Seascape 2 0 14 a s h o w c a s e o f o c e a n c o u n t y c o l l e g e’s c r e a t i v i t y
Spring 2014 Editor-in-Chief: Nicholas Devlin
Co-Editor: Melissa Halk
Secretary: Sara Pease
Associate Editors: Steven Martinez Hayley McGinn Shane Press Breanna Poinsett Lauren Rowek Brian Volpe Layout Consultant: Pat Pfleger
Advisor: Professor Sheridan
Front cover art by Kaila Rogers Inside cover art by Alex Scavuzzo Inside back cover art by Hayley McGinn Rear cover art by Lisa Dostal
A production of
Seascape Literary & Art Magazine of Ocean County College
Jetty in the Clouds
by Alex Scavuzzo
Seascape 2014
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Seascape
is an annual publication produced by the Seascape Literary Magazine Club of Ocean County College. Founded in 1965, it is produced by student editors and is composed of student, alumni, and faculty work. The editors welcome submissions of any genre and mainstream short stories, poetry, essays, drama, photography, and artwork. All submissions may be given to the Student Life office of Ocean County College. Submissions are accepted from September through March.
Work submitted to the annual short story contest is judged on the basis of plot, syntax, concept originality, character formation, point-of-view consistency, dialogue authenticity and diversity, effectiveness of symbolism and presence of short story elements. Work submitted to the annual art contest is judged on the basis of originality, expression, and composition. The work submitted to the magazine represents the thoughts and opinions of the writer and not necessarily the magazine or the school.
Special thanks to the following individuals for their generous support of the magazine: Jennifer Fazio, Alison Noone, Don Doran, Prof. Nat Bard, Prof. Jayanti Tamm, Dr. Karr, and Interim Dean Henry Jackson. Special thanks also to the English Department and to the staff at the Student Life Office of Ocean County College.
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Note from the Editor Dear Reader,
This is the part where I get to be all humble and mention that if this magazine were entirely left up to me, there would be no magazine. Working on this magazine has been just as unpredictable as I predicted it to be. Every time I thought I had figured out how to run things, a new problem popped up. Thankfully, I had help from lots of people more experienced than myself, mostly from the advisor, Prof. Sheridan, and the staff at Student Life. I also want to thank everyone for submitting. I expected the biggest challenge in creating this magazine would be finding well written stories and interesting art. In actuality, the biggest problem was having to choose which of the pieces submitted could actually be included in the magazine. There are only so many pages, and deciding who had to be left out was a difficult process. This also means that we have a great collection of poetry, art, and short stories in this magazine. I hope everyone reading this magazine enjoys reading and looking at these pieces as much as I did. Nicholas Devlin Editor-in-Chief
Table of Contents Motivated Sloth by Marian Smith Motivated Sloth by Nicholas Devlin Painting by Doug Anderson Slaughterbox 24 by Melissa Halk Invitation by Barbara DeButts Love Is by James Journeigan Dreaming Nightmares by Lauren Rowek The Farmer and His Wife by Jeanette Custode Monsters by Charles Chipman A Howl in the Night by Alyssa Miller Finding Form by Brielle Bogdzio A Cry From Above by Leigh Fisher Mommy’s Little Girl by Amiko Huggins Window by Liam Mcbride Wasted Legacy by Nicholas Devlin Untitled by Evan Tortorelli Whispers in the Night by Michael Brothers Double Self Portrait by Kirsten Flood Attraction Repulsion 2 by Kaila Rogers
6 6 7 8 10 10 11 12 15 16 17 18 22 23 24 25 42 43 47
Phoenix by Stephanie Olsen 48 The Liberation of Aunt Jemima : A Monologue by Gabrielle Gillen Still Life by SergioBrinatti Idiosyncrasies by Keira P. Smith Phase III by Lisa Michelle Seaman Lights by Sara Pease Untitled by Emely Taveras Escape by Sara Rosamilia Laughing Smile by Steven Martinez Untitled by Alsyon Wright In Your Arms by Sara Rosamilia Eagle by Evan Tortorelli A Story by James LaComb
49 51 52 59 60 61 62 64 65 66 67 68
After Romare Bearden’s “The Block” by Anthony Petronzio
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Jean-Michel Basquiat Paints Horn Players by Robert McGovern
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Winners of the Short Story Contest
Terminal Dissonance by Cami Effrig The Pond by Jen O’Connor Light of the Moon by Keira P. Smith
26 34 38
Winners of the Poetry Contest
Life by Delaney Burke 44 Seashell Hearts by Elyssa Perkins 45 The Essence of a Woman by Lauren Rowek 46
Winners of the Art Contest
47 by Nicholas Peterson Smile by Adele Van Der Merwe Dichotomy by Doug Anderson
56 57 58
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Motivated
Sloth
By Marian Smith
Motivated Sloth By Nicholas Devlin
Green.
Shrouded in emerald leaves; Plants providing
Nourishment and protection. Peaceful.
Leisurely movement.
Every motion embracing
Acceptance and stillness. Living.
Creatures growing
Through days unending. Continuous cycles.
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Painting
by Doug Anderson
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Slaughterbox 24 By Melissa Halk
“Monday morning’s here, the weekend has commenced! The battle begins!” yells my fair commander, General White. He continues on with a tone of apprehension, “We will now take a moment of silence in honor of our dear troops who were brutally massacred last Friday.” After a long remorseful pause, General White finishes, “So it goes boys, so it goes!” With the Rose Art Twenty-Seven Unit completely annihilated last week, the only troop left in the desk quadrant is my division – Crayola Twenty-Four Unit. Creak! Opens the rigid door.
The sound roars through my ears like the crashing of a Lego tower; I tremble. Slowly, one by one, the enemy crusaders fill the war zone. The children flood in quicker than
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spilt juice boxes at snack time – the children just as sticky too.
I cautiously peek through a crack in the wall of the safe house. Patiently, I lie trembling, awaiting an attack from the children crusaders. Hours pass until, finally, the crusader they call “Julia” slowly approaches my unit house and picks up my unit box. My heart pounds, I fear for my comrades around me. Being Green-yellow, I am not too nervous; for some reason very few crusades like to amuse themselves by crushing my body against the tree pulp sheets they call “paper.” Next to General White, I am one of the sharpest in the box.
Julia only preys upon the reddish and blue hues. Several of the red and blue variety are missing more than half their heads. Three weeks
ago Red-violet became completely blinded. She was brutally rubbed down to just above her mouth, her bodily remnants smeared across the tree pulp sheets in the image of a distorted flower. I cannot understand this ritual the crusaders have. But Julia does this ritualistically. The flower distortion depictions must be a symbol of her ranking or quadrant division. I may never know the true answer. My unit box begins shaking. “Julia,” I whisper.
Pink, my fellow comrade positioned next to me, starts shaking and mumbling in fear. The rest of my troop is silent, we all know Pink will be first to go.
I hold my breath as Julia vigorously shakes my unit box, poking her chubby fat finger inside – the scent of Play-Doh escorts it – prodding to get to Pink.
“Be strong my boy! Hold yourself together!” shouted General White.
With those words, Pink jumps out into the hand of the enemy, and bravely fights for his life under Julia’s heavy grip. Julia crushes him to the paper. Pink’s wax leaves a lopsided heart on the paper. Before long, I notice Pink beginning to bend. I turn my head, unwilling to see my fair friend slaughtered. Snap!
Pink was dead. Just like that, in a blink of an eye. Similar to the sound of rubber slingshots breaking, I hear Julia throw his remains across the battlefield. I feel chills run up and down my paper rolled back.
“So it goes boys! So it goes!” shouts General White, as Julia’s fat finger attacks our unit box again, this time grabbing Purple.
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Invitation
Love Is By James Journeigan
By Barbara DeButts
Love is a warm hand
In the depths of winter.
But also the summer sun In the scorching desert. Love is the soft sand
On the twilight beach. But also the wane
Of the ocean tide.
Love is the breathe of wind On a hot night.
But also the buzz of insects On the eardrums.
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Love is what you make of it.
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Dreaming Nightmares By Lauren Rowek
The sun settles, lingers into twilight, Confined, in the still of the night,
Childhood fantasies, turned villainous against our sights. A dimension awaits us,
Mysterious, an enchanted realm beyond our reach, Comforting, only the dreams of sweet. Unknowing, the struggle deep within, Trapped, the torture begins,
Captive by innocent visions of the past. Suddenly, an unexpected switch,
Erratically, our body beings to twitch,
Dreaming nightmares, an apocalypse‌
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The Farmer and His Wife By Jeanette Custode
It was a cool and silent night, on a
what he hoped was his wife. On this
dozing, having a hard time sleeping
fell to his knees when the chaplain
farm on the outskirts of town. The
farmer sat in a reclining chair lightly in bed by himself, and missing the
body heat from his wife lying next to him. It had been three months since
he last held her. The constant worry and fear never far, praying to any God that would listen.
His breath was stolen and his heart
broken when her orders were given.
She was to go to war. To a place where he could not follow, or even phone.
She called when she could, but that was not often. His heart felt as if at
any moment it may stop from pain of separation. Each night was the same.
Sit and wait. That was all he could do
for her. He would hope for her to call, rather than the chaplain.
The stillness of the night was broken when the phone let out a shrill
noise. The farmer was quick to
awaken and answer the phone for
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night, his hope was crushed and the world started to turn black as he
spoke his next words. “I am sorry
sir. Your wife has been transferred
to Kandahar, Afghanistan in critical
condition due to a mortar impacting with the Humvee she was in. The
vehicle was hit on the driver side, rolled, and came to a stop upside down while on fire.”
“When she came to, she freed herself, and began to see to her fellow
soldiers, pulling them free from the wreckage. Her actions were heroic, and her bravery without question.
I will call you with her condition as soon as she is out of surgery.”
The phone held in his hands fell with a clatter upon the floor. He stared
at the wall where her picture hung,
tears falling freely down his face. His only regret was that he could not
be there in her hour of need. A vow
was made, not unlike the one that
my love.” For the second time in
me,” he pleaded. “My love, my heart
was alive but she was injured. After
was exchanged on the day of their wedding. “Let her come home to
knows that whatever has happened to you that I will always belong to you. You are my reason to be.”
Sleep would not come to him on
this night. He waited for a sign. He waited for an answer. But most importantly, he waited for her.
The following day was spent with
phone in hand as he tried to work
through his grief. He could wait no more in silence,
two days he wept. Unlike the first time, this time he wept in joy. She
the Humvee rolled to a stop it was
ablaze. Acting without thought, she had pulled her comrades from the twisted wreck as the fire spread.
She had petrol on her clothes and
skin that ignited when she came too close to the flames, trying to pull
His heart felt as if at any moment it may stop from pain of separation.
try as he may.
free a specialist from under the
door. The flames danced across skin as others
came running to help. She rolled
upon the ground
to extinguish the painful sparks,
While work was done, he thought of
and then the Humvee blew sky high.
On the eve of that day, he received
Her tears could not come as the
the past, how when it comes to time there is so little and so much of it. a call. Heart in his throat as the
sweetest sound came through, “Hello
The concussion from the blast put the flames on her body out.
damage and drugs in her system
refused to allow it. His heart broke
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anew as he heard her grief at the
scorned her. They stayed like that
her: “Fear not, my sweet angel. Take
part from her. When she felt as if she
damage to her body. In that one
moment of clarity he bared his soul to
pride in what you did. No matter what is to come, my love for you will not set like sun. For as long as there is breath
in my lungs know that my heart beats for you… only you.”
Days passed while she healed,
and finally she was well enough to
return home. When her flight landed he was there, dressed to the nines
with a single yellow daisy in hand. Timidly, she got off the plane. The farmer looking into the eyes of all
who stepped off the plane spotted
her. He smiled to see her, and when she was close to him, she swept
her into his arms and kissed her.
Feeling her sag in relief against him, he pulled back, and looking into her eyes he told her, “My sweet angel, I
will love you all my days. It matters
not what you look like, but who you are. You are still just as beautiful today as the day we met.”
Burrowing into the warmth of her husband, she let loose tears of
happiness that her love had not
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for what felt like hours. He would not let her go. He did not wish to
had composed herself enough, she
pulled back. Looking upon his wife he told her, “Let’s go home.”
Hand in hand, they went home to the farm. As time went on, days
into weeks, weeks into months, the farmer could not help but notice
how his wife did not wish to leave
the safety of home. Finally, he asked if she would go with him into town. She would not refuse her husband anything, but for the second time in her life, she knew fear. Fear of
when others see her, terror that he
would not want anything to do with her when strangers stared upon
her monster like fire-ravaged skin. Seeing her fear he said simply, “By
your side is my place. I am not here by obligation, but love.” Pulling
out of the driveway and down the road, she saw the gas gauge on
empty. They had one stop to make before town. She sighed. Pulling
her courage to the forefront, she
straightened her spine and drove on.
Monsters By Charles Chipman
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A Howl in the Night By Alyssa Miller
Lightning strikes, The Earth trembles, Quakes with fear Spitting fires and roaring seas. In the distance Under a weeping tree A lone wolf howls, Begs for mercy. The moon looks down, Cracks a smile, A wicked grin that Only Satan knows how. The stars begin to dance. Orion stomps his feet and Swings his mighty sword. The Phoenix lights the skies, Sets the skies ablaze.
While poison rains
From the Hydra’s terrifying heads.
Leo roars, his jagged teeth gleam and Drip with crimson blood.
Hades lets out a sinister laugh,
Filling the air with hatred and contempt.
Pegasus, Hercules noble and gallant steed, rears up in fear.
The lone wolf howls, and All goes silent.
The lone wolf leaps into the air; Orion drops his sword,
The Phoenix stops mid-flight, The Hydra slinks back,
Leo becomes quiet, and Hades, foolish Hades,
Approaches the lone wolf
Only to be dragged into the hell he created.
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Finding
Form
By Brielle Bogdzio
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A Cry From Above By Leigh Fisher
For a police officer, a call to
tree branch and let out a wary
calm call from the dispatcher,
up and, summoning up all his
duty could come in many
different forms. It could be a a radio message from a
colleague, or even an actual
desperate cry for help. When Officer Chinworth heard that
desperate cry for assistance, he
responded instantly. He stopped short, dropped his half-eaten
doughnut, and turned around to
face the source of the cry. He put on a determined expression and instantly began to run over to
the sound of distress. He came
face to face with a pair of fearful eyes looking down at him from
above and knew that his services were needed desperately.
“I’ll rescue you!” he
The cat sank its claws
announced with a sparkle of heroism in his eyes.
deeper into the bark of the
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meow at the sight of its wouldbe rescuer. He pulled his belt tree climbing skills of early
adolescence, wrapped his arms around the coarse bark. He
stretched his arm as high as
he could and grabbed onto a
branch. His muscles protested
as he started to pull himself up, although the branch protested even louder and let out a
miserable creak. He secured a
foothold and made his way up
to where the cat whimpered. He
set his foot on the branch he first
used to pull himself up, confident that it was a proven branch and would remain strong.
He felt a momentary
wave of panic wash over him
as the branch cracked and fell
to the ground. He wrapped his legs around the tree and held
onto the branches supporting
It moved down his back, sinking
bearings enough to continue his
before it clawed down his leg
his arms frantically for a few
moments before regaining his
upward climb. The cat was only
a few more branches above him;
he had to press on and be true to his civic duty to the town. It took him longer than he would have liked, but he managed to claw
his way a few branches higher until he was just arm’s length away from the cat.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” he said
The cat’s ears pricked
soothingly as he extended his arm to the fretful creature.
up. It stared at his hand for a moment as it realized that a
golden opportunity had just
presented itself. The cat jumped
over his hand and instead landed on his arm, swiftly sinking its
claws straight through the sleeve of his uniform for support. He
let out a cry of pain but the cat moved faster than he possibly
could. It scurried up his arm and down his back with swiftness
that far outscored any human.
its claws deep enough into his
skin to practically defy gravity,
and jumped from his shoe safely onto the ground.
He grimaced at every
poke of the claw and let out
a girlish scream when the cat finally got away. It had used
him as a gangplank and he was left hanging there miserably.
He groaned as he tried to climb down again, but unlike the cat,
he found himself unable to make the jump now that the first
branch was sitting innocently
on the ground. He looked down
and muttered a curse under his
breath as he did the only thing a man in his position could do.
He climbed up higher, to
the thick branch where the cat
had initially perched, and took a
seat, leaning his back against the tree trunk. The park was mostly empty, as it was early in the day and all the nearby schools were still in session. He swallowed
his pride laboriously and cried
out for help a couple of times,
“Okay…does that mean that you
to pull his out cell phone and
a tree in the park, and I can’t get
but there was no one to respond. Ultimately, he had no choice but make the most humiliating call of his life. It rang several times until his partner back at the
precinct picked up the phone.
“Hey, Frank!” his partner
“James…I’m a bit stuck
“What’s up? Did you get
“Not exactly,” Frank
“You’re going to have to
said cheerfully. “What are you up to? The boss is looking for you.” at the moment,” he admitted through pursed lips.
stuck with someone wanting to chat?”
mumbled. “I’m stuck a bit more…literally.”
speak a bit clearer; I can barely hear you over that old cell
phone of yours,” James said, a bit impatiently.
“I’m stuck up in a tree,”
His partner was silent
he blurted out, as quickly as possible.
on the other end of the phone.
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won’t be back until later?”
“No, it means that I am in
down,” he said, his tone perfectly somber and serious.
“Seriously?” James asked
disbelievingly.
“I wouldn’t joke about
this,” he groaned.
His partner burst out
laughing. Frank closed his eyes and his frown deepened by
the second as he waited for his
colleague to stop laughing long enough to respond coherently. It took longer than he would
have liked for James to finish
laughing and cheerfully inform
their other coworkers of Frank’s predicament or any action was
finally taken. Unfortunately, since the precinct did not have any
ladders, they had no choice but
to summon the fire department and have a truck come out. He
ended up waiting for half an hour before his colleagues, armed
with cameras, and a full sized fire truck came to rescue him.
“Let me be frank, Frank,”
James said amusedly as he held his phone up to take pictures. “This is your biggest blunder to date.”
Frank stared at his partner
and the terrible pun as he was
ushered into the basket crane by a firefighter who was struggling not to smirk. Frank glanced
unhappily around the crowd,
both annoyed and perplexed to see that their boss had come to observe the show as well.
“This is why people say
that people in law enforcement don’t deserve their jobs and pensions,” their boss sighed.
Ultimately, Frank reached
the ground unharmed, though
his back and limbs were itching madly from where the cat had
scratched him. He stepped out of the basket as soon as he
reached the ground and glanced over his shoulder. On the bench, looking quite smug, sat the
cat that had created his day of
embarrassment. The cat licked
its paw leisurely and cleaned its face, prim as a princess, before
leaping away with a merry flick of its tail.
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Mommy’s Little Girl By Amiko Huggins
I try so hard to let you go, but I’ll never be the same
For I could never cease the love to you who gave my name The pain it will not go, but I’ve learned to live with it
The memories, dreams and plans, never seem to quit So enmeshed you are throughout my entire life
Whether good or bad, high or low, easy or in strife
You were the one always there just as you had said
Who laughed and cried along with me, who tucked me into bed We had our ups and downs, and our fallouts, too
But you always had good intentions, and were always true You left me again so suddenly, but this time was for good If I could take back all our fights, I so quickly would
Mom, I can’t believe, I will never again hear your voice
I wish I would have guided you to make a better choice But all of this is gone now, I can’t see you again
I just wanted you to know, you were my greatest friend ~
Dedicated to my mother who passed away this December 08, 2013
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Window
By Liam Mcbride
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Wasted Legacy By Nicholas Devlin
We are throwing wild parties in a beautiful mansion; A palace, providing for our every desire. With an infinitely stocked fridge, fresh Water flowing from every faucet,
Enough power to linger a lifetime. Even maids to clean up our mess. But our parties keep intensifying
And there are only so many maids. The trash continues accumulating, The pipes clog with sewage,
And our infinity seems smaller.
Soon the mansion will collapse around us, Only rubbish and filth as a remnant.
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Untitled
By Evan Tortorelli
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1st Place
Seascape’s Annual
Short Story Contest
Terminal Dissonance By Cami Effrig
When I was born, my father was
Thankfully, I was not alone. I had
of direction. He did not shout nor
We had no names, but in that time
gentle and warm, his soft light
always present to give me a sense did he rage, but rather, he kept a
steady hand by providing shelter in the form of stability.
Despite
that, my birth was not an easy one,
claiming the lives of hundreds for only one to emerge alive. I never felt guilt for them until I was much
older and understood the countless lives taken. It was out of my control, but the fact that I played a part still
tormented my mind. Had I been given the choice, I would have tried to save as many as I could, even if it cost me dearly.
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eight siblings that had also survived, and together we grew and learned.
we did not need them. We were all simply “Brother” or “Sister,” with
our father constantly watching over
us. He enjoyed our antics, telling us
stories of the universe and trying
to satisfy our thirst for knowledge. We all envied our smallest brother,
for he was closest to Father, always prancing joyously and erratically around him. It was a precarious
position, however, given that if
Father ever grew angry, he was the first to receive punishment.
Yet he did not complain about his
of my siblings could reach her. Our
surrounded him. We did not stop
her mental barrier.
situation, choosing to dance and sing about the wonders that constantly
him, for his voice helped to fill the void that constantly smothered us. Our existence, while miraculous,
was still very tenuous at best in our young age. We even had to be careful
to avoid being too rough with each other, as that act could easily upset
the delicate balance we had settled into. Unfortunately, my little sister
could not understand that concept.
She wanted to play, and I had no
choice in the matter as she did exactly that.
I pleaded and begged, but she was too stubborn to listen.
Perhaps
she was simply tired of always following behind me, or it could
have been that I was older. I tried
to reason with her as she drew ever closer, but my arguments fell into the void that birthed us. She could
not be dissuaded from the path she
had chosen, and neither I nor any
only hope resided with our father, in the hopes his voice could breach But even Father was powerless.
We circled each other for quite some time, a duet of edging closer and farther simultaneously.
Her
persistence eventually won as I grew weary from the act, leading
to her finally achieving her largely delayed tackle. Horrible, agonizing
pain rippled through my being as
our bodies smashed together, heat flooding my core from the sheer force of impact. It was terrifying, as I did not know if I was going to
survive or not. My very essence felt like it was ready to be torn
out and extinguished while my
consciousness hovered between the waking world and dreams.
Sister had it much worse, however. Her small frame could not take the
damage, and she had a considerable Seascape 2014
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amount of herself torn off.
The
He only had me as a neighbor,
for relief. We strayed apart in our
felt jealousy, he didn’t physically
screams as she bled out berated my soul with their insistent pleading
despair, but I chose to stay as close as I safely could to her. My sister was quiet and distant from all of us
after that event, traumatized as her life slowly ebbed from her. In only a
few short years her heart had stilled and she no longer lived in the same realm as us.
We lamented her loss but the years continued, and soon there
was joy to be had. I finally had
life to call my own, thousands to millions of children that frolicked around me.
It did barter some
envy from my siblings, particularly my second smallest brother who
was the quiet redhead. He greatly enjoyed watching my children, and
I knew he felt quite lonely with
the immense distance between himself and our largest sibling.
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and I had more company than I could ever have wished for. If he
show it, but the tinge of envy in his voice was readily apparent for all to hear.
My children grew and matured,
suffering losses of their own but always rebounding.
They were
very creative and crafted their own homes, blending rudimentary
elements together to form new
ones that were stronger than their predecessors.
Eventually their
grasp turned skyward, and my
long dead sister soon found herself having company. It was bittersweet
for she would never know the joy, but watching my own children
accomplish such a feat was a mother’s greatest reward.
Eventually my brother was visited
as well by them, and to say he
was elated would have been a
their numbers began to dwindle. I
considerable amount of questions.
them suffer, and I cried for every
rather large understatement. He
readily observed them, asking me a I tried as best I could to answer, but as of late I had fallen ill, a long
standing fever that had refused to
go away. Father was getting more and more ill-tempered as the years
went by due to his age, and that hot
glare he sent did nothing to ease my discomfort.
absolutely despised the fact I could not do anything for them but watch single loss.
Father continued to grow angrier in
his seniority, choosing instead to eat rather than talk. We worried about
this since it was unhealthy, and he was working his way through his
favorite meals far too quickly. We
The screams as she bled out berated my soul with their insistent pleading for relief.
My fever would never go away.
missed our benevolent parent and
with my brother. Not all of them
illness was spreading because of it,
My children decided it was best to
relocate and chose to take shelter left, no, for my brother was not as capable of taking care of billions as
I was. My illness made it difficult for
them to get the nourishment they needed, and as the years passed
his stories, and disliked the seething glare we were always receiving. The and even my brother had fallen too
ill to support my children. They had managed to relocate to one of my more distant siblings, but it pained me to drift further from them.
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Our smallest sibling continued to
expanding girth constantly kept
that had always been present in his
Father struck him with a terrible
sing and dance around Father, but as
of late he had lost some enthusiasm
voice. Being the closest, his illness
by far was the worst, and it had begun to take a severe toll on his
mind. He tried to get Father to stop eating so quickly, but he was told to be silent, and eventually this led to
him giving up entirely. Rather than argue with someone who wouldn’t
listen, he chose to keep an eye on the situation.
He was the first to know when
Father had finally run out of his
favorite meal. In order to avoid starving, our parent switched to eating food that wasn’t quite as
healthy as before, and as a result,
began to grow in size. His temper became atrocious and violent, and
as we feared, our brother took the blunt of it. He attempted to move further away, but Father’s
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him within reach of retribution.
blow, and we were helpless as he screamed at the fiery backlash. It
was so unnatural for him to stop singing, even for a brief moment
in time. We sent words of comfort to him and tried to take his mind
off of the pain; he responded with poetry to ease our uneasy hearts. His dance continued but
grew dangerously close as Father got fatter, and we all knew it was only a matter of time before the boundary of no return was crossed.
We never expected
for him to grow so desperate
for food that he would consider cannibalizing his own children. The very thought of cannibalism
never even crossed our minds. Father wasn’t a monster despite his recent behavior, and to commit
such an act would suggest he was
one. Our ignorance was proven
when our brother suddenly sang no more.
The loss was tremendous. For all
our lives, our brother had kept the silence at bay with his voice, and
now without him it was deafening.
We prayed that Father’s conscience would win out and that he would
realize the crime he had committed, but he continued to eat as if nothing
had happened. My twin sister was petrified of the situation, baking beneath his immense anger as she realized that now his attention was turned on her.
She cried at him, begging for mercy and forgiveness. She did not know what she had done wrong but
promised that, if allowed to live,
she would never do it again. We could never tell her how foolish of a request it was because we
simply couldn’t bear to strip what
little hope she had remaining. It
was apparent her words had no
effect when Father continued to approach, and, unlike previously, he
wasted very little time and quickly devoured her.
We were all downright horrified and
sickened by this. Two of our siblings were now dead, and he continued to show little remorse for his actions. I
wondered how he had changed from such a kind figure to an angry giant,
throwing his weight around with absolutely no care for those that
were in the line of fire. My brother
didn’t need to die, and neither had my sister. I did not deserve to die, especially since I had brought life
into the world myself. My children may have long left the nest, but
their descendants were still nearby
and they did not need to see their mother so brutally slaughtered.
I was angry as he turned his sights toward me, his scalding gaze Seascape 2014
31
burning my body. His anger flooded
Escape
siblings threw their voices into
I too knew it. It was considerably
my mind, and to escape I tried to gain some distance from him. My mine as I attempted to convince our
father to stop. It seemed to work briefly as he halted his advance,
only for a pang of hunger to send him lurching back after me once
more. He was catching up, slowly, but it was a steady gain that meant the inevitable.
This must have been the terror my sister felt as he had drawn near. It was hard to tell if my brother had felt
it, as he had danced so precariously
close to Father that it might have
happened too quickly for him to register the change. It was difficult to
keep my wits about me as it gripped my heart, and my siblings attempted
to keep me moving with their words
of encouragement. Despite it, I could hear their worry, and as time went on it changed into acceptance.
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
had
transcended
from
improbability to impossibility. My father knew it, they knew it, and now
less difficult for me to accept than I thought it would be. I was in
constant agony now due to his
proximity, and he often lashed out
to strike me in his anger. I was tired of being in pain and running, tired
of trying to reason when there was nothing to reason about. I could not fault my siblings for their attitude,
for while they comforted me, they
had also come to terms with what
was to happen. It was their defense against the type of anguish that even time could not heal.
As Father drew close and I gave up
running, his first order of business was to grab at my dead younger
sister. I had never let her go, a constant reminder of who she had been and, in a way, granting her the
wish of being close to me. Now all I
could do was watch as he snatched
Content in that knowledge, I
life. I screamed and cursed at him
messages were clear and concise,
her corpse away from me, tearing
us apart for the second time in my for it, angry at his lack of respect for
her and life in general. My siblings could not calm me down, but I did not wish for it anyway.
I had decided that if I was going to
die, I was going to do it on my own terms. I berated him verbally as he
assaulted me physically, burning
away my body as he started to devour me. Father was merciless and was working quickly, but I could
see into his heart, and I could tell it
was struggling to support his weight.
It was then I realized the cruel irony
of the situation. The more Father ate, the closer he came to death, but
to stop eating would also result in
stopped shouting at him and, in
the quiet, heard my children. Their but full of lament and grief. Without
me, they would never have come
into existence, and even though it
had been eons, they remembered that fact. They still cherished me in
the very same way my love for them had never dwindled, and to know
that made me acknowledge that my death would not be in vain.
My heart no longer heavy, I allowed
myself to be swallowed in the maelstrom of fire.
* * *
“Breaking News! Earth and Moon destroyed by the Sun!�
the same conclusion. There was no possible way for him to win.
Seascape 2014
33
2nd Place
Seascape’s Annual
Short Story Contest
The Pond By Jen O’Connor One...two...three...four...
It’s getting closer to the end
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick.
now. I wish I could see the past
The numbers are scrolling past,
files. I know I don’t need to,
quicker than they should be.
every single one comes back to
Have I really done that much?
me once I sit down here again.
Fifty-six catches my eye. Fifty-
That’s depressing. The number
six? Really? I thought it’d be
of times I’ve been here. This one
more. It was last time, up in the
girl in the next cubical over, it’s
seventies somewhere.
only her third time here, and
I hate that I can’t remember this
she’s already been cleared. It
until I’m here again. I hate that
would take too long to count
this little cubical only exists for
how many times I’ve been here,
me, and only when I come back.
in this little chair, in this little
Why can’t I remember this all
box, staring at the little spot on
the time? I want to change, I
this little wall. More time than
want to remember what I did
they let me have.
wrong, what I did right, what I
“All set?”
did so I can do it again. Or not.
One of the newer monitors
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
is here. I’ve only seen him six
birthday. I remember that one.
times. He probably got cleared
That was the day I told my
not too long ago.
mom I wasn’t right.
“No, I think I’m okay.”
Forty. I drank forty times, forty
They always ask if I need
days, in my life. Wow, I guess I
another go around, looking up
was a good kid this time.
these stats. My stats, at least for
Two hundred. I changed
this version of me. I died early
two hundred kids lives for
this time. I was only thirty-five.
the better. I followed up on
“Actually,” I ask, as New Guy is
that. Ninety of them are in
about to leave, “can I see the
college now, thirty of them
good ones again?”
have graduated already with
“Sure,” he replies, a little
a Master’s degree. I cry every
puzzled. We usually don’t ask
time at that one. That’s the
to see again. None of us do.
only number I care about, who
“Thanks.”
I’ve helped. I wish I could see
I guess I was a little more
those kids again, but I’m never
sentimental this time. Maybe
allowed. I wouldn’t recognize
they thought it would make me
them anyway. I’d be different.
better, get me cleared this time.
Ten. I loved ten people in my
One...two...three...four...
entire life. Ten people in thirty-
Fifty-six. I kissed my husband fifty-
five years. I’m happy with that. I
six times on our wedding day.
remember once, I was fifty-two
Eighty-three. I made eighty-
when I died, and it said that I
three babies smile.
had loved sixty people. Was I
Ninety-five. I cried ninety-
just too sentimental that time?
five times on my seventeenth
I think that’s too much. To love
Seascape 2014
35
sixty people more than yourself,
Just two.
more than life itself...maybe
No description next to this one,
that’s too much to handle.
because everyone knows what
Six. There were six boys who
it is.
fell in love with me. I was in love
Just two.
I loved ten people in my entire life. Ten people in thirty-five years. I’m happy with that. with three of them. I hope they’re
I changed two people’s lives for
still happy. I hope I meet my
the worse.
husband again. He died two years
I killed one. I know that. He was
ago. I wish I could see his stats.
a little boy, maybe ten-years-old.
Six hundred ninety-three. That’s
I tried to get him to the hospital,
how many times I said “I love
but I couldn’t do it in time.
you.” I want to crack one million
But who’s the second person?
one day.
Who else did I corrupt?
I find the final number, the
I have to follow through. With a
one they put all the way at the
number this small, I know I have
bottom. It’s a bad number. It’s
a little time to look.
the worst number. The number I
Oh, I wish I hadn’t.
never, ever want to see.
I wish I had let it go.
Two.
Why does it say his name?
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
Why did he stay with me, then?
I nod again, still mulling it over.
“Alright, come on, now.”
We’re almost to the water now.
I feel a hand on my shoulder
That’s how it always goes, we
and obey. I let New Guy help
fall through a pond back down
me up.
into life.
“They’re doing something
“Wait,” I turn around, just before
different for you this time,” he
I step into the pond, “what’s my
says. I’m too shocked to answer.
name this time?”
“A girl died in a car accident.
“Stephanie,” New Guy responds,
You get to go back as her. You’ll
smiling softly.
be seventeen, in her body.
Stephanie. In a car crash.
They’re about to revive her.
“Did they do that on purpose?”
Okay?”
I’m outraged.
I nod, numbly.
“Everything they do is
If I’m not going to be born
on purpose.”
again, start off as a baby again,
I nod, my anger subsiding. Well,
maybe I’ll be better this time.
I guess she got cleared. My
“He stayed because he still
daughter, my girl. I’m proud of her.
loved you, you know.”
“Thank you,” I whispered, and
I look up at the soft, dark face
take the plunge.
leading me down the
This time, I’ll make sure the last
familiar hallway.
number is zero.
“It didn’t change until the end. It was because you wouldn’t let him go. Try not to do that again.”
Seascape 2014
37
3rd Place
Seascape’s Annual
Short Story Contest
Light of the Moon By Keira P. Smith
The moon shone down with its
through the flaps of the tent.
canvas tent, a young soldier was
was a full moon, he realized.
brilliant white light.
From inside his troop’s small
awakened by its glare. Pulling
the coarse brown blanket over his eyes, the soldier struggled to
fall back to sleep. However, as
the vivid sounds and images of battle pervaded his mind’s eye, he realized that his struggle was
in vain. A fresh wave of all-toocommon homesickness washed over him as the grogginess fled his mind. Rubbing his eyes and
then pulling on his boots, the soldier crawled out of his army
cot and silently slipped out
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
The remarkable shine of the moon shocked the soldier. It
Then another thought struck
him with greater force – this was
the same moon which shone down on his family every night, as well. His mother and father,
his two sisters – they saw the
same moon which he saw now. The new thought comforted
him like one of his mother’s warm quilts draped over his
shoulders. For the first time in
months, since he had shipped out to war, the young soldier felt closer to home than ever
before. Peacefully satisfied, he
might become of them.
Now, instead of gunshots and
they were so…so poor. Tears
returned into the tent and once again drifted off to sleep.
screams, his dreams were filled with visions of his family. ~
The moon shone down with its brilliant white light.
A small girl sat on a splintery wooden chair and rested her arms on the sill of her bedroom window.
From the bed not
five feet behind her, the soft
sounds of her two brothers’ breathing reached her ears.
She was supposed to be in bed
with them, but sleep seemed like a distant dream now. The girl had heard her parents in the kitchen, talking about bills.
After her father had lost his job nearly a year ago, it seemed
that he and her mother talked about nothing else but money. At times, the girl’s heart would
be gripped with fears of what
She
was sure that she would never amount to anything, not when
filled her eyes as she wallowed in self-pity.
The glare of the moon attracted the girl’s eyes to the inky black
sky outside her window. She was reminded of the news
reports of the astronauts who actually walked on the moon. The stories never failed to amaze and inspire her. Maybe,
she realized, just maybe… if those people were able to walk
on the moon, then she could,
too. If she worked hard enough, perhaps she would be able to achieve something great and worthwhile.
Maybe she would even walk on the moon one day. ~
The moon shone down with its brilliant white light.
As the chilling wind gnawed at Seascape 2014
39
his wrinkled face, the old man
The old man glanced up as his
Still the wind penetrated the
infirm and pitiful figure.
pulled his threadbare coat even
tighter around his shoulders. thin cloth. The old man shuffled his feet as he hobbled alongside the railroad tracks. He did not
know his destination; his only
attention was drawn to the
moon shining down upon his
He
silently gave thanks for the light
it provided. The world could
be a dark and lonely place, as he knew all too well. If nothing
Maybe, she realized, just maybe‌ if those people were able to walk on the moon, then she could, too. goal was to find shelter from
else, at least he had the moon
walked. He knew its contents
world slept at nighttime, the
the wind. The old man gripped his worn leather knapsack as he by heart - a small lead pencil, a
rusty can opener, and a box of
matches. They were his sole possessions in life.
Once he
found a place out of the wind,
he would use the matches to create a fire.
40
a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
to spread its light. He almost viewed it as a friend. While the
light of the moon penetrated his path. Furthermore, he knew
that the Creator of the moon was watching him and guiding his steps, as well.
When he
was tempted to forget and turn
to despair, the moon was his reminder.
As long as he remembered its
better, though. Regardless of his
The moon shone down with its
The student glowered at the
message, he had hope. ~
brilliant white light.
The shoes of a young college student
softly
clattered
against the cobblestone as he meandered down the path
just outside his dorm room. Despite the late hour of the night, he had craved a respite from
his
rigorous
before-
bedtime studying. The student
kicked a pebble lying on the path as he was overcome by an intense feeling of dejection and worthlessness. No matter how
diligently he worked, he never seemed able to accomplish anything valuable.
All of his
endeavors were worthless, he
decided, just as he was. Often his teachers would remind him of the great potential he had; he
pointed efforts, he could never amount to anything.
light of the moon which shone
down on him, and he scorned its light. The size and majesty of the moon never failed to remind
him of his own weakness and insignificance. angry
emotions
The student’s of
despair
rapidly intensified. The moon
was too big. The world was too big. He would be a fool to try to take it on.
He could never accomplish anything great.
Overhead, the moon shone down with its brilliant white light.
Tonight it will, too.
could become a scientist, they
told him, or a doctor. He knew
Seascape 2014
41
Whispers in the Night By Michael Brothers
To the whispers in the night
With your ways about the air, Have you come unto me With great purpose?
Have you traveled long;
Bound to the edges once held
For purveyors of stolen sands? Have you set down upon me With a predator's gaze;
Taken by the notion of a life Under listless-arrest? Oh, whispers—
Will you trespass against me;
Lick about my mind as a doubt Burrowed deep?
Will you coil along my branches; Cocoon my every crease? Oh, whispers —
Sweet whispers —
Your songs I've come to keep; Like night-toned inks
Whose writ has wrought— In sacred linens seeped.
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
Double Self By Kirsten Flood
Portrait
Seascape 2014
43
1st Place
Seascape’s Annual
Poetry Contest Life Pink or Blue peg in a car. Pick a color and spin. College or career. (childhood matters not) Spin and Stop. Pause. Add a peg. Pink or Blue Add some pegs? Spin. Drive on. Stop. Go. Back. to. pause. Did you? Most do, fuck it up, the first time They go back. Too stubborn, They’re stuck spinning in the wheel. Throw out a peg. Pink or Blue pegs in the car. Settle. Throw out all But you and Pink or Blue Settle. Now the other pegs, Line up. peg in a car Pink or Blue Pick a colour and spin. College, or. career.
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
By Delaney Burke
Seascape’s Annual
2nd Place
Poetry Contest Seashell Hearts By Elyssa Perkins
The ocean wanders forward. 3 steps forward 2 steps back.
Every step leaves a line
Of seashell hearts in the sand. The seagulls flutter hungry
Around the juicy insides of the ocean’s tide. They rip and slurp. Peck and poke.
The seashells are empty. Bone Dry.
Scattered by footsteps.
Still the ocean wanders forward. 3
steps
back
forward steps
2
Seascape 2014
45
3rd Place
Seascape’s Annual
Poetry Contest The Essence of a Woman By Lauren Rowek What strange powers do we conceal? The possibilities a woman can reveal, Passion, hard work, intelligence and wit, The worldly essentials men cease to admit.
Despite judging the “fairer sex,” Do not falter us any less complex, With the strength and courage to persevere, We will not coward or hold back in fear.
Do not underestimate our abilities to succeed, You turn to us in times of need. Nurturing, we care and provide with much devotion, Remember, we bear new life into motion. As women we have a gift, a resounding voice, Motivated and ambitious, given a choice. Though not as strong, powerful with might, Overall, our willingness sets things right!
Of course, we do not mind a helping hand, The strength and support of a well-mannered man, Yet do not believe the foretold energy we lack, We will carry on, by the strength of our backs. Knowledgeable and understanding, In a crisis, the last ones standing. Do not belittle our essence to strive, For we bring tenderness to your lives.
With gentle hearts, our ideas are just as bold, Our intentions soft, yet valuable as gold. Empowered by diligence and determination, Never forget, there is more to us than a silly infatuation.
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
Attraction Repulsion 2
By Kaila Rogers
Seascape 2014
47
Phoenix
48
By Stephanie Olsen
a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
“The Liberation of Aunt Jemima” : A Monologue (Inspired by Betye Saar’s artwork)
By Gabrielle Gillen
“Look at y’all. Starin’ at me with
of my skin or what I can do for
me; how I got here, what I been
cookin’ and cleanin’ day in and
your judgments and opinions. You don’t know nothin’ bout
through. You white people look at me like I ain’t nothin’ but a
slave. I’m good enough to scrub your floors, clean your toilets,
and raise your kids, but not to
be treated like an equal. Forget
y’all, just me. I’ve spent most of my life working like a dog;
day out, livin’ in squalor, raisin’ someone else’s kids. Haven’t I
seen my own in over two years.
I’m too busy tryin’ to make what little money I can to provide
for them. Let me tell y’all what
I can only hope that I teach him kindness, respect, and that he can be anythin’ he wants; things his mother would never teach him.
about equal, I’d just like to be
makes it all worth it. This little
and just see me. Not the color
little boy is a witch who treats
treated like a person. I’d give
anything for y’all to look at me,
face right here . . . best part of
my job. Sure, the mother of this
Seascape 2014
49
me like I’m garbage, but this
we are the creators of our own
kindness, respect, and that he
gonna fight with everything I
baby boy makes it all worth it. I can only hope that I teach him
can be anythin’ he wants; things his mother would never teach
him. Leaving this baby is gonna
be one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, but I gotta do it.
I’m takin’ a stand. I’m tradin’ in
my broom and I’m gonna get me some respect. No more gettin’
stepped on and thrown around. No more sittin’ in the back of
the bus and bein’ treated like some kinda animal. I wanna
show African American women everywhere that we don’t gotta stand for this. Let this rifle be a symbol to women, not just
African American women, but
to all women, that we are more than just servants to be used
and abused. It’s not a symbol of violence or revenge, just a
symbol of strength and hope that
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
destinies, and we ain’t gonna let nobody control us no more. I’m got for a better tomorrow. I’m
gonna show the world that we
are not just household servants. We can do anything we set our
minds to. We are strong, and we are powerful, Y’all may think I
ain’t nothing but a subservient
woman, but y’all are wrong. You may try to break me, but y’all
ain’t never gonna crush my spirit. I’m an independent woman, and one day I will be free along with
all of my fellow men and women. Believe me, someday I’m gonna
change the world. Y’all just have to wait and see.”
Still
Life
By Sergio Brinatti
Seascape 2014
51
Idiosyncrasies By Keira P. Smith
Tuesday evening. Six o’clock.
Dinnertime.
A mouthwatering combination of luscious aromas fills my
nostrils as I enter our family’s spacious kitchen. My mother,
clad in an apron and oven mitts, is depositing a number of steaming dishes and platters in the center of the large wooden table which occupies the greater part of the room. Happily, I breathe in the
scents of fried chicken, fresh peas, and creamy mashed potatoes as the remaining members of
my family enter the kitchen and sit down at the table. I take my customary seat between my
older brother and younger sister, with our parents across from us.
Comfortably ensconced at the full, copiously spread table, we might form the perfect picture of the
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
happy American family – maybe fit for a magazine cover. Do not be deceived by this apparent
normalcy, however. Behind our idyllic façade lurks the bizarre phenomenon through which I suffer night after night.
Without fail, this moment –
immediately after we are all seated at the table – is the
commencement of the spectacle which I have witnessed every evening for as long as I can
remember. To myself, it is known as “The Dinnertime Show.” For
those of you whose interest I have
aroused, the show airs every night at six o’clock … but you would
have to come into my kitchen to
watch it. Knowing my mother as I
do, that probably is not very likely. Speaking of my mother, she is the first focus of tonight’s episode.
She has risen from her chair
abnormal to use the same plate
blender, mixer, and other cooking
her private usage?
and is striding toward the high cabinet where she stores the appliances. However, these
common devices only obscure
the more sinister denizens of the cabinet. Known only to those of us in this house, it is also
the secret storage place of her
personal dishes, those which she reserves for herself and washes
by hand after each meal. If I did not know my mother, I would be rather offended that she is
evidently incapable of sharing her tableware with the rest of us peasants – in other words,
her family. On the contrary, I do
know her and am not in the least
bit insulted by her peculiar ways; we have grown accustomed to
her neurotic oddities. Now as I
watch, she removes a clean plate, fork, and knife from the cabinet
and quickly returns to the table,
smiling demurely as if her action were completely conventional. After all, how could it be
and utensils at every meal – and
keep them sequestered away for Shaking my head in wonderment, I next turn to my father, who is
pouring water from a pitcher into his glass. Despite its seeming
typicality, this is by no means a
carefree movement for my father. Although most people would
never even take notice, he is ever conscious of the nearly invisible ridges which travel up the side
of the drinking glass. I observe
as the water is poured from the pitcher and fills the glass up to the second ridge from the top,
then as my father squints at it and frowns. The second ridge from top – this is not feasible in the
least! According to my father’s sagacious judgment, water
(or any potable liquid, for that
matter) must never surpass the
third ridge from the top. Thus, he pours that superfluous half-inch of water back into the pitcher
Seascape 2014
53
and scrutinizes the glass. Clearly
continue through the entire meal
with the rest of his meal.
food in its designated area.
satisfied with the ideal amount of water, he is now able to proceed My own meal, though, remains
forgotten as I rotate toward the next recipient of my fascinated,
yet flabbergasted attention. My older brother, seated on my
right, is filling his plate with our
mother’s scrumptious delicacies. However, one soon notices that
each added spoonful is arranged and positioned with the utmost precision. You see, one of my
brother’s greatest fears is to allow the various types of food on his
plate to touch or overlap; to do so
would truly be a culinary sacrilege! A shred of chicken breading mixed into his peas, or a wandering pea atop his mashed potatoes … my brother shudders at the mere notion. I watch as he ever so
carefully situates each type of food on his plate and ensures that they are separated by a satisfactory
distance. He has now acquired
the desired amount, but he will
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
with the greatest diligence, in
order to contain each morsel of Finally, having appeased my
curiosity toward my brother’s
eccentric habits, I turn to watch
my younger sister beginning her meal – or rather, preparing to
begin it. Before even a crumb of food may enter her mouth, she
must ascertain that it is pure and homogeneous, that there are no foreign objects to adulterate it.
In other words, she cannot and will not tolerate any specks or
minute particles including but not limited to pepper, spice, onion,
garlic, basil, or whatever else is present to tarnish her dinner.
She delicately yet dexterously
maneuvers her fork to remove each visible particle. This
procedure can sometimes last for the entire duration of the meal;
but luckily for the rest of us, our
mother had been especially frugal tonight in her usage of anything that my sister would classify as
a “speck.” Therefore, we are free
to eat without painfully watching her dissect her dinner.
Our meal is only beginning, but the majority of the drama of tonight’s
episode of the “Dinnertime Show” has already transpired. The
anomalous habits and rituals I
Now that my plate is amply
me. Sometimes I think that I am
the conversation which has
observe my family performing on
a daily basis never cease to amaze living in a circus – am I really the only normal one in my family? My ruminations cease as my brother hands me the dish
of peas, and I start to spoon
them onto my empty plate. My
spoonfuls are rather small, so that I am able to count the number of
peas on each one. Of course, it is a known fact in our household that I generally never eat more than
forty-eight peas at any given time. Any more than forty-eight peas … for some reason, that simply
would not sit well with my mind.
filled, I turn my attention to
the meal and even join in on
begun without my knowledge. Nevertheless, my roving eyes are perpetually conscious of the irregular happenings at
the table around me. I never
cease to be mesmerized at the
utter abnormality of my family members. Turning back to my
serving of forty-eight peas, I can only shake my head in resigned bewilderment.
Yes, it certainly looks as if I truly am the only normal one.
Seascape 2014
55
1st Place
Seascape’s Annual Art Contest
47 By Nicholas Peterson
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
2nd Place
Smile
Seascape’s Annual Art Contest
By Adele Van Der Merwe
Seascape 2014
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3rd Place
Seascape’s Annual Art Contest
Dichotomy
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By Doug Anderson
Phase III By Lisa Michelle Seaman
Back up the truck
Biggest one you can find
To clear away this hording mind Little by little pick from a pile
This brain has collected through miles and miles Trials and trials
Confessions, denials
Quizzes and tests, lessons, survival The roller coaster ride from hell The criticism as I tell
The daily challenge of “try to be well�
The struggle to rise and fall with the swell Today is a good day I can feel it
Not 100% but near it
Try to walk a couple of miles
Without collecting a thing but some smiles
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Lights By Sara Pease
The bright lights blind,
As insanity grips the mind,
They begin to contemplate murder, Forcing a body under,
Into the ground deeper,
Farther into the hands of the Reaper, The nights grow dark
And the driver takes their mark, To get ready, get set...and Go!
The anticipation begins to grow, The audience takes their seats,
Because they're all in for some treats. The midnight colored crow watches, And hell lights its matches.
Both prepared for the inevitable death, As the losers take their last breath.
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Untitled
By Emely Taveras
Seascape 2014
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Escape By Sara Rosamilia
Every time she opens the door to
opening to the first crisp page.
her. She sees bookshelves
spill its contents. It began to tell
Barnes and Noble, her favorite objects begin to overwhelm
overflowing with works of art in various shapes and sizes. Every book contains its own world of
characters she is eager to meet.
She can smell the sultry scent of Starbucks coffee brewing in the
café. While walking through the mahogany shelves stacked with hard-covers and paperbacks, the girl remembers the first
time she met some of her best friends: Huck Finn, Elizabeth
Bennet, Harry Potter, and Alaska Young. All of Caroline’s friends
contributed to her as a person.
Elizabeth Bennet taught her that judgmental thoughts may seem
okay, but they rarely help anyone. Alaska Young inspired her to live every day like it could be her
last. She remembers sitting on the scratchy green carpet and
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
Caroline began to peel the cover of the novel open, ready for it to her all of its secrets.
A loud piercing jingle interrupted her and broke the spell of the paperback book. Now in tune
with the store, she could hear
every little creak. She heard the padded footsteps of the other customers and the giggles of
small children opening the pages of fiction that would influence their memories for a lifetime.
She could hear teen girls gush
about the love scene in a teenage romance novel. Caroline then shrugged her shoulders and started to focus on another
group of people. She saw a young and rambunctious family. Their
budding daughter hustled to the
classics section and found a copy of The Old Man and the Sea by
Ernest Hemingway. At the same
and she could actually smell the
a shabby LEGO set. It warmed
the sweet scent of Starbucks
time, their two sons went over to
the game section and played with her heart to know that children still fell in love with reading
just as she did so long ago. She
saw the little girl’s eyes light up as she turned the pages. This
reminded Caroline of when she
finally recognized that she could leave her hectic life at the first page of a book. After thinking
about the chapters of her life, she remembered the imminent due
date of her senior thesis. Caroline no longer felt at peace in her
bookstore. This could only mean that it was time for Caroline to
make her way back to her novel.
She began to tune out the voices of the other customers. She
closed her eyes and caressed the textured cover before opening to the next chapter. Just like
the character, Ian McEdwards, Caroline dove back into her favorite treasure, a book.
The character in the text was brewing a fresh pot of coffee
aromatic scent of the java. She
pulled away from the novel and
coffee hugged her nose. Caroline forced her aching limbs to
stand up, tired from sitting all
day. She meandered over to the Starbucks counter and bought
the usual, a pumpkin spice latté and an applesauce muffin. She sat down at a lonely table and
drank her coffee and indulged in an applesauce muffin. Caroline sipped her coffee and let out a
breath of satisfaction as she felt the pumpkin latté slide down her throat. She took a nibble of her muffin to compliment
her drink. She could taste the
hint of cinnamon in the pastry.
Becoming pleased by her snack, she began to read again. The
novel captured her attention
quicker than two turns of a page. By time she looked up, it was
ten-minutes before closing time.
Caroline gathered her belongings and walked out the door,
planning what book she would escape into tomorrow.
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Laughing Smile By Steven Martinez
Sun shining down in the bright orange sky, Sitting and on a cliff with friend close by,
Quietly sitting with that smile that always makes me laugh. Sipping our drinks and eating our favorite desserts,
The view we gaze with our blood masks and air tanks attached to our faces, As people run on by with blood dripping down their faces.
As I look over to my friend with his white cracked bones and all. And that smile that always makes me laugh.
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Untitled
By Alsyon Wright
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In Your Arms By Sara Rosamilia
Your hands running through my hair, Pressing gently down against my back. I drape an arm and a leg over you As I fall asleep.
Tasting your lips against mine, Feeling the fire where our skin meets. I feel your leg draped over mine, Your head on my chest; Silken hair and sheets curtaining around us. Your heart beating against my chest while you wake, Me watching as your eyelids flutter open.
Tasting your lips against mine, Feeling the simple joy and passion when our eyes meet, pulling you tighter to me as you smile lazily; We drift back into the most restful, dreamless sleep; For our dreams are already realized around us. If throwing my arms around you, Is all I can do, I take it gladly; If glancing up shyly at you is all I can do, I’ll take it that too. Once you’re in my arms And I’m in yours, Then, we would stare shyly; Forever and a day. Then, privately, Away from the waiting eyes of the world, There and then, I would kiss you softly; Never freeing or escaping from each other’s embrace.
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Eagle By Evan Tortorelli
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A Story
(Inspired by Robert Colescott’s painting George Washington Carver Crosses the Delaware)
By James LaComb
“So, he invented peanut
butter. What’s the big deal, grandpa?” Kathy asked, already bored. She was always bored when she visited her
grandparents. All they ever did was talk about this, then that, with an
occasional, “When I was your age . . .” thrown in for good measure.
She complained to her parents
It sucked.
constantly but they always just made her visit anyway.
“What’s the big deal? Well, he,
well, peanut butter! There’s an entire industry for it now!” her grandfather
sputtered. He sputtered a lot. At least, that’s what she thought.
“There’s lots of industries.
They got one for socks took, they’re
not that big a deal,” she said, wiggling her bare toes at her grandfather. Her grandmother hated it when people
wore shoes in the house. Disrespectful, she said.
She thought everything was
disrespectful.
Her grandfather shook his head
while her mom laughed, interrupting
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the conversation she was having with Kathy’s grandmother. Looking over,
her mom grinned. “She’s got you there, pops.”
Her grandfather had a sour
look on his face. After a few moments, he said, “It’s a bit deal, young lady,
because it was the first time that a
black man pioneered an industry. Hell, pioneered anything in this country!
It just so happened to be a delicious
industry that I, for one, wouldn’t want to live without.”
“I like peanut butter and all,
As soon as her grandfather
“What are your chores, young
but is it really that good?” Kathy asked petulantly.
puffed up for an explanation, she
sighed. Should’ve kept her mouth shut. lady?” he asked, surprising her.
“Umm,” she mumbled, thinking.
“Doing my laundry on Saturdays,
cleaning the dishes after dinner, and keeping my room clean?”
That was all of them, right?
She could almost feel her mother staring at her.
“Imagine that was all you could
ever do. From before the sun rose, you
were already cleaning, cooking, picking up groceries, or any manner of those
things. Doesn’t sound like fun, does it?”
“No,” she grumbled. Chores
sucked. Worse than coming here, by far. Mom yelled at her all the time.
You didn’t fold the clothes right, she”d say, the dishes aren’t clean enough, she’d yell.
Ugh.
“Well, think about your life
being trapped, revolving around
those things. Then, suddenly, one
person does something different. He
shows you that you can do something other than those things. You can be anything; an inventor, a painter, a
carpenter, maybe even a senator!” Her grandfather’s eyes were alight as he
talked. In fact, Kathy had never seen him so excited before. She smiled,
almost giggling, at the thought of one
man leading people cleaning or cooking in a revolution against chores. She
Kathy’s gaze started drifting,
until it settled on a pretty piece of
paper hanging in a case on the wall. It
had her grandfather’s name on it and a few signatures beneath.
“Did you do what you wanted
“Yes,” he said, with a contented
to do, Grandpa?” Kathy asked, suddenly curious. smile. “Yes, I did.”
She noticed a newspaper
article next to the piece of paper,
something about the second person
to graduate from something. The text
was too small to read. What did it say? Who was in the picture?
“What did you want to do,
Her grandfather stood up
It was better than sitting
grandpa?” Kathy asked, as she walked to the wall.
slowly, saying, “Well, that’s a good story.”
“Can I hear it?”
around being bored, she decided.
could get behind that!
“Well, then peanut butter’s a
“I didn’t either,” her
good thing. I wouldn’t want to do that stuff forever,” Kathy said finally.
grandfather said, leaning back, as if he had won an argument.
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After Romare Bearden’s “The Block” By Anthony Petronzio
In Harlem you will hear jazz songs play A soundtrack to life itself
The melodies of people’s lives In perfect sync with the band City life is hectic
The pace of the song picks up
The liquor store slows it down With a false sense of warmth The real escape is different Tempos start to adjust
A man and woman lock their eyes The song silently fades
Then the drummer kicks his drum As men in black walk by
The song takes a sad turn
As we realize that life is short A day in the life of Harlem
From the viewpoint of angels
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Jean-Michel Basquiat Paints Horn Players By Robert McGovern
Here I go again (White Snake).
want it (Journey). Figure out a
to hear that song. I don’t do
the shapes. Move the shapes.
Whatever. If my body ever ends up in an incinerator, I want
mornings or afternoons. Samabo Gringo (Brown) is the driver. I’m the artist. Here’s what I did. I’ll tell you about what I saw.
Words are weird. French,
Spanish, English? Take English. They flash. They move. They change. I put lines through
them, even when I’m putting
them down. Shapes and figures?
Colors are shifty. Shapes change. They’re here, there and then
nowhere. I’ll do them. I’ll put them there. On the canvas.
Wherever. They may fade or get brighter. I don’t care. I got this done, because I needed to get
it done. You do it any way you
way to keep the words running, changing, and moving. Spin
Keep the colors shifting. Plug
some music in. Don’t do cheap imitations, do expensive stuff.
So . . . this is a batch of Basquiat brew. No problem selling this one. Look here. Look there.
You’ll go in deeper or farther
out. You’ll see three brothers
and maybe a few ghosts. I might be pointing at Charlie Parker or
flying away. He might be the one flying away. I might have flown
away. Never made up my mind. I saw it; painted it. It’s as simple as that and as far out as I am.
All you see is a snapshot. I see more. Brighter. Louder.
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I’m showing monkeys here. Since
Bebop the OOH SHOO DE OBEE.
Made that ghost fade a little. My
the soapbox under Dizzy, if it
Charlie is long gone the monkey on his back looks like a ghost. monkey is hanging out inside
my head, shooting up my nose,
and between my teeth and gums. I’m showing you some stuff
my monkey needs. The needle
points at my larynx and crosses
out the LARNYX. I wasn’t singing then. I don’t, when I do that.
ORNITHOLOGY ended up being down below. Charlie got a
Grammy for that song. You won’t find Charlie Bird in a book on
Ornithology. His woman Chan is still around, but daughter PREE
never made it. I’m going to keep ORNITHOLOGY handy. Book or CD? Whichever one I can find.
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Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie got that together. Would have put were 1964. He should have been president.
You see that Dizzy paid to bury Charlie’s atheistic bones in a
Christian cemetery? Maybe they used a lot of soap on Charlie to get him through those gates.
ALCHEMY (Brown)? I’ve said
that I got rich when I put some
gold and silver in my work. Tin and asbestos? Maybe I should try more asbestos. I’m feeling cooked right now. Red eyes,
white nose and teeth. Do I have to explain drugs? Aren’t they
alchemy too? Mostly I’m putting
music in the brew here. So watch out for Basquiat bebop.
Member Bios Nicholas Devlin is a far too active member of the OCC student body. He plans to become a librarian in hopes of making use of the large assortment of random knowledge he has collected over the years. That, or just go on Jeopardy. Seascape is one of his favorite activities on campus. DFTBA. Sara Pease is the secretary of Seascape, who always forgets to send the alerts. She is majoring in mathematics, and she loves it. She is also the president of Ocean County College Literature Club. She loves to play with her dog, Chipper, and protect him from the rat dog Dale.
Melissa Halk, previous Seascape Editor, is graduating this spring and will be moving on to continue her higher education in the fall. She has thoroughly enjoyed her time spent at OCC and with the Seascape team. She has been impacted by many of the wonderful faculty and staff of the college. Along with her love of education and learning, Melissa spends her time working with the Girl Scouts of the Jersey Shore and hopes to influence girls of all ages to become motivating leaders.
Hayley McGinn looks like she is twelve but is going to college to become a nurse. Her obsession with the band Fall Out Boy exceeds normal expectations. A dancer who has turned her passion for the many forms of dance, from ballet to hip-hop, into her job. And as her cousin Jay says, “she’s awesome.”
Jen O’Connor wanted to join as many clubs as possible. She was Editor in Chief for her high school’s Literary Magazine, roar, and she was excited to hear that OCC had a magazine, also. Jen is an English major with a minor in education. She hopes to doublemajor in theatre when she transfers to Rowan in two years.
Steven Martinez is currently studying at OCC to earn an Associate’s Degree in General Science, before transferring to a four year college to earn his Degree in Physical Therapy. He likes writing about anything that comes to his mind and just letting his pen do the work. Breanna Poinsett believes that “the most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul set on fire.” She sees beauty in a rainy day and knows there is nothing that a cup of coffee and a great song can’t fix. She finds the forgotten, she loves, and she lives.
Lauren Rowek is a full-time student at Ocean County College, who works diligently in her studies and part-time in the workplace while enjoying her second year and final semester at the college. Graduating OCC this spring with an Associate’s Degree in Liberal Arts, she will transfer to The Richard Stockton College of New Jersey this coming fall to attain a B.A. in Communications and Public Relations. As an avid writer, she is inspired by U.S. History, particularly stories and historical romances pertaining to the American Civil War. She hopes one day to publish her works and find success in all her endeavors.
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Seascape Policies and General Information
1) Submissions: Ocean County College
appear in Seascape cannot be reproduced
fiction, non-fiction, drama, interviews,
directed to the Seascape Advisor.
students, faculty, staff, administrators,
and alumni are invited to submit poetry,
photography, drawings, and other forms
Further questions about this should be
of art. We strive to publish as many
5) Production: Seascape continues to
All submissions are reviewed by the
software including InDesign, Photoshop,
different types of works from as many different types of people as possible. Seascape Editorial Staff.
2) You can submit literary works to the Student Life Office. Please include all
necessary contact information, including your e-mail and phone number. You
also may contact the advisor with any questions regarding submissions.
3) We also would encourage those who can write in a different language to
submit works as well. We require that
a translation for the submission be sent along with the original work so that we can publish both literary pieces next to each other.
4) Seascape reserves the right to
publish or withhold any submission. All submissions are read and chosen by the
Seascape Editorial Staff. The works that
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a showcase of ocean county college’s creativity
be interested in any student who has a working-knowledge of key layout
etc. In addition, any student who is
interested in designing the magazine cover should contact the Seascape Advisor as soon as possible. The
Seascape editorial staff will consider all
cover options. Student assistance is very much appreciated.
6) Sponsored Activities: In addition to publishing Seascape, the organization
has a desire to work together with the Academic Departments in order to
co-sponsor campus events. Seascape strives to be an active member of the
college community by participating in events such as poetry readings, arts
nights, creative writing workshops, guest speakers, and fund-raising activities
during the school year. Those who are
interested in helping to coordinate such events with Seascape can contact the
Office of Student Life as soon as possible.
Untitled
By Hayley McGinn
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