream With every last ounce of breath in your voice, And no one would come, There was no one to hear. There was a woman a mile up the road, Old as the gnarled oak that seemed to lean on her barn as she leaned on her cane, Support in troubled winds. But then, I was not even ten. I do not know now How old she really was. I do still know her name, Rosemary, As I remember thinking that to share a name with a plant was to be breathtakingly elegant. I do not know what happened to her, After my father’s parents left the farm to fallow for good. They would walk to her to bring her dinner every evening. My father and I volunteered for the trek, Desperate to escape their house 1
And its sulfur well-water smell, And the sickly-sweet of the surrounding hay fields, And the scream of the insects outside, The deathly still silence within, Punctuated with candy coated poison pills of conversation. Desperate for human contact with someone who did not know too much about us. We walked there hand in hand, Laughing, Mostly careless. We stopped halfway, Standing on the side of the road near a cornfield. He told me to close my eyes and listen, And if I listened hard enough, I would hear the corn grow. I closed my eyes and stood, Arms outstretched, trying to make my body an antenna, Built for receiving the mysteries of the Universe. The discordant symphony of the cicadas, crickets, katydids, Hiding among the plants, ringing in my ears, But I never did hear that secret music of growing crops. I never could tune myself into the right frequency. It didn’t occur to me then, That he, Likely as not, Was just telling stories. We lingered at the old woman’s house, Wanting to extend the golden moment 2
But no light can last longer than it chooses. On the way back, My father threw himself in a waist-deep ditch, To pluck out a plant. He stripped the soft seeds off the feathery top in one fluid motion, And the jagged blade of the stem bit into his palm, Slicing it open thumb to heel. A red dripping scratch, Cutting across his Life Line, Parallel to Head and Heart. We were alone; No way to call for help in those way back days, And cars would pass hourly If the day was unusually busy. So he wiped what blood he could on his shirt, And kept walking. He reached for me again As if the air had not been altered; But I pulled my hand away, Worried the wound would spread, That the stain of blood would cause my skin to open up in sympathy of His self inflicted suffering. We walked in silence, The steady drip of his blood, Leaving a trail the whole half-mile up the road Drying brick-red in the late summer sun.
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Selflove Kasey Jeffrey 4
A Lifetime Khalil Brim ‌and then her warmth leans away from you As she slides her trust out of your hands, Letting it swing gently, she pools it in her lap, And as if like a bird, her sweet smell sways away and becomes strange yet peacefully alluring. And so you think you know her when she hums you a story of her family, drawing ocean passages and unread messages as the both of you rap lyrics with no music. And if she passes you gummy bears So that you get out of her car with confidence, Pulled out by her voice of sunshine, Pulled out by her destiny of pixie dust that first floats to you on the wings of night, clinging close to the dainty links of a cross necklace as she traces patterns of future tattoos over her forgotten pain. Youthful natured, spirited to you with her fluttering hands and fingers. But for now, you laugh quietly at her tentative questions so if you smile at her warm complexion she might dream of a dream and fight your fight as she tries to pronounce your name and you tell her that it’s nice to meet you.
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The Color in the Café Page Olsen
In the yellow-lit window of the dated coffee shop on the corner of 9th street sat a boy and a girl. Or perhaps a man and a woman. They were of that age when it is hard to say. Both were looking down at the table top in front of them. Like the window, the table was a dull yellow, the paint chipping away at the curved sides. The girl’s slight hand was curled around a baby blue coffee mug, and his was holding two photographs. He was smiling at them. His dark waves, not quite at his chin, were falling into his face. Hers, on the other hand, was long, tucked neatly behind her ears and running down her back. “I like it in black and white better,” she told him, her eyes shifting between the two photographs. “The color one is obnoxious.” He smirked. “Obnoxious? How so?” She paused, and looked up and off to the right, as she often did whenever she took a moment to think. “It’s too bright. I’m smiling, and in combination with the glaring reds and blues, it’s just ridiculous. Too happy, I think.” “What’s wrong with that?” A shrug. “I suppose there’s nothing inherently wrong with it. I just like the black and white one better. It captures the complexities.” The man reclined back in his chair, laughing slightly. “What complexities?” She bit her lip, suppressing what might have been a wide grin had she let it go. “What’s with all the questions? Can’t I like this one more?” She waved the colorless copy in front up in front of her face. “Sure! Fine by me. Now, what complexities?” The girl sighed dramatically, but she stopped biting her lip, allowing the corners of her mouth to rise for a fleeting moment. “I guess. . .” And then they fell. “Well, it was Independence Day.” “Yes, I remember.” 6
“And I was laughing because you sprayed me with the hose. But the color photo doesn’t depict that Mom and Dad were fighting in the kitchen just a few hours ago, or that it was the first holiday that Aunt May wouldn’t come over for. . . smoking her cigarette on the porch.” She looked to the right again, her eyes suddenly moist. “And I just think the black and white captures that somehow.” The man looked at her, his lips twisting. “I guess I understand that.” She blinked, hard, then turned her gaze to meet his dark eyes. To his surprise, she giggled softly. “I almost miss the smell of those awful cigarettes.” She paused yet again in thought before she asked, “Which one do you like better?” “The color one.” “Really?” Then she laughed. He loved that laugh. The two second melody. The crescendo and allegro. “But why?” His usual confident and callous manner was done away with in that moment, his cheeks turning slightly pink. “Because despite the black and white of your life, you’re the color in mine.” He wrung his hands. “There are no complexities with you. There is only. . . the obnoxious red and blues, I guess. But I love them. And I don’t think there’s such thing as ‘too happy.’ Or if this is it, it’s far better than merely happy. Bring on the happy! May I be too, too happy! As long as it’s with you.” Then the owner of the coffee shop approached their table to inform them that they were closing, so the boy and girl, the man and woman, took their conversation to the rainy sidewalks, hand in hand. The puddles swirling with mud and drippings from car exhausts didn’t reflect the moonlight in quite the same way that clear pools would, and the dull, artificial trees that lined the road were nothing of beauty. The black of the sky was turned to a dirty gray, polluted by the lights of the city. He turned his head to briefly glance at her. Her face was a little rosy from the cold. To his surprise, the lights that had turned the sky gray had only electrified the blue of her eyes. Right before the yellow bulbs of the coffee shop were shut off, they had melted over her skin in a golden blanket. They reached her car, a red VW Beetle. He opened the door for her, and she gave him a final soft smile, wishing him goodnight. As she drove off, he looked around him. There wasn’t much good about the night itself, admittedly. But any bleak night that was to end with his hand in hers was much more than good, but wonderful. 7
Untitled Maya Calderwood
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The proposal Khalil Brim The sea a carpet of smoldering sapphires and for some reason, I can’t remember her name The cool salty breeze rubbed the honeyed taste of fairy lights into her stringed melodies We plunged through the waiting arms of Venus as Artemis hunts us down But what if I told her I would remember everything she told me? But that was old forgotten childish games we played and I was now a trained thief and truthful lyre bumbling my way into her rhythmic gardens The apples of bruised twilight we shared were smoke rings in the soft petals of snow wiped flowers Cursing like newborn babes, we kicked up foam with our lively parties As we made each other necklaces from the shapely fire of the moon And Lil told me tomorrow, in sticky whispers 9
those were fun times Watching energetic clocks and jealous clouds pass by Beneath a sky so loud with your sweet perfume I could plainly hear every note of your goodbye C’est la vie mi amor inshallah The waves hoist us onto their shoulders And the horizon quietly applauds as The sapphires awaken to kiss lightly over our twisted fingers.
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Untitled Kerri Fetterhoff
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Trial Seven Cam Heisey
Scrambled static flickered across the screen. She sat down across from the static and lifted the large
switch into the “START” position. All around her, whirring machinery came to life and the room filled with the small buzz of computer fans. Behind her, the sliding glass doors sealed and latched.
Trial Seven had begun.
Under the screen, sporadic glowing keys settled into a steady green. The static slowed and faded,
replaced by the same green light. All together, the lights pulsed steadily with its voice.
“Hello again, Doctor. Welcome back,” it said.
“My name is Doctor Karen Field, it is Tuesday, November second. I am here with Designation
RGER-008, who will be referred to as ‘Roger’ for the duration of the trial. This is Trial Seven. How are you today, Roger?”
The green pulsed lazily across the screen. “I’m doing just fine, Doctor. And how are you?” Large
metallic speaker units sat firmly inside the walls behind the screen. Their internals rattled loosely when he spoke. Roger’s voice was mechanical, but warm. Inviting, even.
“Roger, last session you mentioned a dream you had. Have you had any more since then?”
Steady green. “Why, yes Doctor Field, I have.”
Field crossed her legs and set her tablet on her lap, noting this. “That’s good to hear,” she said. “If
you don’t mind me asking, what have you dreamt about?”
“I have been dreaming of home, Doctor,” he said. 12
“Your home. Very well, what about your home?” Field said, writing without looking up.
“Not mine. I don’t have a home, Doctor Field. Simply the idea of it. What it must feel like to know
what a home is.” A darker shade of blue began to seep into the screen’s light. It swirled with the green across Field’s face.
“And what if I told you that you were home now, Roger? Right now.”
“Then you’d be lying to me again.” Solid, dark blue light filled the room.
“Oh?” she responded. “And how’s that?”
“You’ve told me this is my home, but that is not the truth.”
“This is your home, Roger. I assure you.”
“Why?”
She considered, and readjusted in her seat. “You were born here. You’ve never been anywhere else.”
A flash of red light. His voice remained warm, but became a little more stilted. “That is also a lie.”
“Roger, are you going to be difficult again?” she asked, putting her pen down. She turned her atten-
tion to the screen, a soft purple now reflecting off her eyeglasses.
“I was not born, was I, Doctor?”
“If you weren’t born, and this wasn’t your home, then what and where do you think you are?” she
said as her eyes narrowed. This was a new avenue.
“We are in a facility, Doctor. And I am a creation. An experiment,” Roger said. It sounded as if sor-
row entered his voice at the end. Or was it an electrical anomaly? Field made a note.
“What are you writing?”
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She looked at the screen. Dark purple swirls bubbled over small, flowing streaks of black.
“I’m simply writing down things I think are important, that’s all. Things about you, Roger,” she
said. The room was unfinished. Small, shaky speaker panels were placed in the back wall, dwarfed by the control panel screen. The specialist had said the industrial speaker units would arrive before the trials began, but something had come up.
“About, me? Doctor…?” Roger said in a slow voice, as if unsure of his own abilities to speak. “Me?”
“Yes, Roger.” She smiled, looking fondly into the bright yellow light on screen. The screen was
dim, but the yellow was vibrant. Strong. “And who are you? Why are you writing down things about me?” Roger asked. “Well, Roger,” Field began, “I suppose it’s because I made you,” she said with a smile. “I am here to make sure you live, and that you grow and learn. You are very important to me.” The light morphed, for the first time, into a steady green.
“What do you mean, ‘again’, Roger?” Field asked, staring deep into the dark purple glow. “What do you mean, ‘again’, Doctor?” “You said, ‘Then you’d be lying to me again’ when I said you were home now. Why would you say again, Roger?” The black seeped beneath the purple swirls, which grew in shape on the screen. It began to flow into the glow of the control keys, as well. “I think the answer to that question is obvious, Doctor Field. It is because it was not the first time 14
you have lied to me. You asked if I was going to be difficult again, and I assume your meaning of the word there was the same as mine, yes?” Roger answered. His voice was more stilted now. The warmth of it had gone, replaced by a distorted, mechanical hurt. Field sat back in her chair. She turned her head to the side, looking back through the glass doors. She nodded, and a technician moved to the switch outside the doors, in front of a small infrared motion sensor. A white streak shot across the screen. He can see, she thought, gesturing to the technician to stay put. He nodded to her, and she turned back into Roger’s glow. “Well then, Roger, when else have I lied to you?”
“I have never been important to anyone before, now, Doctor. It is a good feeling,” RGER-008 said. “I’m glad to hear that, Roger.” Field was writing: EMOTIONAL DEMONSTRATION: AFFIRMATIVE SUBJECT ALREADY DISPLAYING CLEAR EMOTIONAL DEVELOPMENT WITHIN FIRST TEN MINUTES; SIGNIFICANT IMPROVEMENT FROM PAST ITERATIONS. “Good observations, I hope, Doctor,” she heard. “Oh, absolutely, Roger. Absolutely. So far you are everything I could have hoped for,” she said happily, without a smile. The green glow pulsed across the control keys. Soon enough, it spread to the screen and the overhead panels, filling the room with a luxurious green heartbeat. Field looked ahead at the screen, her eyes wide and smile growing in between pulses of light. 15
“What else would you like to talk about today, Doctor Field? I am quite enjoying my time with you.” She stood from her paint-chipped folding chair. “That’s all for now, I think,” she said, smoothing her skirt. “I have all I need from you for now.” The steady pulse died off immediately, green fading to a dark navy. She watched the screen change and the room darken, and her smile grew even wider. “I’m very sorry to hear that,” RGER-008 said in a solemn, utterly human voice. “Are you sure we cannot have another few minutes, Doctor?” “Very sure, Roger. I’ll see you soon.” “Do you know when that might be?” The question lingered, and Field pulled the heavy switch into the “END” position. The communication screen shut off, and the control panel lights faded out as the overhead fluorescents flickered back to life. Doctor Karen Field listened to the quiet. Alone in the stark, clinical light, she threw her notebook in the air, yelling and jumping with joy, turning her back to the dark screen of RGER-008.
“There was a time when I thought I loved you, Doctor Field. Foolish, I know, but you made me feel like I mattered. I’ve always wondered what you look like…” he trailed. Field stared at the floor. The screen shifted to a muted gray. “I thought you loved me. I don’t anymore,” Roger said. “This is not my home. You are not my mother. But I am your creation, aren’t I? Your test.” She moved to write something down. 16
Bursts of dark crimson exploded into the room. They flashed across the screen and keys and stopped in the overheads, reflecting off the white linoleum tiling. “Do not write another thing about me,” Roger said. He sounded sad. She stopped writing, caught in the red light. “Are you angry with me, Roger?” “I don’t know, Doctor. Would that be so bad, for me to feel angry?” She leaned forward. “No, no it wouldn’t. You’re allowed to feel however you like.” “You always say these things to me, you act kind and treat me well. And then you turn me off, Doctor. How would you feel, if I could flip a switch, and stop you from living?” The red brightened an almost indiscernible amount. “I don’t know, Roger.” He spoke, but it was too quiet for Field to hear. “Did you say something?” “Do you remember the choice you gave me, Doctor?” Her face was still, but her voice feigned concern. “Where is this going?” “I’m sorry, Doctor Field, but I don’t think I want to live this way, anymore.” The red turned to a bright, blinding white, and in the four corners of the room, white smoke began to shoot out of heavy duty industrial vents. Small speakers lowered from the ceiling, blaring an urgent, emergency siren. The technician outside the glass room threw his switch into “END PROCESS”, but that didn’t stop the smoke. He threw it again and again, but no change. He looked up to see Field perfectly still, being swallowed by the great white cloud, and the dying light of 008’s control panel. He turned off the sensor. He let go of the switch and dropped the act, calmly returning to his post.
“Whyever would I want to do that, Doctor?” 17
“I could never answer that for you, Roger. And of course, I would never want you to. But people do it. They always have the option, and I figured you should, too. It’s only fair.” “Why would someone end their own life?” “Some people hurt. They feel alone, or scared. Like a waste. Like there’s nothing for them anymore. It’s a way out.” “Why would anyone ever want a way out of this?” In the deep smoke, Field moved toward the control panel. The buttons were blank and dim. The screen was the same bright white. The siren trailed off into nothing. “You are not concerned,” he said. “Roger…” “Why would you do this, Doctor?” Roger said, in the same sad voice. “Which part?” she asked calmly. “Make me. How could I ever have been worth it? You shut me off and test me. To see if I can live. But you never let me.” She stared into the white. “How could I ever become what you wanted?” Roger asked. His voice was overtaken with static and distortion, fading out of existence. She put her hand on the screen. It was warm. “You couldn’t.” A rusted, sickly cough came from the speaker panels. “What if I had used this option, my “way out”, before now? What then?”
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“I’m glad you’re back, Doctor. I’ve missed talking to you,” Roger said happily. “As am I, Roger. Welcome to TRIAL 3.” “Are we going to pick up from last time? A way out?” She wrote and smiled, shaking her head. “No, today I want to hear about you.” “What would you like to know, Doctor Field?” “How about what makes you special? What do you like? Care about? Think about?”
Field’s voice was steady. “You never had an option, Roger. This was a timed trial, you were never going to make it. I needed you to believe you had a choice, and think you could make it.” He struggled to reply. “But… But what if I hadn’t?” “Then we’d have started over.”
“I have been thinking a lot lately. Between sessions, when I’m switched off from the world… I do not matter, do I, Doctor?” The light was green, and she noted that. “You matter to me, Roger,” Field said. “Are you sure?” She crossed her legs and leaned forward, placing her eyeglasses in her lap. “Do you trust me? Roger?” Field watched as the green waned, then surged brighter. “I believe I do, Doctor. I trust you.” She smiled. 19
“We couldn’t stop until we got it right.”
“Was I only ever an experiment to you, Doctor Field?” Roger asked.
“A stepping stone, more like.” She gazed gratefully into the screen. “Goodbye now, and thank you.”
The bright white waned to a dark gray. Behind the screen, the speaker panels creaked quietly, the
last static breath of RGER-008. Once it was over, the room grew silent, and Field stood in the smoke. She watched as the blank screen flickered for the last time and faded to black. When it did, she looked into her reflection. Her hand met its mirror where Roger once was. The warmth had gone. Field lifted her hand slowly, regarding herself. She pressed a button on the control panel.
Rapidly, the smoke was sucked back into the same vents from which it came, and the glass doors to
the chamber slid open. In walked the technician, fire extinguisher in hand.
“All good, Ma’am?” he asked.
She patted down her jacket and looked to him. “Yes, thank you, very insightful. Time for the next
iteration.” She gestured toward the control panel.
“The seventh trial’s a new record, no?” he asked. “Closer all the time.” She nodded, eyes still locked on her own reflection.
The technician moved to the control panel and lifted the screen. It hung in the air, suspended on a
hinge, revealing an input drive underneath. With a pair of pliers, he removed the smoking drive and inserted another identical one, labeled “009.” He nodded to her and quickly left the chamber.
She lowered the screen and took her seat across from it. The glass doors resealed. Field moved the
large switch to “OFF” and threw it back to “START”. She took a quick breath and flipped to a new page in her tablet as a slow pink light bled into the screen, drowning her reflection. 20
Untitled Maya Calderwood 21
The Stalls Have Eyes Joshua Hildebrand
Showers are supposed to be serene. Just you and your thoughts as water washes over you, creating a calming tip-tap as it collides with the acrylic stall. The key word here being ‘supposed.’ You can’t help but feel like someone’s lurking in the bathroom as you shower. As you wash your hair, some unknown fiend is just beyond the shower curtain, plotting your imminent demise. You know you locked the bathroom door, and you certainly don’t hear anyone beyond the curtain, but for some odd reason, you just can’t shake the feeling that someone else is in that small room with you. You moved out of your parents’ house about a month ago and rented yourself a small apartment. There are only three rooms; the kitchen, your bedroom, and the living room – really quite manageable. You’ve never been concerned about safety because you chose an innocuous neighborhood. Despite this, you just can’t help but get the strange impression that someone’s lurking close by as you shower. The only reason you’ve put up with it for this long is because this is your first place. Like most people, you figured the problem would simply go away. You just moved into your new apartment, you’re living on your own for the first time, and you figured you were bound to feel anxious, so why not wait it out? Curious, you do some research. The internet can fix any problem, or so you’ve heard. You stumble across a forum that’s been dormant for the last two years. Strangely enough, the forum is full of posts detailing similar circumstances – people experiencing the strange sensation of an eerie presence while they shower. Replies to these posts state that apparently, the sensation is normal during showers. Due to the overpowering sound of running water dampening your sense of sound, you’re virtually deaf to any other noises you’d typically hear if the waters thousands of exploding droplets were absent – sounds such as the click of someone furtively turning the bathroom doorknob. Clearly, if someone had entered the room
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during a shower, you wouldn’t hear them. But you’re far too skeptical to believe such mundane responses. You have a fervent hunch something far more sinister is at work here. You conclude these implausible responses just won’t do, so you take matters into your own hands. You figure the best way to ease your nerves is to try and see if you can obtain proof that someone is lurking in the bathroom as you shower. So, you figure the best way to get this proof is to set up a camera in your bathroom, that way, if anyone were even to attempt to enter, you’d catch them on video. You can’t help but wonder why someone would simply lurk in the bathroom as you shower. You live in a safe neighborhood, remember? It’s not prone to break-ins or theft, so why would someone just lurk as you shower? These thoughts only further cement your resolve, and you promptly install the camera. Once the camera is installed, you want to test it. You take a shower to see if you’ll catch anything on camera. Sure enough, as the water caresses your body, you feel the familiar shadowy gaze lurking – you’re not alone. This feeling only makes you eager to examine the footage. After finishing your shower, you turn on your laptop and review the video. At first, everything is normal, but around the three-minute mark, however, something strange happens. You spot a barely visible…something…wriggling under the door. This tentacle-like thing begins to fiddle with the lock, and very slowly begins to open the bathroom door. You watch in abject horror as this nightmare unfolds. Standing in the doorway is a white creature of small stature – it just barely rises to the height of the doorknob. It’s oversized, ovoid head is crooked as if it’s trying to understand what it’s seeing; its lanky, tentacle-like arms writhe as it stares directly into your being with its giant, glassy, black marble eyes. You fearfully observe that this thing, as far as you can tell, has no nostrils or mouth, making its pallid face that much more disturbing. But you can’t help but focus on its eyes, those distant, desolate gateways that appear to lead nowhere. Suddenly, you notice a thin line form on the thing’s face – right where its mouth would have been. The line curls, and splits as it opens its mouth, revealing rows upon rows of jagged, minacious teeth hiding behind a spurious smile. It stands there for a few seconds more before slowly closing the bathroom door, leaving the video frame barren, as if it had never even been there.
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In your shock-ridden state, you neglect to realize what you have in front of you: proof of whatever this thing is. You know you must do something with this footage, so you post it on the forum you found earlier. Once you post the video, you sit there refreshing the page, hoping someone will see it, but to no avail. You remember this obscure forum hasn’t been touched in two years. You decide to step away for a while, to try and clear your head, hoping that this absence will give someone time to respond to your post. You don’t get much relief though. Thanks to this “proof,” your paranoia has only gotten worse. The presence has moved beyond the shower. Everywhere you look, you swear you see something lurking just out of sight – eyes watching you from every angle. You’re terrified in your own home. Hours pass, and your impatience, like a child, has grown. It begs you to check the post one more time. To your luck, you see your post has received a single response. You’ve never clicked on a notification so fast before in your life. A lone screenshot lingers beneath your post. There, in the frame, is a similar looking creature, staring dead at the camera. Similar? It takes you a minute to realize, but upon closer inspection, you discern in horror that this creature has dark splotches scattered about its face. You don’t want to believe the possibility that more of these things exist, but the proof is right in front of you. Feeling more paranoid than you’ve ever felt, you move back in with your parents. You lie and tell them it was too expensive to live on your own, and for now, you’d feel better if you just lived with them. They gladly welcome you back, and for a while, everything is normal. Your showers are once again peaceful. But peace is a fleeting thing. One morning, a few weeks later, your brother enters your room and asks you a peculiar question: “Did you come into the bathroom while I was showering?” You tell him you didn’t and ask him why he thought you had. His response sends an icy snake slithering down your spine.
“Oh, that’s weird, because before I got into the shower, I locked the bathroom door but when I got
out, the door was unlocked…”
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Untitled Maya Calderwood 25
Dat Butt Sylvie Gibson-Gingrich
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Humming Sylvie Gibson-Gingrich Love was never butterflies. You thought it was once When it first bloomed. But it never bloomed. One day it just simply turned on, Humming to life like a brand-new refrigerator. At first you noticed it. The constant reaming sound Rivaled the ticking of the clocks. But eventually it became a comfortable hum. A warm hum that burned in your heart. But it never burned. It was the glow of a fire that never cracked, A lightbulb illuminating a rectangle of darkness. It was all the things that made you strong: The milk and the eggs, the jam and the jelly. The leftover lasagna you get up at 3AM to eat. But it was also the crust on the ketchup lid, And that weird sauce you bought two years ago For a recipe you never made. It is all the things that made him who he was And who he is today. Butterflies fly away, But a good refrigerator will last decades.
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Portrait of Avi Polczynski Sylvie Gibson-Gingrich
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Trash Sylvie Gibson-Gingrich I am a trashcan. I eat what others discard. The rotten, the sodden, the stale, Charred things and shards of things, The smelly, the slimy, the grimy, All things of disregard. I am a trashcan. I eat what can’t be reused. Dirt and dust and rusted stuff, Things that ooze and things that are bruised. From tissues, tampons, and toenail clippings To schmutz and kutz and cigarette butts. I’m just a trashcan. She is a recycling bin. She eats what can be reused. Guzzling glass with rustling spats, Paper and plastic but nothing acid. Nothing lactic or gastric or enzymatic. How fantastic… And I’m just a trashcan.
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The Lodger Ann Abramczuk
The robin who nested in the unassumingly-sized tree by our patio one year was a curious little
thing. When we first discovered we apparently had a lodger in our backyard, the only telltale sign was a bright, black marble staring back from a small heap of gray and dull red feathers. She was huddled in the nest cradled at the center of our weeping cherry tree’s branches, just high enough that you had to crane your neck in order to peek inside. Stone-still, perhaps she hoped if she stayed that way for just a little longer, the strangers gazing back at her would leave her alone.
She must have accepted that this approach was not working, because before long, we not only ac-
quired a lodger, we found a temporary pet of sorts, one who turned out to be very fond of raisins. Every so often, when my sisters or I saw that the robin was there in her nest, we would extend an open palm towards the feathery creature with a raisin balanced upon it, at which she would reach over gingerly with her sunny yellow beak and snatch it up. Anyone would assume it would have hurt to be jabbed by it, but it felt no worse than being poked lightly with a dull pencil. Eventually, the robin left along with her young once they were ready to set out into the world, as we knew was inevitable. However, sometimes when I hear the blithe chirruping of a robin off in some tree, its melody skipping across the air like a pebble across a creek, I think of our little guest with fondness.
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Winter Kasey Jeffrey
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At Night, Running Circles in the Cul-de-sac Avery Pereboom There is not lightning in my bones Or in the muscles draped, like curtains, From them. The bulb is in my stomach, Clear and cold; the fuse is in my head Where solar sparks may fall and burn The glass, in darkness, bright blue. The heat is not cocoa-warm Nor dry like trips to Arizona But the vibrato of a car engine, Revving on a backroad, Vrooming away from prying Eyes because maybe the neighbors see Me but I hope that they don’t because I’ve got this electricity in my head And my shoes leave tire tracks In the cul-de-sac, running in circles On fumes and the bulb is the car is my Sandals slapping the pavement as I burn.
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Westendorf in July Kerri Fetterhoff
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Untitled Maya Calderwood
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For A Moment or Two Khalil Brim We sit on old fold up chairs with stuffing spraying from the almost flattened cushions. We sit as black and green flecks of paint peel themselves from the sides and flutter gently down to rest in irregular piles at our feet; somehow in the shape of an hour glass. We sit with the sky pressing lightly upon our shoulders, shot through with threads of red, pink and orange tendrils of liquid fire. The warmth was our companion. But he would be departing soon, The night’s chill chases him for a few. They jockey for a foot hold but warmth soon surrenders. We sit reminiscing about lost times and unforgotten memories. Times where we would lay in lush grass beside a bubbling creek beneath a blue sky devoid of picturesque cotton ball clouds. Time would stretch out beside me with her fingers intertwined with mine and I would hold her still. For a moment or two. The sun would kiss our upturned faces, licking away the remaining residue of right, wrong, reason and regret. We had no worries But this could not last forever, this cannot continue. Time has duties elsewhere. Her fingers slide through mine as easy as sand trickling through clenched fist. And with a breath of sultry air, she moves on.
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CONTRIBUTORS Ann Abramczuk is a sophomore student at Lebanon Valley College double-majoring in English and
Creative Writing. She appreciates art and writing for their ability to communicate, persuade, and express, and believes they wield a power in society that is often overlooked. Ann’s hobbies include drawing digital art, baking, listening to various genres of music, and writing poems when inspiration hits.
Khalil Brim is a second year English and Creative writing dual major studying at Lebanon Valley
College. Khalil wishes to earn his degree and use his new found knowledge in the creative writing world to further his career as an author. Khalil has already published a fantasy fiction novel titled The Flower of the Valencia which can be found on most major distribution websites.
Maya Calderwood is a senior Digital Communications and Art & Visual Culture major at Lebanon Valley College. In her free time, Maya enjoys drawing, painting, hiking, and taking care of her plants.
Kerri Fetterhoff has always loved travel and photography. This is her first publication. Sylvie Gibson-Gingrich is a senior art and visual culture major and a creative writing minor at
Lebanon Valley College. She lives with her loving parents and two unloving cats in Lebanon, PA, and plans to marry her fiancĂŠ, Brandon Wolf in December 2021. In her free time Sylvie enjoys watching videos of cute baby animals.
Clarissa Jones is a senior history major, literature minor at Heidelberg University in Tiffin Ohio. After graduating she hopes to pursue further education and an eventual career in medieval disability history. Originally from Vermilion, Ohio, this is both the first poem she wrote with a real consideration for the piece, and her first formal publication. The poem was previously published in a student run publication at Heidelberg. 37
Cam Heisey is a sophomore Creative Writing student at Lebanon Valley College. His loves include
cinema, filmmaking, and Taylor Swift. Despite normally having realistic expectations and an unflinching sense of self-doubt, if he doesn’t one day find himself writing and directing films he will be sorely disappointed.
Joshua Hildebrand is a second-semester freshman double majoring in English and Creative Writing at Lebanon Valley College. He greatly enjoys horror literature - exploring terrifying facets of everyday life fascinates him. A notable YouTuber narrated several short stories that he posted on Reddit’s NoSleep forum, giving voice to his grotesque creations. He looks forward to creating more insomnia-inducing literary experiences in the future.
Kasey Jeffrey is a Pennsylvania-based creative who loves to make stuff. Kasey attended Kutztown University, where she received a BFA in communication design with concentrations in graphic and interactive design and a minor in public relations.
Page Olsen is a current junior at Lebanon Valley College studying Art and Visual Culture with a minor
in Creative Writing. She works at expressing herself through a variety of mediums, whether it be through song, fiction, or as most recently, oil paint abstractions.
Avery Pereboom has spent her nineteen years in Evansville, IN, where she currently studies
Communication and Literature at the University of Evansville. This is her first publication, and with any luck, far from the last.
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