Chameleon 2022 by Norwich University

A LITERARY & arts journal

2022

2022 Editor-in-Chief Faith Odegbami

Editors Surayah Pierce, Alex Rosas, L Lakhani, Greyce Kelly Camargo Silva, and Lydia Brown

Faculty Advisor Professor Sean Prentiss

Special Thanks We offer special thanks to Robert Halleck, Gail Wiese, Professor Cara Armstrong, Professor Sabrina Fadial, Professor Kaitlin Thomas, Professor Miriam Romero, Professor Emeritus Michel Kabay, and the Department of English and Communications.

The Allan Nason Prose Prize ($250) Allan Leonard Hastings Nason (1889-1970) was a Norwich graduate of 1920. Nason was an untamed spirit, and it shows in his writing. He wrote about war and soldiers, and his characters are not respectful of authority. Typically, they are trying to find a way to come out ahead, though not at the expense of the war effort. His accounts of war focus on an individual in relation to the whole war machine, and the way the machine grinds all down. The Allan Nason Prose Prize goes to the best piece of prose that deals with Corps of Cadets life or war.

The Robert Halleck Poetry Prize ($250) Robert Halleck is a 1964 graduate of Norwich University. Poetry has been a love of his for over 60 years. He lives in Del Mar, California with his wife Della Janis. Bob is a member of San Diego’s Not Dead Yet Poets and hopes to continue with that group for many years. A Google search for “Robert Halleck Poetry” will turn up his latest work. The Robert Halleck Poetry Prize is awarded to the best poem by a Norwich student.

The Be You, Be True Prize ($250) The Be You, Be True Prize is given to the best literary work by a Norwich LBGTQIA+ writer or about the LGBTQIA+ experience. This prize is made possible by Norwich University’s Title IX office.

The Chameleon Prose Prize ($150) The Chameleon Prose Prize is awarded by the Chameleon editors to the best piece of prose written by a Norwich University student. This prize is supported by the Department of English and Communications. All art and writing included here are creative in nature. Some pieces might deal with traumatic issues. If any reader is looking for support, two great resources are Norwich’s Title IX Office at norwich.edu/title-ix and the Counseling and Wellness Center at norwich.edu/counseling.

To submit pieces online, visit the Chameleon page at Norwich University’s website at norwich.edu/ chameleon.

Cover Artwork: “Shaden-Inspired Work” by Allie Austin

Contents History of the Chameleon................................................................................................................................................................................ 2 Alumni Corner.....................................................................................................................................................................................................4 Photography by Bailey Beltramo...................................................................................................................................................................6 The Noisy Neighbors.........................................................................................................................................................................................8 He Who Exists...................................................................................................................................................................................................10 That Old Violin.................................................................................................................................................................................................. 12 Rotting Fruit and Icy Air..................................................................................................................................................................................13 Groundless Execution...................................................................................................................................................................................... 15 Essence................................................................................................................................................................................................................ 16 I’m Fine................................................................................................................................................................................................................ 18 Weighing Down, Pushing In.......................................................................................................................................................................... 19 Confessions II.................................................................................................................................................................................................... 20 6.............................................................................................................................................................................................................................22 Photograph by Patricia Canaday..................................................................................................................................................................23 Photograph by Patricia Canaday..................................................................................................................................................................24 Stack of Titles Poem........................................................................................................................................................................................25 The Story of a Lie.............................................................................................................................................................................................26 Artwork by Patricia Canaday.........................................................................................................................................................................28 Artwork by Patricia Canaday........................................................................................................................................................................ 29 Gaslight Bliztkrieg........................................................................................................................................................................................... 30 Hotel Jacuzzi......................................................................................................................................................................................................32 Untitled................................................................................................................................................................................................................33 Artwork by Allie Austin...................................................................................................................................................................................34 Photograph by Faith Odegbami...................................................................................................................................................................35 Fever Dance........................................................................................................................................................................................................36 Secret Predator..................................................................................................................................................................................................37 Artwork by Patricia Canaday.........................................................................................................................................................................38 Forgotten Wars.................................................................................................................................................................................................40 Fresh Recruits.................................................................................................................................................................................................... 41 Dividing the Battlefields................................................................................................................................................................................ 42 Photograph by Sarah Clark........................................................................................................................................................................... 44 Artwork by Patricia Canaday........................................................................................................................................................................ 45 Badge Leaders.................................................................................................................................................................................................. 46 The Mafia Platoon............................................................................................................................................................................................47 You Could........................................................................................................................................................................................................... 48 Photograph by Sarah Clark........................................................................................................................................................................... 50 Addiction.............................................................................................................................................................................................................52 Soul Keys–Excerpt........................................................................................................................................................................................... 54 Photograph by Faith Odegbami.................................................................................................................................................................. 56 Gypsum and Pine.............................................................................................................................................................................................58 Outrospection....................................................................................................................................................................................................62 Photograph by Faith Odegbami.................................................................................................................................................................. 64 Interviews for the Be True, Be You Prize................................................................................................................................................... 66 Artwork by Crystal Drown.............................................................................................................................................................................. 71 Writing by the LGBTQ+ Community..........................................................................................................................................................72 Becoming What We Lost........................................................................................................................................................................72 You Made My Identity a Form of Dysmorphia.................................................................................................................................73 These Hands...............................................................................................................................................................................................74 Addiction......................................................................................................................................................................................................75 A Cold Winter Night.................................................................................................................................................................................76 Artwork by Crystal Drown.......................................................................................................................................................................78 Dear Queer Girl......................................................................................................................................................................................... 80 Dear Queer Girl.......................................................................................................................................................................................... 81 Dear Queer Girl..........................................................................................................................................................................................82 Dear Queer Girl..........................................................................................................................................................................................83 Dear Queer Girl......................................................................................................................................................................................... 84 Birds Aren’t Real........................................................................................................................................................................................ 86 Photograph by Faith Odegbami.................................................................................................................................................................. 88 An Interview with Kaitlin Thomas..............................................................................................................................................................90 Spanish Translations....................................................................................................................................................................................... 94 Skin Deep.................................................................................................................................................................................................... 94 Gaping.......................................................................................................................................................................................................... 95 Wetlands..................................................................................................................................................................................................... 96 Wetlands......................................................................................................................................................................................................97 Big Living.................................................................................................................................................................................................... 98 Inevitable..................................................................................................................................................................................................... 99 Familiar Vines.......................................................................................................................................................................................... 100 Familiar Vines........................................................................................................................................................................................... 101 Long Distance...........................................................................................................................................................................................102 Long Distance...........................................................................................................................................................................................103 White–Tailed Doe................................................................................................................................................................................... 104 Echo Taps...................................................................................................................................................................................................105 Memories.................................................................................................................................................................................................. 106 Spanish Short Stories................................................................................................................................................................................... 108 Rojo............................................................................................................................................................................................................. 109 4/26 Entrada del Diario: Emociones Mixtas.....................................................................................................................................112 La Vida es un Pañuelo.............................................................................................................................................................................114 Las Muchas Aventuras de la Señora Gracie y el Hombre.............................................................................................................118 Artwork by Patricia Canaday.......................................................................................................................................................................120 Artwork by Tori Pauciello...............................................................................................................................................................................121

History of the Norwich Chameleon by August Tirone Norwich University has provided students with an opportunity to publish creative works for publication since the mid 19th century. The first publication at Norwich was The University Regulator. Founded in 1853 by The Regulators, a secret society on campus, the student paper published content that stemmed from the mission of The Regulators: “Justice to whom Justice is due.” The Regulators believed that Norwich cadets and faculty should be held to a higher standard and made those standards known in the publication. This paper died out shortly after The Regulators disbanded and the last issue was in 1856.

Another short-lived paper was The University Owl, found in 1854. The University Owl and The Regulator were often in disagreement with each other. The University Owl folded in 1856 after releasing only two issues (one in 1854 and one in 1856). The Reveille, established in 1860, was the first university newspaper and published pieces about the Corps of Cadets, campus and academic news, events on campus, short stories, and advertisements. During The Reveille’s first five years, it was published regularly, but after 1865, it published intermittently until 1882 when publication picked up again. The Reveille was published regularly until

1923 when it folded. Not until 1951 did Norwich again have a regular school publication, The Magnum. The Magnum leaned more toward a literary journal and focused on publishing short stories, comedy pieces, poetry, literary reviews, and some sports content. It also was known for its illustrations. It stopped publishing in 1953. In 1960, two literary journals appeared on campus. One, The Iconoclast, was a literary anthology compiled by students until 1961. The Norwich University Archives only has two issues of The Iconoclast. The other literary journal to appear in 1960 was the Chameleon. The Chameleon has been around for over sixty years, making it the longest-running literary publication in Norwich’s history. During its life, the Chameleon has gone through many iterations relating to its content because of the progressions in American culture over the same time. The 1960s were a turbulent time for the United States, and the Chameleon published student poems and short stories, the subject of which often focused on war, loss, and family. These themes continued to be popular through the end of the 1960s, but as public opinion began to shift on a variety of topics, including the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights movement, and feminism, so too did the types of pieces published in the Chameleon. As this transition continued through the 1970s, new topics began to appear towards the end of the decade as American culture and social movements continued to evolve. During the 1980s, more controversial topics began to appear in the stories and poems. As American

culture continued to transform, sex and drug use were common topics in Chameleon publications. In addition to this, the fallout from the Vietnam War and topics related to racial issues were also commonplace. Subject matter related to the personal experiences of rooks and cadets also saw an increase during this time as these students submitted journals and stories they had written during their time at Norwich. The 1990s and the early 2000s continued to see progression in content that appeared in the Chameleon with a trend toward darker content that focused on the invasions and ensuing conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan, along with poems and short stories dealing with women’s rights, racism, domestic abuse, and the social fallout from loss, alcoholism, and violence. During this period, the journal grew thinner, often being no more than thirty pages. In 2012, the Chameleon reshaped itself. First, the design of the journal transitioned from using saddle stitching (where the journal is held together with staples from the outside to the centermost page) to perfect bound (where the pages are glued at the spine). The Chameleon embraced graphic design elements to make the journal more colorful and artistic. The Chameleon also created four new prizes: the Robert Halleck Poetry Prize, the Allan Nason Prize, the Chameleon Prose Prize, and the Be You, Be True (LGBTQIA+) Prize. Content during this period continued to focus on loss, love, war, and Corps life, but it was also influenced by society’s evolution as topics that dealt with people of color and the LGBTQIA+ community became more prominent.

ALUMNI COR In this section of the Chameleon, we focus on alumni and faculty who are involved in the creative arts to highlight that, not only are students doing wonderful writing and art, but so are professors across campus.. The Chameleon wants to highlight not only current Norwich University student writers but also graduates to see how the creative arts have stayed with them since their time on campus. For this year’s look at alumni, Greyce Kelly Camargo Silva, one of our editors, interviewed Bailey Beltramo. Beltramo graduated from Norwich in 2017 with a Communications degree. Since then, he has become a published writer, photographer, and filmmaker who loves to tell stories.

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photography at the time and remember using Microsoft Paint to “edit” the photo by adding some sort of watercolor effect. I submitted it to the competition and surprised myself by getting an award. It wasn’t like winning that award triggered a passion for photography or anything. I didn’t really touch a camera again until I got to college. But that memory has definitely stuck with me. GK: What about video?

Bailey Beltramo ’17 Greyce Kelly: What is the first memory that comes to mind when you think of your interaction with writing, photography or video? Bailey Beltramo: When I was in third grade, I was part of a 4H group, and there was a photography competition. I had taken a photo of an animal on my neighbor’s farm. I had no knowledge of 4

BB: Video is more recent! My first prominent memory was of a video I made while living in California a year after graduating from Norwich. I went to the beach one morning to shoot sunrise photos and faced a thick marine layer instead. So, I just switched my camera over to video mode and started to shoot. I stayed up all night editing it together, hooked on this new process. I didn’t appreciate this at first, but, in many ways, video is the perfect combination of writing and photography. From journalism you learn how to understand a narrative and craft a story. You combine those elements with the camera and how to frame something. You blend in the written narrative and end up with video. Four years after making that first edit on the beach, video has become my preferred medium for passion projects.

GK: How would you say Norwich fostered your interest in arts? BB: Norwich is not an arts school; it is not what it is intended to be. So, I can’t say Norwich itself fostered my interest in the arts, but key people at Norwich did, including Professors Prentiss, Luedtke, Nemethy, and Bush. They all helped develop this love for storytelling that has led me to where I am now. GK: A lot of your work is nature oriented. Is there a reason for that? BB: Outdoors is where I’m happiest and is a big reason I ended up at Norwich after trying to attend school in the city for one semester. Outdoor recreation was what I knew and loved, so it became easy to bring my camera and start photographing that kind of stuff. One of the hardest things with art is figuring out your voice. What are you going to create? What are you going to present yourself as to the world? I’ve learned that a good way to start answering those questions is by starting with what you know and love already. You can share those worlds and tell those stories with an insider’s perspective. Having a particular interest or knowledge base will help you gain access in ways that others can’t. GK: Would you say that being able to take pictures, make videos, and write stories has helped you connect with people? BB: Without a doubt. I have always considered myself a pretty quiet person – even shy. I used to give my mom grief for talking to strangers on the street or in the grocery store. Now, I’m fascinated by the unique experiences individuals have and the stories that exist all around us. It’s been a learned skill to start having conversations with strangers and learning about them. But

when you start conversations with people, you get to know them, you might find that you have shared experiences that you would not have guessed. We have so much more in common than we have differences from one another. I have been trying to get that into my work, being able to connect with strangers and really listen to people’s stories. GK: What advice would you give to anyone who plans to start a career in the arts? Bailey Beltramo: First, pursue it for the process and not for the product – “product” being the defined image of success that you have. If you do it for the process, if you do it because you love your form of art, then the product becomes less important. Pursuing this kind of work is a winding path, and that success you envision might not come for a while. By loving the process, you can still be happy because you are just doing what you love. Second, don’t compare yourself to your peers. This road is unpredictable, and, oftentimes, it takes unconventional means to pursue it. I’ve worked in five different states since I graduated. I was back to living with my parents for a while, and I’m breaking $20,000 a year for the first time since I got out of school. It’s easy to look at more conventional paths your peers may take and ask, What the heck am I doing? Don’t. Focus on you and what you love. Third, never stop being a student. GK: To see some of Bailey’s videos, just scan the QR code below.

Photography by

Bailey Beltramo ’17

The Noisy Neighbors by Anonymous “Tell us what you know about the disappearance of your neighbor Jeff,” instructs the police officer. “It was a great spring day, the first day in a while it had been over 50 degrees. I was out on my porch, listening to the birds and watching them go wild for the fresh birdseed in the feeder. That chirp warms my heart. It shows me it is finally spring and that winter is done. It brightens my day every morning when I sit out there watching those birds, reading my newspaper, and drinking my piping hot coffee.” “How did you know Jeff and Katie were having relationship issues?” asks the officer.

“How did I know? I couldn’t hear my birds chirping over them talking… and Jeff and Katie were arguing inside their house. Nothing annoys me more than when my neighbors are loud and ruin my morning. I hear everything in our community and if I don’t firsthand, someone tells me. I like to think of myself as the community guardian. I used to be a schoolteacher and learned a thing or two about how to hear the gossip in the classroom, so I just use those tricks I learned to know about what happens in my community. “Jeff’s brother needed a ride home from his mission trip. He was flying into Oregon and asked Jeff if he would drive cross country to Oregon from New Hampshire to pick him up. In exchange for driving out to the opposite coast, Simeon told Jeff they would make a week of it and stop at different places across the country since it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Katie, being pregnant, wasn’t having it. She was due in a month and there was no way Jeff was leaving for a week to go across the country while she was home alone, pregnant, and needing company. It’s the middle of a PANDEMIC. “That’s when things heated up. “Katie yelled, ‘You are NOT leaving me alone and pregnant here so you can go on a trip across the country to be with your brother’. “Jeff replied in a loud voice, ‘I can do what I want. I’m a grown-ass man! I thought when we got married you would change and be less controlling, but you are the same controlling, emotional teenager you were in high school!’ “Neither of them said a word since, and it’s been four days. How can you live in the same house and not acknowledge each other’s existence for four straight days? When do you cave in and say you are wrong for the better of the relationship? “Finally, Jeff broke the silence by saying under his breath while walking to their cars on their way to work, ‘I hope our kid doesn’t turn out like you, always trying to control everything.’ “8:37 a.m. last Monday was the last time I saw my neighbor Jeff. Poor guy. At least I can finally get back to my peaceful mornings with him gone and her quiet. “Now if there isn’t anything else you need from me, I’m going to go home and watch Ellen.”

He who exists by Clayton Barnes

He couldn’t remember his name, the touch of the wind on his skin, or a single person he had ever known. What he could remember was the void. Deafening silence swallowed even the idea of a sound. If he still had eyes, he would see the most stunningly beautiful things. Stars throwing graceful arcs of plasma millions of miles long. Planets pirouetting around invisible ellipses. Galaxies harboring life and beauties beyond conception. All the wonders of the infinite cosmos, and he couldn’t see any of it. He couldn’t speak, move, or do anything else that a living being has the right to do. For all intents and purposes, he wasn’t living. The man floating through the endless abyss began his journey in what would become Leningrad sometime in the 8th century. He had lived a basic existence struggling to survive the harsh tundra until he realized that he didn’t have to struggle. He didn’t have to do anything. He didn’t need to eat, drink, sleep, or breathe. What he did have to do

was watch, experience, and exist. He enjoyed this immensely for the first few hundred years. Half a millennium later, he was bored. A millennium after that, despondent. Five million millennia after his birth, he was overcome with joy as the only other constant he knew slowly grew more expansive and redder as it crested the horizon each morning. He had watched and learned for more than long enough to know what was coming. The sun would grow until it swallowed the Earth, vaporizing him and the ground beneath his feet into fusion material. Or so he thought. Sure enough, his respite approached. The land burned, the seas boiled, the Earth itself melted and roiled. His body was damaged beyond what could be called life, but his immortal mind went on after Earth was atomized. After the death throes of the life-giving sun. After every gravitational body in the solar system was absorbed or blasted away. He endured, he drifted, and he existed.

that old violin by Hailey Barnes

There is a room far away With locked doors Behind locked doors is a violin But this violin isn’t normal A crooked bow plays crooked chords Strings stretched and frayed to the point of snapping It is different from other violins Maybe if you find the key You can open said doors And see this violin Old and brittle And play it Till it breaks

Originally published by W. Ransom Leccese (1920).

rotting fruit and icy air by Hailey Barnes

My love was May and went away My soul decays like leaves and hay Uproot me so I’m well aware Of rotting fruit and icy air

GROUNDLESS EXECUTION by Hailey Barnes

I can hear the jeers of the crowd Because they know I am bound. With my hands balled into fists And rope tied around my wrists, I struggle to break free From the two tracks before me. The crowd is anxious for my demise And now I know these people I despise. I shout in defiance But then I know No one will aid me Not even those closest With my knees bleeding in the gravel I know this is betrayal, And all I can smell is diesel. The Earth begins to rumble, And the dirt and rocks shake. The crowd cheers in delight. And I am ready to receive my fate. Then something in me still wants to fight But it is too late. Those murderous, emotionless eyes watch While I scream as the train roars.

ESSENCE by Nicholas Berns I sit in the middle of the floor, legs crossed. My eyes are closed, but I am hyper-aware of my surroundings. A woman sits across from me; she leans against the wall. She is beautiful; her hair is a rich auburn color that shines in the sunlight streaming through the window. The sunshine puts a twinkle in her eyes, which seem to stare on forever. The sunlight warms the skin. Skin so soft, so smooth. There is just a touch of sadness in them. She is young; I hope that she will never change. It would be a curse if she would. That is why we are here. To make the most of our time together. I wait patiently. If no one comes, then I will leave, but I must wait. If I leave now, what I did would not be as satisfying. So, I sit, I listen, and I think. Oh, the thoughts that pass in and out of my conscious mind. Thoughts that you might think are weird or strange, but are perfectly normal to a person like me. Time passes slowly, and the sun dips. It no longer streams through the window to warm the room. It is almost time. Then, as if on cue, I feel her essence touch my hand; it was the woman who sits across from me. I slowly open my eyes to look at her. My eyes take a moment to adjust to the darkness that now fills the room rather than the bright sunlight I had seen when my eyes were last open. There she is, still beautiful, even in the darkness. I look down at my hand and rub the fresh blood with my thumb and index finger. The sunlight had kept it warm, but now that night is upon us, it is getting colder and thicker. I look back at the girl who has not moved except for the blood, which oozes across the concrete floor. It seeps into every crack and crevasse, which puts a hint of a smile on my face. So satisfying. I am especially proud of the job I have done this time. I take my Polaroid camera out of my bag. A picture will not fully capture the woman’s new beauty. However, it will have to do. It will at least be a reminder of all the time that we spent together. I take the picture, put it safely in the binder with all the others, pack my bag up, and 16

leave. Part of me wants to look back one more time. Part of me always does. I have been told it is called sentiment. It does not stop me as I walk to my car. Thinking as someone on the outside of this purification looking in, as I do on occasion, you might ask: Ww…wh…why did he do that? To which I respond, for fun. I’m just a simple man, making my way in the world. Or perhaps you ask: Did he just call murder purification? Yes, yes, I certainly did. You might wonder, What is the point of waiting? Again, for fun and for a little extra thrill. Maybe, you just look on in abject horror, speechless, because of what I have accomplished. Maybe a few of you appreciate my work and think you should try something similar. In that case, I advise against replicating my work unless you are smart and know your way around the system. It is tricky not getting caught for as long as I have. You could argue that you are smarter than me; there are plenty of people who are, but in my book, experience outranks everything. As I calmly wipe the blood from my fingers, you may ask another fundamental question. Who am I? My answer is, I am no one, but I could be anyone, even you.

I’M FINE by Patrick Boucher “I’m fine,” she whispered half-heartedly before she was gone. She always claimed that even when it was clear she wasn’t. She was told that not being okay was fine, but she always insisted otherwise. When he first heard those words, he was only a child. That sentence rang throughout, at the beach, at home, at work. When he held her hand as she began to fade, she assured him she was fine. He picked up the small, crinkled photo from all those years ago, when she was fine, and laid it beside her resting place. As he exited the graveyard, he told himself he was fine too.

weighing down, pushing in by Ally Joehanson The quilt he lies beneath Keeps his soul in his body as he sleeps, The patchwork of burden and shame Weighing down, pushing in. This the shame he spits into my mouth with a forked tongue, searching. For something to stab, twirl, lick up and swallow Whole. Weighing down, pushing in. He cries out like a child. I give him my bosom For comfort, but he takes no relief. Instead, in the lashing of his tantrum He suppresses. Weighing down, pushing in. Into me. 19

confessions II by Greyce Kelly Camargo Silva

Again, I find my thoughts, The ones that troubled me, Surfacing in my mind, and bringing, Gently pushing, the memories I once fought to forget. Yes, they were about you. But, no, not like before. There was no sorrow today There were no sad tears tonight. Sure, the light ache, Like a feather that fell, Touched my heart, and its presence was felt, But it wasn’t like before, I didn’t wish you were here. No, I wished you were well. I remembered your smile, and I didn’t cry. I remembered your voice, the one I wonder if I will forget. I so desperately try to keep it Tucked and wrapped in my memory. Because forgetting your voice, that would break me. It used to guide me, reproach me, but most of all, It felt like home, and like safety, Things I often longed for under the dark sky.

I also thought of you, And your voice, a distant memory, accompanied By that mischievous smile, and those forbidden words. No, it wasn’t like before. I wasn’t sad or angry. Sure, I miss you, more than these words can show. I miss the way you imprinted your smile on me. But most of all, I miss the version of me That with you was me. I am now sure I am fated, Some might say cursed, To think of you. But it’s ok because I know you are all right. And somewhere in this vast world we both love, You are laughing and under the sun. I can see in my mind The picture of your shiny eyes, Eyes that show the warmth of earth. I guess this is goodbye. Because we never got to say those words. I never got to give you that last hug, And now that my eyes well with the regret And weight of not hearing your congratulations, I say goodbye to you. I say I will miss you. I promise that I will do my very best To keep the tears away, but I promise I will fail. The tears will fall, and I will swallow them. Under the blankets that drown my cries, But I will smile, and write Because you loved it, you loved both of them And I loved both of you.

6 by Patricia Canaday

I am moving down two flights into a studio apartment, leaving behind the nine picturesque windows and the Masonic symbol still affixed to the white tin ceiling of #18. #6 boasts a quirky vintage light fixture and exposed pipes. I climb through a kitchen window to enter the attached diminutive art studio. Bohemian, and the only flat without a mailbox. I add “purchase mailbox” to Monday’s “to do” list. There’s an invisible neighbor next door in a house with a green metal roof. I never see him but the “free” pile at the end of the drive is magically updated each day with his discards. I wander over to inspect. Wedged between a lobster pot and a flat basketball is a shiny, metal mailbox. Inside is a single number 6 of aged bronze, still unwrapped. Check.

Photograph By: Patricia Canaday Photograph Title: “6” 22

Stack of titles poem by Patricia Canaday

A woman alone On the move No baggage Talking to strangers Tunneling to the center of the earth No one is here except all of us Nomadland Peace

Photograph By: Patricia Canaday Photograph Title: “Stack of Title” 25

the story of a lie by Greyce Kelly Camargo Silva

Tell me stories, tell me lies, As I fall asleep, as I lay to rest. Sing me songs, sing me lullabies, As I drift away, as I leave you behind. As my eyes close and my mind shuts, Will you guide me by my hand? As my tears slide and my heart breaks, Will you mend the broken parts? Fool I was, fool you made me, Such intelligence, all in vain. Unhappy I was, unhappier you left me, Too many transparent smiles, all gone with the dust. Tell me stories, tell me lies. Do not let go of my frail broken heart. Tell me stories, tell me lies, Tales of us, tales of old times.

Make me smile, make me warm, Melt away the frozen stone. Make me laugh, make me human, Put together what you broke. A delicate statue, made of water, A gentle heart, made of stone. Sun and hammer, that was you, A beating heart, flamed in red. They saw her, you saw me. They heard perfection, you heard cracks. Ah! How sweet it was, to be me with us, To be me with you. Go away, but when you do, Tell me stories, tell me lies. Break my heart one more time. And leave behind the creation. Let me have the puzzle of our memories. Let me have us, And take away me.

Artwork By: Patricia Canaday Artwork Title: “Surrealist Landscape” 28

Artwork By: Patricia Canaday Artwork Title: “Gestural Collage” 29

gaslight blitzkrieg by Ally Joehanson

LAN NAS ALW

INN MILITARY ER WRITING $ W

Her body was her punching bag, Her bare fists her gloves, And bare knuckled Her blows landed. Into the flesh, Skin unto skin, She refuses to punish anyone But herself. She chose to enlist in a war That turned the ring Into a battlefield. Just Two casualties, her and her Lover.

She keeps fighting as a warrior, Ballistic missiles she launches, Plummeting into her thighs. They reverberate upon impact. The black and blue as brown soil Erupting across borders, still with no retreat. “He is not the enemy, Or is he? You are.” The choice was no longer Hers when she woke up To iodine and sulfur-filled lungs. The battlefield reflected from her vanity mirror, “Why would you go To war? What were you Fighting for? Has anything even Changed?” When she is released, The times she has a second Without the thoughts to breathe, She goes back to the gym. The punching bag was left torn, Tattered, as the stuffing lay strewn, Rips and gashes from the greatest Force of man; love. 30

250

ARD

hotel jacuzzi by Ally Joehanson

The rural hustle of I-83 Bustling on the other side of the glass. They could not see us, but we could see them As the hurriedly flew past. A room with a luxury Which we did not request But here it was in the middle of Our carpet floor, a plastic stool On the side of the pool, Tile and stained white liner. Cold ceramic, we came to love Over the next three days. We made it a place of utility, Of excitement, of sorrow A refuge. Our memories now written into The sides, most of them unable to be Wiped away with bleach. Our hotel jacuzzi, In the Comfort Inn.

Untitled by L Lakhani

Run through the forest alone. Shadows casts spells through the darkness, Eerie whispers of forgotten, lost souls. Behind the tree’s mystery and misery lurks The condemned laughing. Brewing spells for lost lovers, Conjuring what once was lost. Enchanted by the wickedness, Clutching it so tightly. Sinister smiles stir around. Embrace it. Don’t run from it, Or have you forgotten?

Artwork By: Allie Austin Artwork Title: “Peach Surrealism Collage” 34

Photograph By: Faith Odegbami Photograph Title: “European Starling” Taken at Massanutten Virginia Resort

fever dance by Faith Odegbami

Work through me and let your sickness be known This is no forever kiss, Or potential hitch This is a quarrel of who will last Will I slip into the wills Of a terrible dance Or will I find poise in discomfort My feet and toes bound to a point It is a personal pain to dance To express the contents of your heart It looks beautiful to the eye, But to reach this point Took a toll on your body Blisters bleed and calluses hold Redefining your soles and what it means to stand whole

secret predator by Faith Odegbami

Death creeps up and crawls in your chest sometimes Leaving you heavy and sunken in the middle A weight that muddles the soul And urges those who have not lived To never live again What a phenomenon, To be so flustered with the now That you throw away tomorrow One might suggest To simply Flip the switch And focus on tomorrow Though the beast that jumped in you cares not what you focus on Whether it be today, tomorrow, or yesteryear This darkness lives on a whim With such courage Adaptable to the elements The true predator of man

Artwork By: Patricia Canaday Artwork Title: “Inner Criticism” 38

forgotten wars by Donald Pastures

Overgrown trenches Re-laced with wire Burnt out metallic shells Their cores glow anew Spent casings Clicking into dusty mags Slotted into rusty chambers Skeletal hands Grasping tarnished instruments Sounding shrieks and flats Of melodies long forgotten Withered commanders Pitching moth-eaten tents Tracing wrinkled and torn maps Plotting ancient rebukes Against the next generation of souls Resting in their new homes That long since changed their goals Atop withered battlements

fresh recruits by Donald Pastures Lightning sounded from their line The crack The pop Splitting the sky Piercing the heart Their flesh Their bone Turning their carcass Into a new home Their men They fell From the Earth To Hell All because The drills taught them well 41

dividing the battlefields by Donald Pastures

Veins of blackened steel we bled Pooling blood and dripping lead Ripping through flesh and piercing bone The battlefields our final home Rockets leaped across the skies They see no evil tell no lies Once they hit upon the ground The king is heard from all around Rounds leap from trigger pulls Crippling enemies, felling foes Bodies crunching under their feet The queen is who you soon shall meet Bases rocketing from the ground Fortifications all around Rooks preventing your success Engineers on the defense Gases leaking from their ranks Driving fearful foes insane Knights leaping over your heads Dragoon warriors coming next Dashing between your lines Leaving splatters far behind Falling in battle before we dismount The bishop making these treads count Arcing over pawns heads Raining their missiles, pumping down lead Flying high above the best Aviation’s raining death Up up in the skies Enemy’s missiles flying high If it flies, it’s gonna die ADA, your eye in the sky

Photograph By: Sarah Clark Photograph Title: “Watchful Owl” 44

Artwork By: Patricia Canaday Artwork Title: “Art Spring Card” 45

badge leaders by Donald Pastures

Black steel burning hot Felling foes in a single shot The expert wme Hand grenades arcing high Hit the ground and all will die The sharpshooter life’s the life for me Marksmen follow me Raining hell from up on high All in Bravo’s sight will die The marksman life’s the life for me Unqualified follow me The target’s still standing strong My aim is off, my sights are wrong Unqualified life’s the life for me No one ever follows me

the mafia platoon by Donald Pastures

In ancient woods did rest Calcium Of our days It attests The skull of the Army’s best The mafia was their name And countless beasts were slain Wolverine Grizzly All the same Till from its ancient bones Under the sun’s golden glow 38 our heroes did show Cause from the wine’s wizened hand A car’s caring plan And tomes of ancient rules and plans They crushed every test Proved they were the best And with this deer May their memories Forever rest

ROB

T HALLECK ER

WINNER

Y R T E O P D

$250

AWAR

you could by Maysen Pribbernow

You could lay here underneath the safety of your covers that shield you from the dangers that surround you. But, if you lay here, hiding, too exhausted to move, the world will turn, the day will end, and you will still be here. You could clutch your pillow, pulling it deeper and deeper into your chest, begging it for the comfort you’ve been searching for. But if you grasp your pillow with every fiber of your body, hoping and praying it will ease pain lingering inside, it will still be nothing more than a pile of white cotton fabric. You could stay right here, refusing to open the curtains or flip on a light, refusing to let the sun warm your skin and dry your tears. But if you hide away in your lifeless hole of darkness, you’ll miss the world coming to life, the flowers blooming, the trees budding, life returning. You could cry and scream into your sheets, spilling your secrets of pain and despair as if they hold the answers, But if you continue to weep into your sheets, the tears will dry, your pain will remain, for the sheets will give you no solutions. You could refuse to sit up, to brush your twirls of tangled hair, to find something to nourish your body. But if you choose to lay and waste away, to let the pain consume your soul, you will find nothing, no peace, no rest. So, yes, you could sleep the day away in hopes the pain will dissipate into oblivion, and when you awaken, your heart will be healed and your soul will be whole. But when you awaken, you will be exactly as you were.

Photograph By: Sarah Clark PhotographTitle: “Icicle Heart”

addiction by Maysen Pribbernow

She sat in her window, inhaling the sweet cigarette smoke, staring out into the endless green mountains, yes, she was here, but she really wasn’t; she takes another puff from her cig, more than anything wanting to quit, to toss the damn thing far away; every time she places it to her lips, she feels herself lose another moment of her life. She hates herself for falling into the trap of addiction. It started here, at this very window, with a pack of Newports and one horrific night, yet her addiction didn’t end with the sweet cigarettes. It grew like an all-consuming wildfire, engulfing her in flames, destroying who she once was. She sat in her window, staring at the sun as it began to rise up from the mountains, giving birth to a new day; she threw her sweet cigarette out that very window.

-A glimpse into addiction-

soul keys-excerpt by Alex Rosas

I turned the corner on my street to find Mom’s car in the driveway. Shit. She never came home this early unless she was having a bad day at the office. Maybe if I just slipped into my room... I opened the door as quietly as I could to find Mom sitting on the loveseat in the living room, laptop open and wine glass in hand. She turned to me. The glass nearly slipped out of her grasp. “Zack, baby, what happened to you?” My hand unconsciously went to my face, ghosting over a slowly blackening eye. I’d known this conversation was coming, but it didn’t make it any easier. “Just a tussle in PE. We were playing basketball, and it got a little heated,” I lied. She pursed her lips. “Well, that’s just not acceptable. I’m going to call the school first thing tomorrow morning and have a talk with your principal.” “Mom!” I said forcefully, “It’s fine, really. I talked to Dad about it, and he said that it’s good for boys to rough around every once in a while.” It was a thing of beauty really--the change in her demeanor, or it would’ve been if it weren’t my mom, or if it wasn’t directed at me. In a second, she changed from concerned parent to burned ex-wife. Her eyes narrowed, her eyebrows disappeared into her hairline, and her mouth morphed into a hardened sneer. It was the face of the woman who argued countless nights away in the kitchen. That was not the face of my mother. “Well, if that’s what your father says, then who am I to disagree? He can be the one to take you to the hospital next time!” With that, she slammed her laptop shut, grabbed her wine, and stormed off to her room. Interactions like this had become the norm in my household after Dad left. At least Ellie hadn’t been around to see it. She still had another hour of school left. With Mom’s absence, I finally let the tension out of my body, feeling the pain for the first time. There was no one around to see me wince. I made my way to the kitchen and found an ice pack in the fridge. It was going to be a hard night tonight. 54

Photograph By: Faith Odegbami Photograph Title: “Snowy Virginia” 56

gypsum and pine by Johannes Shephard

A kettle clicked off in the kitchen. They both stood to get it. No shrill whistle on this electric variety. Gone were the days of gas stoves and the song of tea. The doorbell chimed. They made eye contact in front of their living room door; he motioned her forward. She proceeded right and down the hall to the door, and he went left to the kitchen. Soft clinks emanated from the pantry as he rummaged for three mugs: his, hers, and the guest’s. He mused on which of her friends it would be this time. Not that it might not be one of his or that he didn’t have any close friends, but his friends had the good sense to call before coming by. Perhaps it would be someone from her work, maybe an old classmate, an ex-boyfriend here to profess his love. Whoever it was, they would carry on with their stories, tragedies, and triumphs. A highlight reel of memories that would provide ammunition for their next fight. Maybe this friend has a husband who makes more than he does. Perhaps they have kids that they conceived after a try or two. Even if their life was going terribly, it would be a highlight reel: one of failures. The cheating spouse, the nagging in-laws, the awful boss. Not that they didn’t also have miseries interrupting the monotony of life. They just knew how to make sense of it as circumstantial for them. The desire that had made the spouse cheat was in them too, but it was because of the stagnancy of a long marriage. The frustration with how others lived their lives that begets nagging they knew all too well, but it was because they genuinely knew best when they nagged. The idiocy of one’s subordinates that could only be solved with anger was uniquely a fact of their lives; if only they didn’t have to supervise such stupid employees, they wouldn’t be forced to be so strict. Breaking from his reverie, he made himself coffee and her tea, knowing that he was in for a long night of one kind or another. If the news this intruder brought was good, then it would be a tearful one; if it was terrible, he would be in for a raucous night of critiquing. They would sit together hand in hand and tear apart the friend’s marriage, job, or the fall on hard times that were their fault. First chatter, then laughter, then sighs and moans of passion would fill their home. The aphrodisiacal force of suffering might bring them closer tonight, he hoped. From the doorway, a draft carried in muted conversation. “So good to see you! Of course, come in, have a seat. Tea? Coffee? Water?” The voice of this woman that he had spent years living with was clearest to him. He knew the way that her tone filtered through drywall and pine studs, the way it snaked

from her lips through framed pictures of vacations and promotions and filled the empty spaces between them. The guest was talking at the same volume as her, of course, he assumed, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. “Nothing? Really? Not even a glass of water? We have beer too if you want it. It doesn’t matter that it’s a Tuesday. We won’t judge you at all!” Should this guest take her up on the offer of one of the two lonely beers they kept for visitors, this too would enter their conspiratorial conversation later. They both drank most nights but would get their libations for the evening on the way home

from their respective offices. They would each drink to celebrate a professional victory or cope with a hard day. Such was the routine. Most days were one or the other; even a hard day was better than a boring one. She drank cider, he wine, neither beer. The frosty green bottles were for visitors. She walked into the kitchen and reached into a fridge filled with four days’ groceries. She moved aside a pack of chicken and retrieved the beer. She stood behind him, pecked him on the cheek, and wrapped her arms around him, the base of the bottle resting against his sternum, her free hand on the right side of his chest. Breathing against his neck and ear, she whispers to him, “I can’t believe how much one person can fuck things up. I think this time it was with a colleague. Scandalous!” She slid her right hand from chest to abdomen to hip, then into his front pants pocket and grabbed his keyring. In the kitchen doorway, one foot in the hall, she turned to him with a giddy malevolent smile, then took a deep breath and replaced it with a convivial facade and a cold neck between two fingers, keyring with bottle opener clenched in her other hand, head pulled into the hallway. She loudly announced, “You will never guess who dropped by!” Heels click- clacking down the hallway, she returned to the living room. He heard her step onto the carpet they had inherited from her sister, the heels silenced by the cloth they stabbed into. After checking his phone, he took the mugs and strode down the hall to meet their scandalous guest. His phone buzzed against his thigh, and he turned around to pick up the call in the kitchen. Setting down the mugs, he picked up. “Hey! How’re you holding up? Yep, tomorrow at six. No, you don’t have to bring anything, just yourself. Come on, man, it’ll be ok. She’s the one who cheated. I thought it was only with that guy from the gym. Jesus, her assistant too. When? Well, that’s not really cheating now is it? Was it after the separation? If you’re still married, then what about you and that girl in Montreal? I get it. I’m sorry man. I know it hurts. I’ve been there. I gotta go. Keep your head up,

bud. See you tomorrow.” His fingers found the handles once again, and he walked into the living room. She was sitting on her chair; the sole inhabitant of the couch was a men’s flannel. The guest’s flannel. Maybe a thrift find or stolen from a college boyfriend. On the coffee table in front of the bare patch of the couch the beer sat half-empty on a coaster. He looked at her knowing that to ask who had come by might come off as rude should their friend hear it from the hallway, so, instead, he handed her her tea. Footsteps alien to this home rang down the hall. He looked up, affixing the smile he saved for such occasions, and waited for this mysterious figure to enter the room. She crumpled to the couch. An origami crane set alight from its legs, she unfolded into a formless sheet. Mascara had formed inkblots on her cheeks, and in them, he saw a man and woman connected at the spine; facing away from one another, these inky figures cradled the faces of two other vague figures. He took a sip of his coffee and stared at the bubbles that had formed on the surface of his drink. Brownish frogspawn that clumped together by inertia after the sip and happily settled in the center of his mug. This guest, Sarah, cleared her throat and inhaled as if to begin speaking. His wife cut in, “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this right now.” She tilted her head towards him. “He’s good friends with your estranged husband.” He looked at Sarah. Her nails were short and jagged from constant chewing. “It’s ok. I can be impartial.” Her clothes were crumpled, and her hair was greasy. “Life is complicated. Love even more so.” They had introduced Sarah to him years ago on New Year’s Eve. On that couch, the flannel sat next to her, absent its bearer. They talked, she cried, all burdened by their actions until it was nearly midnight. As she pulled on the flannel, they both embraced her, reassuring her it was going to all be fine. They stood in the doorway, leaning against one another, as she walked to her car. By the time her car was pulling out, they were already in bed for the night.

CameronOutrospection Thomas --Cameron Outrospection Thomas by Cameron Thomas

ection Thomas -- Outrospection

This comic was created at www.MakeBelieveComix.com. Go there and make one now.

Photograph By: Faith Odegbami Photograph Title: “Female Mallard Duck” 64

Interviews for the

be you, be true prize and writing from the

LGBTQIA+ Community Danielle Slauzis is the Title IX coordinator at Norwich University. She is responsible for university programs around responding, preventing, and remedying sexual harassment. On a policy and programmatic level, her goal is to prevent discrimination and harassment on the basis of sex, sexual orientation and gender identity. She is also the co-advisor with Crystal Drown of the NU Alliance and a partner of the Be You, Be True Award. One of our editors, Surayah Pierce, interviewed Danielle. Surayah conducted the interview because she is the visionary behind the Be You, Be True Literary Prize and is a member of the NU Alliance.

Surayah Pierce: What attracted you to become Norwich University’s Title IX coordinator? Danielle Slauzis: When you think about people’s access to education, experiencing sexual or gender-based misconduct can negatively impact their ability to access their education. A lot of my experience prior to this role as coordinator has shown me the importance of policy and procedure to ensure that a community has access to resources and remedies. I think policies have a huge impact on how they shape our communities. So, if we want to be working to address sexual violence, which is a huge problem on campuses across the country, working with policy and thinking about it systemically can be a great way to start engaging with that work. SP: What made you want to get involved with the Be You, Be True Prize? DS: For me, raising other people’s voices and giving them space to share their experiences stems back to doing diversity, equity, and inclusion work. One of my favorite authors, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, gives a great TED Talk on the danger of a single story. When we only know one story for an entire community, we are going to think that story is true for every individual in that community, and that’s where a lot of implicit biases, assumptions, and further harmful acts can come from. The Be You, Be True award was one way to create more stories and make sure that we were giving the Norwich community a number of stories concerning the LGBTQIA+ community. SP: Besides the Be You, Be True prize, what other ways can we make a more inclusive community at Norwich? DS: On an individual level, I think self-education. When you get the chance to hear someone else’s story, you can learn about a different community or person, which adds to the complexity of the world around you. On a policy level, I’m working on drafting transgender and nonbinary cadets in the Corps policy that will show how we not only accept but help our transgender and nonbinary cadets succeed. Advocating for the policies you want to see is a great way to support the Norwich community. SP: What are your thoughts and vision for the LGBTQIA+ community at Norwich University both as the Title IX coordinator and a co-advisor for NU Alliance?

DS: As the Title IX coordinator, my view for LGBTQIA+ students on campuses is that they should thrive and feel welcome. We want to strive to create a space where there is no discrimination on the basis of gender identity or sexual orientation. We want to create programs that result in not just tolerance but inclusion of people in the LGBTQIA+ community. And I would love to get more awareness out about recent court cases that have said Title IX affirmatively protects people on the basis of gender identity and sexual orientation. When I think about my vision for the NU Alliance, the most important thing is to let students lead and let their voices be heard. I am here to support them as an institutional actor to create an environment free from discrimination. SP: What was your initial reaction when we asked you to support the Chameleon Literary Journal’s Be You, Be True Award? DS: I was excited because it helps raise voices. Also, it’s important to not just verbally commit since that can ring hollow after a while. The Title IX office wanted to put university funds into this as well. SP: Are there any other events that you would like to take place on campus to raise LGBTQIA+ awareness on campus? DS: This comes back to the conversation we had about what NU Alliance students want. Some students want pride events. Some students would like awareness-raising events with a speaker. I would love to see more events around healthy sexual practices since being informed is a huge piece of having healthy consensual sexual interactions. I’d love to see more events that connect people with other local movements like Pride VT since I’m a huge proponent of connecting people with resources that help. SP: Do you write as well? DS: I do, but not so much creative writing. I was a writing tutor as an undergrad, and that was formative for me; the motto of our writing center was, “every writer needs a reader.” Writing is a fantastic way to connect with yourself; it’s a fantastic way to communicate with others. I also think words are so impactful on our world, like our Title IX processes. From intake notes to the investigative report to the letter of decision, we need to have clear writing skills that communicate why we are making a decision. These are difficult processes, and everyone involved is owed the fullest and clearest communication. I think there’s something so personal about writing. I journal at home, but it’s also something that matters when I write an email or a text or offer someone resources. 68

Crystal Drown is the assistant director of Student Activities. She is from Northfield, Vermont, and is a 2019 Norwich graduate. She is the co-advisor of the NU Alliance, which is Norwich University’s official club for the LGBTQIA+ community on campus. Surayah Pierce, interviewed Crystal. Surayah conducted the interview because she is the visionary behind the Be You, Be True Literary Prize and is a member of the NU Alliance.

Surayah Pierce: As the advisor for the NU Alliance club, what made you interested in leading the club? Crystal Drown: The easiest answer is that I am a big ally for many advocacy groups around the Central Vermont area and also just in my own personal lifestyle. As a nontraditional student at Norwich, I knew the need for an LGBTQIA+ community on campus. I wanted to see an active group of students who could help spread awareness and have a safe space to hang out on campus. By having a certified club, it shows that Norwich is evolving with the times.

SP: When you were a student here was there an active NU Alliance club? CD: I’ve been at Norwich for about ten years, and during that time there was not an open, public facing, and active LGBTQIA+ club. My involvement with NU Alliance started with Matt Roche, the former Director of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion, when he brought me in to be a Safe Zone trainer for the NU Alliance and then; from there, I partnered with Danielle Slauzis to be a co-advisor.

SP: What is your vision for the future for NU Alliance? CD: One of my visions for the future is for the club to be active on campus and host an event on campus that is open to the greater student audience. That could be doing an interactive Rocky Horror Picture Show or a drag show that talks about gender identity and sex topics with students in a fun way versus a panel discussion. Designing a custom challenge coin would be something I would love to see the NU Alliance do. NU Alliance members can hand out the coins to fellow students and professors for being an upstander for an LGBTQIA+ person. This also gives the opportunity to educate or inform the students of Norwich.

SP: How do you think that we could make Norwich University a more inclusive and safer community for our LGBTQIA+ community? CD: Part of my role is doing Safe Zone training, which we did for the first time with the entire civilian freshman population this year. We were able to get 49% of the campus first year population educated on respect. I would love to see Safe Zone training move over into the Corps of Cadets. To go along with that, there are a lot of ways to do activities that promote education and awareness. An example would be we could host a mini pride parade on campus, or maybe there’s someone currently in the NU Alliance who wants to make a rainbow flag snow sculpture for the Winter Carnival. I have so many ideas, and the sky is the limit so long as we adhere to Norwich University’s policies and procedures to put on sanctioned events. I think hosting a drag show would be great. Just because you’re a drag queen doesn’t mean you’re gay, and I would love that stereotype and stigma to be removed. I would love to know that everyone feels safe because college is the time for people to experiment with their lives. I think we want people to not be closeted on all parts of our campus and in our online population, too. Not just the military portion of campus.

SP: I know you’ve participated in the International Women’s Day event, and you are a writer, how did writing play a big role in who you are today? CD: I grew up locally and my personal educational experience was horrible. I’m dyslexic, and I was one of those individuals who was passed along rather than taught creative writing. I used to always love to write poetry because it’s an easy escape; the best part about writing poetry is that you don’t have to worry about comma splices, fragments, grammar, and punctuation because it’s freestanding. I did not go to college right away because I let my dyslexia hold me back. But once I did, it was Professor Prentiss that made me love writing again. Professor Prentiss made me find joy in writing and pushed me to show that I am a talented writer. Since graduating, I’ve been published quite a few times.

SP: Do you have any pieces pertaining to the LGBTQIA+ experience? CD: I have some hidden places that I’ve been working on for this year’s International Women’s Day that explore some of my personal experiences with the LGBTQIA+ community as an openly gay woman. I remember your piece last year (Surayah), “Dear Queer Girl,” which was the first piece of gay creative writing ever read at International Women’s Day that dealt with being a member of the LGBTQIA+ in the history of Norwich University’s Voices for International Women’s Day. I was like, “Here’s a strong, bold individual person who is expressing themselves openly”, and I wish I was able to do that years ago with myself. So, you helped inspire me personally. 70

Artwork By: Crystal Drown Artwork Title: “Changes in Time” 71

BE Y

becoming what we lost

, BE TRUE OU

R WINNE

by Anonymous

Y R T E PO $250

P RIZ

Author’s Note: This poem is about the brave LGBTQIA+ Americans who fought in the Stonewall Riots only to be taken down years later during the AIDS epidemic and left to suffer by their peers. In the ensuing years, the LGBTQIA+ community lost many who could have gone on to be mentors, who could have helped adolescents questioning their sexuality or gender now. It’s up to today’s generation to fill the gap.

The city laid waste with empty beds turned headstone Names shifted to whispers, shifted to shame, then forgotten Who threw bricks to build freedom out of shattered bones The foundation they sought already laid rotten Not from the poison that spread through their veins like fire Nor the God who could smite them with wave of a hand No, the same hands that fed them lit up their pyres Bit their lips and smiled as they purged them off their land So, when we ask where all the great role models are Why the burden falls to us to find our own pride We must remember the names scratched into the bar The ones betrayed by their friends who left them to die We will grow to become the heroes we needed To pay the debt we owe and sow what we’ve seeded

you made my identity a form of dysmorphia by Anonymous

Eyes are coffee, neglecting the sugar, Bitter and bruised shades of earth. Copper drizzled in honey, glimmering in burnt sunlight, My confidence is glass at the foot of the stairs. Hair is cedar ash, smoldering in a firepit, Fallen pine needles, burnt leaves, colors of lifelessness. Color leached from wood, dry-rotted barns along the interstate, My hopes are kintsugi without the gold. Skin made of sand and porcelain, heralding winter snows, Rose along the cheekbones, A painting of scarred constellations, stories on skin, My dreams hobbling, crippled. A tank made of flesh, Strong shoulders, strong spine, heels to floor. Curves without the appeal, masculinity in a dress, My heart an outcast in the rain. 73

these hands by Anonymous

These hands That have cracked and broken Bruised and bled Bore the weight, this balance like a friar tolling his bell So sudden So sure They strain under the pressure Crumble slowly This is the old me But it’s not anymore The knuckles bolster Buckle up and hold Bend instead of break Until they mold into what I never knew they could be This feeling: Free What they should be And so I throw away the casts I stand up The weight lifted But the imprint never gone

addiction by Surayah Pierce

I am wholly and utterly addicted to you. The beauty of your soul, to me, is like nicotine to an avid smoker. How could I ever satiate my hunger for you? The lack of your presence causes a ravenous hole to form in the pit of my stomach. Withdrawal sets in, storms destroy my brain and disfigure my heart; nothing soothes this bodily Tempest. Nothing but you. My body, soul, and heart longs for its other half and grieves for its loss of contact. Anything would do to momentarily cease this war raging on within me! A good morning text or goodnight one from you expressing how you wish you could’ve fallen Asleep with me in your arms And woken up to a tangle of our limbs, not knowing where you end and where I begin. A short phone call telling me about your day, your voice dispelling the wanton hunger and want To be near you for just that moment. Only you can whisk away this thick cloud of smoke that congests my lungs and leave me Gasping your name, Only you can cure the cancerous pain that corrodes my heart, For I am addicted to you 75

a cold winter night by GianCarlo Biondi Your breath crystalized in the air before my eyes. Heavy snowflakes fell between our faces. The hot breath that came from our deep lungs melted the snow. I looked into your eyes. They were as blue as ice, a spark of icy life flowed through them. Your blonde hair so perfectly placed atop your head, it caught snowflakes as you drifted back and forth in my grasp. The impossibly big coats that wrapped around our bodies kept us warm. You leaned in, and your forehead met with mine. I smiled in an almost childlike way, so amazed and joyous about the person in front of me. A person whose gaze made me feel wanted and loved. You noticed the pure untainted emotion pour from my face and you matched it. The soft glow of the street light illuminated half of our faces. As we looked into each other’s gaze, the light caught your eye at just the perfect moment, a flash of blue struck a snowflake that fell in between us. Suddenly, you slid your hands up my face, and there they rested so warm and silky. Your eyes looked away, only to be met with the passing headlights of a car down the street. All the while my eyes were locked on to yours. You turned back, with your hands still nestled against the sides of my head, and you leaned in. Our warm lips came closer and closer. I could feel your radiant breath on my face. You stopped, looked at me, and squeezed your hands against my head. You let out a mischievous laugh. As soon as the last bit of crystalline breath left your mouth, you whipped your head around, the thick snowflakes breaking as your face cut through the air. All in one motion, your body swiftly left mine, and you began to run. Each footstep sank into the snow, creating a trail for me to follow. My body was so in tune with yours, it was pulled by your motion. You let out a boyish laugh as you were amazed by the beauty of the cold night. Our bodies locked in orbit of each other. I quickly and swiftly followed you and your trail into the middle of the street. I saw you, but not with my eyes. I saw blissful euphoria that was your soul. And, in that moment, I felt truly happy for the first time in a long time. I stood on the curb as you made your way out into the middle of the street. Now, bathed in the beautiful amber glow of the streetlight, the snow caught in your perfectly trimmed beard. Your eyes met mine, the green and blue clashing, and, as if I knew what you were going to do next, I paused. A smile grew from ear to ear, and you let out a soft yet playful, “come here. Your arms opened, and as a dog beckoned to the call of their owner, I ran to you. Building momentum as a flurry of snow winded around me, each step 76

WINNER

CHAME LE

ITERARY JOURN ON L

ITING R W E V I CREAT D

$150

AWAR

was helped by the gravity we exerted on one another. As I grew closer to you, my arms opened wide, and the endless journey from the curb to the middle of the street was finally over. I crashed into you with the full force of our bodies connecting. We fell to the ground, grasping each other in an endless embrace. The snow was dense enough to break our fall. We laid there, in the open, that night. The only other thing that kept our company was a large pine tree that loomed above us, and a cold ground below us. My hand reached for your face, you smiled, and our eyes locked again. My fingers worked their way across your face and around to the back of your head. Each little bristle of hair met a nerve in my fingers, eventually electrifying my whole hand. My hand reached the perfect spot on the back of your head, where it rested comfortably. That’s when we connected, a deep force reached into our hearts and stoked the ember that burned for each other. At that moment, I pulled you in close, our eyes closing and our lips gently touching for the first time in what felt like an eternity. A kiss to cement a love boundless within the confines of reality. I was truly happy. As I pulled away all I could feel was a cold emptiness. *** I roll over in my bed, the sheets suffocating me in a horrid embrace. I drift back to reality and there I lay. In my room, only wishing that you were real, out there, somewhere for me to love, for me to live. 77

Artwork By: Crystal Drown Artwork Title: “Pickles”