Spring 2015
Submissions As the Art and Literary Magazine of Moraine Valley Community College, it is our objective to provide opportunities for faculty, students, staff, and community members to express themselves through art and literature, as well as to provide people the opportunity to appreciate the works of others. We encourage participation indiscriminately, but request the submissions follow these guidelines: Prose Submissions must be typed. Maximum length is 3,000 words (approximately 11-12 typed, double spaced pages), please include no more than one poem per page. Pieces containing gratuitous sexual content, excessive profanity, or bigotry will not be considered. Poetry Submissions must be typed. Maximum length of 100 lines (approximately 2 typed, single-spaced pages), please include no more than one poem per page. Pieces containing gratuitous sexual content, excessive profanity, or bigotry will not be considered. Art Submissions must be two-dimensional. In case of three-dimensional art, or extremely large art, submissions should be in the form of a photograph of the art. Minimum size is 3.5 by 5 inches; maximum size is 8.5 by 14 inches. Pieces containing gratuitous sexual content, excessive profanity, or bigotry will not be considered. Please do not exceed ten submissions in one category. Please include your name and telephone number. If you wish to remain anonymous, indicate so. Submissions may be delivered to room U207 or mailed to: Glacier Moraine Valley Community College 9000 W. College Pkwy. Palos Hills, Illinois 60465-0937 Staff The Mastodon holds its meetings during spring and fall semesters, on Mondays at 3:30, in room U209. For more information on joining the staff, please email mvccmastodon@gmail.com or attend a meeting.
Mastodon Art and Literary Magazine Spring 2015 Co-Editor-in-Chiefs: Sarah Sumoski Salam Mohammed Staff: Dana Mack Advisor: Ted Powers Front Cover Art By: Sarah Sumoski Back Cover Art By:
Staff of the Mastodon
Left to right: Dana Mack, Sarah Sumoski, Salam Mohammed
Table of Contents
• Sunset over Yan- -Tyler C. Grudowski kee Woods, Tinley Park, Illinois -Andrew Duarte • Toxic Chicago -Nicholas Sumoski • Play Ball! -Matt DeVries • The Doors -Megan Sumner • Fever -Matt Kaluza • Self-Portrait -Douglas Senf • Chicago 6 -Andrew Duarte • 2 Worlds -Andrew Duarte • Dreamland -Casey Hopkins • Tree -Casey Hopkins • Lily Pad • They’re Still Lifes -Lance O. Mrock • A Walk Through -Megan Sumner the Woods -Fallon Sweeney • No Name 1 • The Grand Tetons, -Tyler C. Grudowski Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming • Mountain Multiple -Fallon Sweeney Exposure -Salam Mohammed • Being Different -Elias Jablonski • Memory Vault • Space Rainbow -Elias Jablonski -Ethan Oliver Holmes • Gifts -Gina Mae Temelcoff • Buried Alive -Sarah Sumoski • Don’t Fear the End -Dana Mack • Long May You Run -Douglas Senf • Chicago 3
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Sunset over Yankee Woods, Tinley Park, Illinois -Tyler C. Grudowski
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Toxic Chicago -Andrew Duarte
Play Ball! -Nicholas Sumoski
The Doors -Matt DeVries
Nothing comes, and here it is Not of love, and not of tryst Not quite small, and not quite big Without a cause, this nothing is Flighting sparks, now nothing burns Surging dark, this nothing churns In turn, a hark, a star revels This nothing has become a pulse Lightning, fires, the planet mound Lights transpire, the cells abound To dance upon the lifeless ground Promise not in mindless speak If one is hot, the rest are weak As pledges rot, with tongue in cheek Fury finds no place to sleep In light, dire, the cells abound To kiss, to curse the dirty ground Enlightened, tired, not one is found For what you seek is all around Should we die, our hearts arrest An act of war, I would attest Feast on walls, let bygones rest What we abhor is but our nest Claim parlay, be free and wild Burned textile, to flesh, a gun Break away, my youngest child The river Nile has all but won Steeples gone, up rise the spires Conscious longs, the mind entire In answer to the nightly fires Passing time, from dusk to dawn Skies align, the heavens call Sailing on, the days are gone Knowledge grows from none to all Conscious throngs, the mind is tired Therein bursts the nightly fires Nothing gongs, a thought inspired The time has come—the thought expires
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8 Fever -Megan Sumner
Helpless. The fan spun high above my head Slowly it slipped away climbing Higher, higher. Weakened. The hot perspiration congealed around me. My head expanded. The air is heavy. Hot mist filled the holes in the air. My eyes could barely see… Blinded. The lights flickered in the reflection of the speeding car; They shimmered against the glass. Suddenly, I am covered in raindrops, as I am lifted by a man in blue.
Self-Portrait -Matt Kaluza
The lights screamed from the ceiling. The piercing white glared at me. I hear beeping, scuffling, and shouting… Sharp metal pierces my skin. It fills me with an unknown liquid. My body shakes violently as it consumes me. I am afraid. Pulse is low now… Thump…thump… Calm air rushes in… Voices become whispers… A light dims. Darkness.
Chicago 6 -Douglas Senf
2 Worlds -Andrew Duarte
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Dreamland -Andrew Duarte Tree -Casey Hopkins
The cat and the dog Play hide and go seek No one can see But forever they weep One is the tree While the other, a leaf Karma tells them to stop But how can they They’re weak.
Lily Pad -Casey Hopkins.
Emerging from the swampy bayou, It shelters the frog from its obese enemies. The flies that are too scared, Too hurt to come near him, Have now gotten stuck in the sticky sap of the sad willow tree. All alone now, The tree weeps.
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They’re Still Lifes -Lance O. Mrock
Every family picture in the album is a still life frozen in time Their clothes look old, but their faces look younger than I am Every one of them was a part of the family’s history But now the only one that knows who they are is me I take out their pictures and talk to them about once a year I tell them not to be afraid; it’s OK, because I am still here I tell them they are still on life support and not completely dead They’re as alive as the memories that I have of them in my head I guess I should tell their stories to my kids some day But time goes by and the opportunities just slip away I wish I could take them and give them all one last hug Before the kids throw away my junk and pull their plug
A Walk Through the Woods -Megan Sumner
The wind blows fiercely As I walk through the freshly fallen snow Birds chirp softly; Twilight is reaching Us. I have the feeling that I am Alone
My childhood is over The footsteps of my past crunch softly behind me Leaving behind an imprint I can’t seem to face A New Age is coming; faster than I ever could have Imagined Hope died the day He went away His eyes were as bright as the stars In the purple-pink sky ahead of me Our hearts beat as one as He held me Close I see the end of the road Leading to a world unknown I do not know where it will take me All I hope is that We will be together there Forever
11 No Name 1 -Fallon Sweeney
The Grand Tetons, Grand Teton National Park, Wyoming -Tyler C. Grudowski
Mountain Multiple Exposure -Fallon Sweeney
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Being Different -Salam Mohammed
I watch as everyone stares at me with their deviant eyes as I walk to sit in the corner of the room. As I pass them, they give me the death stare one by one. I’m that lonesome girl that wears glasses and doesn’t like to talk to anyone. That everyone treats like a no body. For that reason, I don’t like to talk to somebody. It doesn’t matter if I’m different, just because I wear different color clothes than you, I’d always say, As I sit in the corner of the room. Everyone avoids me and think they are better, But why? What have I done? I thought everyone had a voice… Well…I guess it’s time to show you mine. My anger is full of hatred as I think, “You hurt me.” There I said it, Yes you, the one who always stares at me, the one with the cool headphones and baggy pants, and the one who is always conceded about their hair. All of you, make me feel like my heart has been stabbed by a knife as the pain continues as I look at you. And I just sit in the corner of the room. My name is the meaning for peace. My thoughts are what keep me going. When I see that frowned smirk on your face, I just want to punch you. What did I do to deserve this? Why won’t anyone be nice to me? I felt a sharp object get thrown at me, like how a basketball is thrown at a player who misses and gets hit. I’ve had it. “You’re a jerk.” I say as everyone looks at me and sees the eyes of a fierce tiger. My fists close as I stand up and slam my hands on the desk. “You guys make fun of me, not for your own pleasure, but to let out your anger on someone.” “Why take it out on a girl who is different than you?” “Aren’t we all one?” “Shouldn’t we all be treated how our teachers and family treat us?” “I’m sick of all your gossip behind my back.” “I’m done whether you like it or not.” “And I’m proud to be different,” As I sit back down in the corner of the room.
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Memory Vault -Elias Jablonski
Space Rainbow -Elias Jablonski
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Gifts
-Ethan Oliver Holmes
In an alley, in the center of a city in heat, in the filth found there left and collected, hidden beneath the rust-ridden girders, behind a limp fence of chain-links, elevating rails and riders and squealing cars above trash and tall grass growing through the concrete—a birth. Born in fear on the border, reeking, putrid, and weeping in that place of passing and intermittent gasping where the poor and rich will often meet. It’s a girl. Cardboard kept carefully crisp is her seat. Trash bags—black, sheered, and splayed—create a broomstick canopy—black like the phone-lines like the cacophony of crows, which grow and grow black like the soles of her feet. These are the things she will remember: She’ll remember the smell of decay and the taste of it sometimes too—the frightening eyes of well-fed rats, and the very places from which their strength they drew. She’ll remember the deranged howl of the night-time streets—dark scowls—foul bleats—and the names of uncouth cops on their beats will be burned into her memory. She will better relate to rats and raccoons than proud people—she will live as a recluse in a crowd. She will know hunger’s pangs better than love’s, and her dreams will seem titanic, far removed from the world of champagne and lady’s gloves. What will her dreams even be? Will she have them? How will she dream when, beyond this life, she hasn’t seen? What possibly could she dream? Will she aspire to be the land-fill’s queen? What sapling grows in the shade of taller trees never having the seen the sky? Choked by proximity to her elders and those her age, who she will perceive as her betters, she won’t allow herself to dream or her dreams will be quick to fade. What dream survives in this place? The bed here laid for her is the best they can provide—for her they would give their lives, but this life is so little to be lain. Her future is bleak, for she is in human hands, and she will mourn her life without a mother. The flesh is weak. Indeed. It is her will that must admit her through. She will remember the subtle change in the sound of the storm drains with each season and the differing reason for the flow. She’ll remember the reflection of the moon in tall buildings, and when a man, suspended in the air, cleans the moon to a glassy glow. Wrapped in thick blankets stuffed with
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newspaper insulation in between, she will watch a diorama sky hung on strings cross strung with bottles colored white, blue, brown, and green—oblong and of varying thicknesses—hanging above, filling her eyes with shifting blurs of incomprehensible colors and her ears with the cutest little clinks. They will make music with the coming of the trains—pitch changing and music rearranged with every and each coming of the rains.
She will remember the first time she sees the sea and the first time she has a reason to believe. Yes, she will remember the pain, but they will make her remember everyday they lived together and every day they lived without complaint. Her dreams will be outside of all boundaries; she won’t dream like you or me.
Buried Alive -Gina Mae Temelcoff
I put my emotions in a box and lay them in the ground. Handfuls of dirt and resolve leave no traces to be found. Every emotion preserved in the buried solid oak is not to see the night fall or the sunrise to be broke. Your smiles and laughter are meaningless here and the promises broken bring not a shed tear.
Apathy runs rampant on the cold night's ground without a care in the world for the joy that's once found. Years of dedication squandered in one final uttered sentence seal the lid forever, encasing me in silence.
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Don’t Fear the End -Sarah Sumoski
The light of the full moon shone through the dusty, broken window into the abandoned house. The twilight wind brought with it the noises of small animals, the smell of the new spring flowers, and a shadowy figure. The shadowy figure crept through the darkness toward the front door dragging a heavy black bag behind it. The moon’s light revealed a tall boy about 16 years old with high cheekbones and short black hair with a strained expression on his face from exertion. He could smell the rotting wood of the house, hear an owl screech from a nearby tree, and hear the gravel crunch under his feet as he made his way up the driveway. The bag he was dragging kept getting stuck on the loose branches and tall weeds. The boy muttered under his breath as he walked. Then as the bag was being pulled up the uneven, wooden steps of the house, the boy heard a ripping sound. At first he couldn’t figure out where the sound was coming from. From inside the bag, he heard a low moan. The boy looked down at the sack he had been dragging for the last two hours over uneven ground. “Could she be waking up? “I know the drug should last for a few more hours,” thought the boy with a nervous look in his eyes. He pulled the bag up one more stair till the bag was resting on the rotting porch of the house. As the boy stopped to catch his breath, a young girl with waist length light brown hair, about 15 years old, rolled out of a rip in the black bag. The boy looked into the girl’s eyes and saw a blank, faraway look. “Good,” he sighed, “The drug is still effective.” The boy quickly pushed the girl back in the bag and tied the rip closed. He then pushed the bag and the girl through the leaning doorway into the abandoned house. As the boy struggled to close the door, he could hear a car slowly making its way up the long, overgrown, gravel driveway. “Oh no. Who could that be?!” whispered the boy. As quick as lightning, the boy dragged the girl over to a small hall closet a few feet away and shut the door. The car came up to the house but instead of stopping, turned around and drove back down the driveway. “Whew. That was close,” whispered the boy in a frightened voice, “Now let’s get settled.” A light snapped on and illuminated the darkness of the shabby house. The girl could feel sweat dripping down her forehead as her fever finally began to subside. The headache she had had for the last few days was only increasing to the point that she could barely see at times. “Where am I,” the girl whispered as she took in her surroundings. A medium sized room with the windows all boarded over, a musty smell, and rats scurry-
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ing through the walls. She was seated in an old dinning chair tied up with itchy rope in the middle of the floor. “Well Agata, you are my guest for a while,” the boy said as he walked into the lamp light. “Mitchel!? What did you do?” whispered Agata as an overwhelming amount of pain raced through her body, “You know I’m supposed to be in the hospital! I can’t get better in here! Take me back.” “You know I can’t do that. If you go back to the hospital, I won’t be able to see you. You will die and I won’t be allowed to be with you,” whispered Michael looking at his feet. “Mitchel get this into your small twisted brain. We weren’t going out. You’re a creep. That’s the reason you’re not allowed to see me,” exclaimed Agata. “Now untie me. NOW!” “No. I want to be with you when you die and the only way I can do that is if we stay here,” whispered Mitchel almost to himself. The pain was obvious in Agata’s eyes. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably and she was almost blinded by the pain in her head. Sweat continued to pour down her face and she started to get angry red blotches all over her arms. “If you keep me here any longer, I will die and it will be because of you. The doctors were helping me. They were curing me of my brain tumor. But now all their work was in vain because you have caused me to go without my medicine and you have drugged me to the point that my tumor has probably grown. You are the one who is killing me now, not my doctors. Now please take me back to the hospital!” exclaimed Agata as her voice cracked form the pain. “They were killing you. I know they were. They were making you all puffy and were killing your immune system,” spoke Mitchel, “How can I let that happen to someone I love and that loves me.” “I do NOT love you. I fear you! You’re a creepy stalker who kidnapped me!” yelled Agata. “You’ll remember our love in due time,” said Mitchel as he walked toward the door. “Now get some sleep. You look like you need your rest. Goodnight.” With that said, Mitchel walked out the door. Agata could hear the floor boards creaking as he walked up the stairs and into a room. Then all there was was silence. “What am I going to do? I’m going to die sitting here tied to a chair,” thought Agata as she strained against the ropes keeping her in the rotting chair. “What am I going to do?! I’m freaking out!! Take deep breaths. Take deep breaths. Calm down Agata. Calm down. There’s nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all, just a crazy boy who kidnapped you from the hospital and slowly dying from your cancer. Other than that, there’s nothing to fear. I have to get out of here! I have to.” With her head feeling a little better, Agata started
18 kicking the legs of the chair. Nothing happened and she fell into an uncomfortable sleep. All of a sudden a few hours later, one of the legs of the chair collapsed, CRASH, from the blows Agata had giving it. It sent her sprawled out on the floor. The chair crumbled to dust and debris. The ropes holding Agata to the chair fell away. Startled by the sudden accident, Agata didn’t move for a moment stunned from when she had hit the floor. After Agata got her bearings and made sure that she wasn’t hurt in any way from the crash, she waited a few minutes. Then confident that Mitchel wasn’t awakened by the noise, she slowly got to her feet rubbing her arms, which looked as if she had gotten a horrible sunburn, but was actually, the first stage of her cancer slowly taking over her body. Without so much as a final look, Agata stumbled out the door into the morning sun and started down the driveway. Walking was a problem for her because of how long she had been away from the hospital and her medicine. The cancer inside her was slowly killing her and Agata could do little to stop it. As she neared the end of the driveway, Agata looked for anything familiar so she could find out where she was, but there was nothing. She then took the risk and painfully began her way down the road. After she had been walking for about 20 minutes, her vision started to swim. Agata leaned against a tree for support but that did little to help. The world was spinning and then the everything went black. Agata woke up a few hours later. The sun was directly above her which meant it was around noon. “Why didn’t anyone see me while I was laying here?” wondered Agata as she slowly got to her feet. The ground started to spin again but she leaned against a tree and the feeling slowly went away. Suddenly, Agata saw a car driving down the road, not sure whether the car was Mitchel or not, she moved more into the trees.
Long May You Run -Dana Mack
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Chicago 3 -Douglas Senf