2011 Montage by Montage at Quinnipiac University

montage literary & art publication Quinnipiac University 275 Mount Carmel Avenue Hamden, CT 06518-1908

Table of Contents

Letter from the Editors Congratulations! You’re holding a montage literary and art

The editors of montage would like to extend their gratitude to the students whose artwork is featured in this magazine, all of the professors who encouraged their students to submit, our advisor Ken Cormier, Lila Carney, Jamie DeLoma and of course the animal crackers who allowed themselves to be consumed and provide us with the energy needed to construct the beautiful magazine you are currently holding.

Keep writing. Keep snapping. Keep creating and then some. Love, Your Editors.

Katelynn Lucyk, 2014 Persinette’s Last Brick

Stephanie Osmanski, 2013 NYC Street Art

Allison McLaughlin, 2012 Butterfly Princess

Ashley Isacc, 2011 Tea Party with My 5-Year-Old Self Noah Golden, 2013 Brownie Ends

9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Victoria Adler, 2012 Apathy Joseph Pelletier, 2011 Making Sense

Alex Wood, 2014 Phantom Solitude

Taylor Swanner, 2014 New Home Jessica Spencer Poe, 2012 Chivalry Mike Farrell, 2011 Untitled (Ben), 2011

Victor Rios, 2013 A High School Fight Emily Nullet, 2010 I’ve Just Seen a Face

Colleen Elmer, 2011 Posing

Alex Herenstein, 2014

Henry Victor, 2014 Violinist

Heidi Emack, 2014 Art of Love Kurt Young, 2012 By the Lantern’s Light

Samantha Barracca, 2013 Flightpath

Emily Keene 2012

Molly Heintzelman, 2011 Second Bed in Vermont

29 30 31 32 33 34

Christine E. Little, 2014 Untitled Amanda Cassidy, 2011 She’s Like the Wind

35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49

Lisa Montalbano, 2012 Tramonto a Firenze Zachary Connolly, 2013 The Throne

William Vessio, 2014 Time

Stephanie Osmanski, 2013 Beer with Dad

Jacob Freedman, 2011 Walking Home

Kelly Stevens, 2014 Lungern, Switzerland

Molly Heintzelman 2011

Timothy Ocskasy, 2011 Deception

Eric Esposito, 2014 Live Gaby Catalano, 2013 Believe

Jessica Spencer Poe 2012

(Cover Design)

Danielle Susi, 2013 Conquest of Dreams Samantha Austin, 2014 Second Glance

(a.k.a. our list of really really good stuff)

magazine, which indicates that you have braved the hoards of business suits and stethoscopes and came out victorious. Arrogance aside, montage is a fabulous example of the talents of Quinnipiac students and a testimony to the fact that education cannot thrive without art.

Samantha Schlemm 2011

19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 2728

Tabor Chichakly, 2011 Careless Fun

Rebecca Rice, 2014 Grace Brian Demilla, 2012 Crinkled Paper Rebecca Rice, 2014 Lonely

Ciara Duggan, 2013 Jillian at Sunset

Carl Fendenzi, 2011 Uneducated Poetry Donna Zuk Adley, Why the Tooth Fairy Wears Dentures Meghan Parmentier, 2012 Burned

Meghan Guilfoyle, 2013 Airplane

Chistopher Hart, 2013 Fishing at Menemsha

Corey Quadir, 2014 Lady Corey Quadir, 2014 Girl Amy Maciejowski, 2013 One Week

Samantha Schlemm, 2011 It’s a Metaphor Bethany Warnock, 2014 Beta Fish

KateTaussig, 2011 Nourishment & A Quiet Darkness Jonathan Grado, 2013 Mystic Sun

Lauren Wolman, 2011 Natures Mirror Henry Victor, 2014 Death of a God

Kay Walker, 2013 Frosted Intricacies Carole Ann Kinnaw, 2011 Dream Catcher

Kelly Moran, 2013 Balloons

Persinette’s Last Brick Katelynn Lucyk

She built up a wall. She set the foundation, poured the cement, laid the bricks, and built it in a circular fashion as to enclose herself in it. But without much to do in there, she passed the time building the wall higher. Years passed, and her wall had grown into a tower. If she had constructed a window perhaps she would have had an overview of the world, but in her tower she was isolated. Every so often someone would approach the tower and scream to her to come out, but she would promptly send them away, refusing their attempts to “save her.” She did not think she needed to be saved; she was saving herself. One day, however, someone approached the wall and abruptly demanded, “I am coming in.” Shocked by the blunt manner of the statement yet wishing to sound strong, she replied, “Well, I am not letting you in, nor is there a way in, so I am certain you are wrong sir.” The stranger replied, “Well maybe you won’t just yet, but you will let me in . . . ” She scoffed and muttered, “And what makes you so confident?” Ignoring her question he continued, “So what did you do today?” Puzzled yet intrigued, she sat for a moment in silence before deciding to answer that she hadn’t done much of anything. He asked why. She wasn’t sure. He asked about her life, her feelings, her ideas, her needs, her wants, and a great amount of time had passed as he sat outside the tower’s wall. No matter the weather, time, or anything he had going on, he did not leave the side of her tower. She told him numerous times to leave; he just ignored her request and continued on. He told her about himself as well, and she listened to his stories. What he never would tell her, though, was why he was there, and after awhile she stopped wondering. More time had passed, and she could not help but want to meet him. She asked him to help her take the wall down, and together they removed every last brick until they could finally embrace each other. The embrace was perfect and everything either of them had hoped for. However, just like in any other story, they grew apart, and sadly they knew that they weren’t meant to be. She knew he had to leave, but before he did, he asked her not to build another tower. She was unsure of what to do. Never having felt this way, she was lost and from a place of confusion wished only to return to the place that was sane. She started preparing the cement and bricks and just as she started to build, she saw him emerge before her. She was on her knees, covered in dirt and cement, and she did not know what to say to him.

He took the brick from her hand and looked into her eyes. He wanted her to know it was ok to live, that she shouldn’t be afraid. So this girl went out, out into the scary world, and she lived. And one day she will love again, and get hurt again, and hurt someone again, and things will happen and people will come in and out of her life. There will be things she will know how to deal with and others she will have to figure out. She will learn and she will grow, and before she knows it, she will be taller and stronger than any tower she could have built.

Stephanie Osmanski NYC Street Art

Allison McLaughlin Butterfly Princess

Tea Party With My 5-Year-Old Self Ashley Isaac

Are you buried somewhere in the corners of my rational mind? Are you a pair of worn shoes that cannot tread upon the roads of adulthood? Are you a tattered umbrella that has blown away with the winds of change? Have you been hushed by the pessimistic noise of my self-conscious soundtrack? Your voice is not as strong as I remember. Small believer please do not be afraid to color outside the lines. Petite princess never cease to wish on a newly fallen eyelash. Little adventurer always remember to dream on a shooting star. Tiny friend never settle for the black and white edition of life. No matter how the years multiply, I carry you in my heart. I still believe, I still dream, and I will never settle. You and I shall never part.

Brownie Ends Noah Golden

We stood by the stove, whose clock proclaimed It was already the next day, And picked at the crispy brownie ends That clung to the sides of the baking dish. We talked nonsense About my shaking foot, Vampire nipples, and bad haircuts, Things that only make you drunk With giddiness long after midnight. Our bodies shook, Until our stomachs were sore And our eyes full of joyful tears And our souls nourished. The night seemed to freeze As our mirth made the kitchen tremble And exclaimed Carpe Diem, A lesson we should have listened to. And when the sun rose It was on another life, Although we didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know it yet, At least not in our minds. A time so unburdened, It could never happen again: When never ending laugher And warm brownies touch our lips.

Jacob Freedman

Walking Home

Making Sense

Apathy

Joseph Pelletier

Victoria Adler

Misstep aside, sir, Make room for our troubles, ‘Tis time for us to make sense.

Look at me, I am healthy with money And can choose what I want not need. If you cut me I may bleed, But it won’t be the end you see. What if I was not me and instead was you? The one with a shopping cart but no food; What if my house I call a box was in fact made of cardboard? Where tears cannot be cried for fear of making it damp; Where the iron hand is in fact a clamp holding me back. What if the sky above me opens up, and I can finally be free? Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. God may hear my words but He has no hands to help; He can lend an ear for me, but it is your body I need. Your strength and power, not measured in flesh, But in heart, is what will raise me up. Now, who will be the first to start? Take your eyes and look in mine, A mirror is what you’ll find. Am I you or are you me? Let’s find out and see, Maybe then you’ll lose your apathy.

Doubt not the faint logic, Nor question the process, ‘Tis time for us to make sense. It takes but a second, A mere tense injection, And soon it will all quite make sense. You won’t understand it, For you’ve long been commanded What does and does not make sense.

Live

Eric Esposito A short time is assured. No more wordsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Live.

Kelly Stevens

Lungern, Switzerland

Gaby Catalano Believe

Phantom Solitude Alex Wood

Stepping barefoot onto the cold fall grass he felt the morning bathe his feet. He loved this time of day, before everyone else wakes up, just him and the dog outside taking in the serenity of a new day. After a few puffs from his pipe he snapped his fingers alerting Oscar that it was time to go in. Just past four thirty in the morning and not a soul in sight. He drove the long dark farm road that led to town and fumbled with the radio dial to catch the early morning news. Just before town he stopped at a small general store that opened at five but always let him in early; he stopped there every day to get his usual: a cup of coffee, newspaper, pipe tobacco and a muffin. Some small talk with Mrs. Anderson and brief lecture about smoking later and he was off toward the trails that wrapped around the nearby pond. He had an office at home, which was where he worked, but on the trails was where we wrote. He would spend hours out there thinking, writing and being alone. Though the trails were only a few miles away from the highway and roads he felt like he was eons away. He had written four novels in these woods, two of them published and always sought the refuge these woods afforded. He felt soothed in the bosom of nature and the isolation it supplied. He wasn’t alone today and could feel it. He sensed the presence of man and was immediately uncomfortable, still he marched forward in search of peace. He didn’t want to share this peace and knew that these woods were not his but he also knew that no one cared like he did. Later on further down the trail he stopped at a big flat rock for a break and began to smoke his pipe. He pondered his isolation and thought of it as a mirage, the unsettling feeling of someone’s presence had dissipated but now he felt like he had no possession, no claim to this setting. He grew more and more uneasy with the idea that he had to share this with someone else. He always hated hunters and the way their sudden shots broke the silence and killed his neighbors the creatures that inhabited this place. He often would post homemade signs that read “NO HUNTING” but he knew they didn’t work.

Sitting there he began to draft a story. An excitement like boyhood took over as he feverishly wrote. He got lost in fantasy, the story was of a man who loved the woods and took it upon himself to hunt hunters. He wrote fast and furiously occasionally penetrating the paper. He looked up suddenly in the throws of creativity and saw two hunters walking on the other trail. He smiled, lifting his hand like a gun got them in his sights and pulled the phantom trigger, pleased with his work.

Alex Herenstein

Art of Love

By the Lantern’s Light

The world gets turned upside down when you hold my hand, the sky green, the clouds yellow, frown a smile, cry a laugh. The room goes fuzzy, breath stops, stifled before its escape, as you whisper in my ear. Wrong becomes right, no harm done, pieces whole when I’m wrapped in your embrace. I am no where and everywhere at once, flushed, cold, sparkling, translucent because of your love. Scrambled, hanging by threads of sanity, tumbling into perfection when your lips brush my own. I am blind, yet I see vividly, the colors of you and I are startling sapphire eyes, brilliantly entwined fingers, a creamy white pearl of promise. It is the fault of no one and everyone, destiny, logic. I tangle myself in your sinewy limbs, temple rests against collarbone, waiting, wanting the steady beat of life for myself. You fly, heart heavy against the wind, to my never-land, my bliss. Wings unfurling and powerful, toward a blanket of moss and charming leaves, stars smiling in the black velvet above, plainly desirous of the love shared. Enamored, fingertips hopelessly lost in blond hair, warm hands on my back, the graceful dance of enchantment.

From far off on the starless autumn night By the jagged rocks facing the small inn The well-known window was barely in sight, By his lantern’s light, which cut through the din. He stood outcast, an exile for his sin, Worn from his venture on The Salvation And a sailor through his heart’s damnation. Resigned he gazed out to the inn’s bright light Where through the dirty glass panes could be seen A nymph dancer aloft in mindless flight. The Gods above would worship this fey queen Yet from his outpost by the ocean keen, Wind-bitten and scarred, he shivered and thought Of their happy memories and what they wrought A wave of her hips was their summer’s day, Her round bodice, their nights under the stars. Even today her soft hands were always at play But her smile was still the most bizarre. Those red lips promised so much from afar. Yet with a twinkle in her pale blue eye She simply came that day and said, “Goodbye.” And from that stage the dancer took her bow. When the music ended the show followed. Without the music she did not know how. So thus she left the worn stage bare and hollow Leaving the bearer once more to wallow From the dark side of the flame his tear falls As if a prayer to the Heavens it calls. With that tear, a grunt, and a grim faced grin The wanderer hobbles back to the coast. His heart still laments deeply from within. He desperately tries to expunge her ghost Yet some spirits never will leave their host. Sighing soft he boards her knowing when From the seas to her, he shall come again.

Heidi Emack

Henry Victor Violinist

Kurt Young

She’s Like the Wind Amanda Cassidy

Untitled

Christine E. Little Breathe into me. I’ll hold you up. You put your weight on my shoulders. I’ll graciously accept. Although I’m not stable enough myself to carry you. You carry the heaviness on your shoulders. I would do anything to help take your pain away. But you won’t let me. You say you must burden it yourself. You breathe into me once again. I’m holding you up. You tense, killing what softness was left. I’ll miss that softness. You do what you have to. Maybe it’s even what you want to. There’s no going back. Just try not to lose the light in your eyes.

She’s like the wind Swirling to and fro without a sound Making sure I never hit the ground Keeping my arms from ever being pinned She’s like the sun Spinning in the deep black space But radiating heat on my face Keeping me warm even when the day is done She’s like the earth Supporting my footsteps as I walk The foundation I need, my strength, my rock Making me feel like more than I’m worth She’s like the sky A realm of endless possibility Hovering high above me More valuable than anything you could buy She’s like the sea Sweeping me up effortlessly Allowing me to float, weightless and free Unlocking all of my tensions and fears like a key She’s like the wind Flowing through me, tousling my hair Soaring around without a care The sweetest thing I’ve ever felt on my skin She’s like the wind

Samantha Barracca Flightpath

The Conquest of Dreams

Second Glance

Alone we sleep in chaos. The images that crash along the sides of our minds Spill out into our lives Piercing our existence with their games. Alone we sleep in danger. Unprotected by the hauntings that seep into our minds And flash across the films of our eyes Piercing our existence with their games. Alone we sleep in love. The desires of the ones we long for, only in our minds But will never return to us. Piercing our existence with their games. Alone we sleep. Left only to conquer the dreams hidden in our minds. Piercing our existence with their games.

What is meant to be seen, what is meant to be known The absence of meaning, normality overthrown She stands omniscient, yet blinded by fear Awakened, yet scared, she approaches the pier As moments pass moments, a timeline of fate Each step the path to a lesson so great To learn, to suffer, to repent, then die To prove the knowledge, to prove you're alive She stands a statue, an image of light Her stomach in knots as she grasps the railing tight The waves whip and caress the sandy shore As she watches those stones become no more Movement and swiftness, the gifts of youth The naivety, the weakness to resist the truth To jump, to let go, to amend those wrongs She moves towards the water, and then is gone No moving, no struggle, just the silence of night And that golden hair child is gone from sight.

Danielle Susi

Tabor Chichakly

Careless Fun

Samantha Austin

Beer with Dad Stephanie Osmanski

A few weeks before I turned fourteen, I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and brought it with me to the Thanksgiving dinner table. I sat down across the table from my father and took a swig. I looked straight ahead into his eyes waiting for a reaction. “Enjoy it,” said my dad eyeing me sternly, “it’s your first and your last until you’re 21.” His voice was austere, but he smiled as if he gave me credit for being so ballsy. “Cheers, dad,” I said. “Cheers,” he said clinking my bottle. Mom came bustling in, took one look at the bottle of Budweiser in my hand, and started broadcasting her disbelief, disapproval, and disdain. She loved emotions prefixed by “dis.” “Relax, Jo,” my father said. “A beer at dinner isn’t going to turn her into an alcoholic,” and he sipped his very casually. When I sipped, foam poured out the top and covered my cranberry sauce and potatoes.

layers of foam. But I couldn’t lay down in defeat against my mother after Dad fought so hard in my favor, so I drank it all without complaint. In fact, I really didn’t mind it after a while. I kept that empty beer bottle in my room, hidden in a drawer, tucked behind an old Christmas sweater that my Great Aunt Judith knitted me three sizes too small. When I was finished with it, I locked myself in the bathroom, washed out all the foam and dried it as best I could with one of mom’s “for-show-only” hand towels. Then I stuffed it away in that drawer, hoping it was hidden well enough to evade my mother’s obsessive cleaning hands. She had a way of distinguishing a rubber band in a drawer of hair ties. “Dear God,” I prayed with my eyes closed, “thank you so much for this blessing of drinking beer with my father.” I paused. What a very unconventional sort of prayer. “Anyway, I felt really close to him tonight and I really appreciate you letting it play out. I promise I’ll never become some kind of drunk,” like Aunt Elizabeth and her Canadian boyfriend Paul, I thought. “As a simple request,” I said, “please let Mom never find my souvenir of tonight. Thank you, God. Bless Mom and Dad, and my Great Aunt Judith for making me such a terrible sweater, but alternatively, such a good hiding place. Amen.”

“You’re okay with this?” she asked sharply, rolling her eyes at the stream of beer coursing its way around my plate. “It’s fine,” he said again. “Now come on, let’s eat.” “I don’t—” she began. “Enough, now, let’s eat.” She sat down and we ate. I hated the taste—it was like stale bread wrapped in a few

Timothy Ocskasy

Deception

Chivalry

Jessica Spencer Poe Within this night I only see one star Dancing about the iridescent glass And you, my dear, do tempt me from afar With such a virtuous smirk and youthful sass.

But as I linger upon this reverie I find that I am not the only one Who thinks your lips be lush and cares be free For another has taken hand before I done.

yo whats ur name?

wait u got a bf ?

I must admit I have employed your shape Within the many fantasies of mind, But upon the emergence of this eventideâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cape My head and heart must leave the thought behind.

So back to dreams do my desires go, Until he pulls you through the undertow. dont text me nemore bitch

ur lookin pretty good tnite gurl

Taylor Swanner

New Home

Mike Farrell

Untitled (Ben), 2011

A High School Fight Victor Rios

We stared hard with chests pumped as we passed each other. Then, from behind me, Javier screamed “Whatchoo looking at bitch?!” I turned, dropped Totem and Taboo, ran like Speedy Gonzalez, and swan dove into his gut. I would have escaped unscathed if Tanya hadn’t followed her impulses by yelling “Fight! Fight! Fight!” As I was pulled away, Javier crashed his right Timberland into my face. Inevitably, out rushed a brook of blood. That red liquidy sight lost me the fight. It sucked ‘cause I’d just pummeled his face into purple pulp. That damn incessant Joker laughter he had as he was taken away and my classmates banter still haunts me. After the nurse plugged my nose, she said “You my third one today, y’all just crazy.” The guards escorted me to Mr. Muniz’s office—Harding High’s Punisher. He wasn’t there. Thank goodness since I really needed to think how to excuse my partaking in the fight. I couldn’t afford to get in trouble if I wanted to continue to live solo. The best I could think of saying was that Javier was my ex-girlfriend’s attack dog. That she got him last year right after we broke up. That we teetered on the verge of a fight for a while and that if his boys were not always there for him, the asswhooping would’ve been sooner. That our beef boiled over when I told him in front of my ex I would not fight for the “bitch!” My ex swung her palm so hard she left a red hand across my face efficiently making any fighting unnecessary. The crowd around us burst into “O-oh!” The bystanders would later ask me, “Hey, how’s that cheek?” Still, his existence as a sore in my pride was not going to cut it. My ex left Harding at the start of the semester and she broke it off with Javier shortly after the slap. Mr. Muniz arrived, looked my way, shook his head, and dictated I follow him. His secretary gave me the “You’re deep in it” look. He had as serious a face as a guy who looked like the Puerto Rican Santa Claus could put. First, he asked for an explanation. I told him some bullshit story. This caused him to burst into hysterical laughter; he periodically had to wipe tears of joy from his face. He said, “You know we have security cameras right, you just rammed right into him.” His laughter was contagious though, especially when he began to rewind the security tape, stopping right at the moment I slammed into Javier, over and over again. When we’d filled our bellies with laughter he said, “Don’t worry. Take this week off…unless you want to get your ass kicked the Puerto Rican way.”

Upon my return to school I found out Javier was expelled. To top it off, I received a letter from his probation officer asking, “Do you need help paying medical bills incurred by our client?”

Emily Nullet

I’ve Just Seen a Face

Colleen Elmer

Posing

Second Bed in Vermont Molly Heintzelman

I am the woman women hate: the other woman; a reason for divorce and a retreat house in Vermont. My occupation is minimized to my extra-marital relations and my identity simplified to an overworked reproductive organ. But I am the woman whose scent you caught after his shower, and the taste he can’t dispense with mouth wash, but you won’t ask him about. I am the nick between that hackneyed gold and your finger and I am the tears that come once he’s asleep. I am a red wine stain on your beige carpet and the ruffle you noticed in his hair. I was coincidental and now I am the perpetual discussion among nail salon wives who speculate on my hair color, build and cup size, although they know I trump you in all of these. A jury of my peers ruled I am the basest of women, impregnated with a red letter A, though my guilt is blanketed by passion only available to the infidelitous. I think about you more often than you suspect my existence. He does not love me, nor do I have the luxury of a quixotic notion of flying to Paris or trekking an aisle. Yet your husband and I are invigorated by my command

of warmth in our hotel bed sheets, of the free drinks in out-of-town bars and of the praying brown hairs on the nape of his neck. I win. I see the worst of him while you only get a wedding album filled with a preconceived image of what a husband should be, and I would and do take my half every night.

Crinkled Paper Brian Demilia

Rebecca Rice Lonely

Horns beep across the congested street, of cars and people headed toward the beach on this sunny and sweaty summer day. But it never penetrates the glass shields of my porch. I sit eagerly, without the slightest movement, waiting for her. We met last year in a driver’s ed classroom, where she passed a note before leaving, “Talk to me sometime, if you want.” The love that came from crinkled paper was, and still is, the strongest I’ve ever felt, but was left to expire with distance and time. Her memory plays cinematically within the porch windows, as the cars transform into the seats we sat in on that cold dark night, where our hands clasped tight. We sat inches apart, but barely spoke a word. She was sewing a red dress of the 19th century, murmuring to herself in a number of languages – none I could understand, but I couldn’t help but listen to that delicate voice, starved of strength. My eyes swung to the right, scanning her short brown hair, green eyes, a ruffled black bag torn on all sides, which I learned “goes where she goes.” I asked her, “Why the love for history?” She said it can take you to other times and places, like holding a mirror just ahead of the present.

Rebecca Rice Grace

Uneducated Poetry

Why the Tooth Fairy Wears Dentures

Home again The family is fine My niece is one I threw her in the air She smiled kind eyes One year passed in borrowed time No fear, no lies Only life remained disguised One. Two. Three. Toss me up again I want to know why Must she learn she can’t fly? Keep it a secret, you and I So her smile will survive I left again My friends are fine Flip the page Five years pass in three half blinks Here lies the riddle of the sphinx What in morning knows naught of life, In the evening ignores all strife, And in the night clings strife to life? They’re telling me it’s time to go I dig my nails in tight Hold my breath Is this for real, I have to leave, All good things end? So enter into the world of men One, two, three Toss me up again.

The tooth fairy wears dentures Because she ate too much candy She chews and chews and gums her food. My! A few extra teeth would be handy! So she made this contract with children. It’s really kind of funny. That she takes all of your teeth In exchange for some money. Big teeth won’t do! Oh no! Little boy’s and girl’s teeth are the best. She takes only the whitest and brightest And she leaves all the rest. Mommies and daddies beware! She’s not looking for you! She’s looking for the smallest teeth Anybody got some glue? And so little children remember To brush your teeth at night. But when your tooth gets looth Put it under your pillow before daylight. Now you have a tooth missing But do not fret my child. A little patience and calcium And you’ll grow another in a while.

Carl Fendenzi

Ciara Duggan Jillian at Sunset

Donna Zuk Adley

Burned

Meghan Parmentier The eggs crack easily beneath my fingers, and it feels good. Being in control of something for once, destroying something for once. So I crack each egg faster than the last. And harder too. The electric beater whirs to life in my hands, still eager for control. I force the beater around the bowl, skimming against the edges and laughing in delight when it jumps back with resistance. When my ingredients finally lose themselves to an undetectable mass, I uproot them to a pan for the oven. There, they solidify into something totally different. Poor, defenseless eggs; crushed so definitively, so easily. I laugh and collect their pieces. Pause. Pan-out to my not-so-simple life. Nothing is that easy. Follow the recipe precisely. Add this much milk, that much butter. Add this many eggs, sans shells. Use the beater for so long; that’s my favorite part. Abandon your mess in the oven and come back to something new. Sure, it might not taste quite right. And yes, if you forgot, maybe the smoke will eventually remind you and after rushing to the stove, you’ll find that your creation is a little brown on the bottom. But the brown parts are easily cut off and with a little icing… Okay, a copious applying of icing, the good parts are all that show. Cut. Rewind. That wasn’t in the script. No one came back for me when I was a little brown on the bottom. No one came rushing back to salvage my good parts. Instead, I burned. Flame-ridden and crispy, inside and out. Did you think my hair was naturally black? The loose ashes that tinge my face and arms, did you take them for freckles? And now I have to wear the pot holders. Ironic, right? But now no one will get close enough to burn me again. And that’s just how I like it. Psstt… Let me tell you a secret. Your indifference gives me power. It’s sweet, just as diving into that container of sugar that sits on your kitchen counter would be. Imagine, your worries fading as you immerse yourself into that purely white environment, having it touch and tingle every inch of your skin while you inhale and become intoxicated with the saccharine pool of that miniscule ingredient. For me, it’s more addictive than drugs. Believe me when I tell you this, because I’ve done the research. And every day that I fade more to you and your world, I dive further into my intoxicating sugar pool and I know my power is growing. The truth is, even if you did notice me, you probably wouldn’t like me. And the truth is, I’m not sorry. Couldn’t care less, actually. Because I have a secret. And you don’t want to know it yet, but you will. Believe me, you will. And you’ll need me then. And then, oh boy. Won’t you just be sorry. Cue laugh track here.

Meghan Guilfoyle Airplane

Walls closing in, she searched for anything that resembled relief. Out in the world she was strong, intelligent and driven. Her future was filled with gates of ivy and promotions. She said, “One day, I’ll walk home brushing shards of glass off my shoulders because nothing could hold me back – not even a glass ceiling.” But no matter her efforts, the world never yielded; never praised. Never told her, her true value so she left the price-tag on the mirror she bought at the dollar store. Just so she could remember what the world thought she was worth. So what does she do? She comes to me She’d heard about me; she saw me damn near everyday. But she had never needed me like this before. And when she found me, it was in the most innocent of places. Her first steps toward me were apprehensive. But her eyes were pregnant with desperation; with broken hopes and dreams that she always held in the back of her throat. Wishes that never found a well, “please God, just let me be pretty.” She stares at me; through me. Dreaming of a life – her very own life! A life filled with a free man’s fire and a chained man’s desire – choice. A fickle thing she had never known. Like the condom when you need it most – for her, it was nowhere to be found. When it came time for college applications, it was her dream to be a writer – “just like Langston Hughes”, she thought. “No, you will go to school to be a lawyer”, her parents told her. So when the college letters came, she got accepted. But her dream, deferred.

Lisa Montalbano Tramonto a Firenze

The Throne For Elizabeth

But see the key is, you’ve gotta make her feel powerless. You’ve gotta make her feel like, without you, she’s nothing.

I get girls. But not just one girl though, man. I love having my bowl filled to the brim with honies. And honestly, I could get just about any chick.

I remember this one girl. She came to me staggering under the weight of demons that reeked of her mother’s putrid disappointment.

Zachary Connolly

So there we were, right. Just the two of us. I reeled her in. She said, “This is my first time. I’ve never done this before.” I said, “Don’t worry baby. Why don’t you just start out using a couple fingers – I like to watch.” She swore she would kneel to no man. But I brought this girl to her knees in no time.

And in a flash, I took from her everything. And when it was over she left. But I knew she’d be back. After all, I’ve heard I’m like a drug. Now believe me, I don’t just resign myself to corrupting intelligent or driven girls. In fact, I have an even easier time working girls with low self-esteem. The kind of girls who think their self-worth is determined by the number on her waistline instead of the ones on her report card. Or the girls that give so much brain, they have none left for their homework. There I sit. A fixed amalgamation of acrylic tile, metal, and water. Waiting for my next victim. The next brittle soul, salivating for salvation. I rip innocence from girls like I was a fucking Birmingham church. Who am I? You already know. Who am I? I said you already know. I’m the welcoming stall in the empty girls bathroom. I’m the whispers when the paper-thin girl walks by. Just call me Kohler. Just call me Johnny on the Spot. Just call me the oval office. Just call me the lou Just call me….a toilet. Bulimia affects one in five American girls. So for me, business is booming. But I could use a little break. So do me a favor – find a girl who has no idea how beautiful she is. Tell her she is gorgeous and buy her dinner. If you’re lucky she’ll hold on to both. So that next time she considers searching for relief in my shimmering, oval face, she’ll see the brown-eyed, freckle face, red-headed, athletic, creative, unique, funny, beautiful work of God she has always been staring back at her. Tell her that she looks like royalty. So that one less queen will get on her knees for me

Chistopher Hart Fishing at Menemsha

Time

William Vessio

Time is but illusion and that makes age a lie and the heaven that bends above us but the deepest, bluest sky Hell is but the fire that burns like rage in mind and the savior to our problems is nothing if not Time

One Week

Amy Maciejowski

Corey Quadir Lady

Auburn hair gleams in the sun’s rays The candescent shine off perfect skin Rising up against him She whispers sweet nothingness in his ears Then gone just as fast as she came He is alone in the darkness While she battles the bombs of night Trying to get by without her became the hardest thing He walked in a daze Two feet the weight of stones One more week, he knew Until they would be together again

In the house, building their life, he hears the doorbell ring Shocking that he could hear over the beat of his heart But, alas, he sees his future has been torn apart As he folds the flag he utters one last thing “There is nothing for me, and this can no longer be My Reality Julie, I love you, we will never part One more week, Until we will be together again And we can complete each others heart”

Corey Quadir Girl

It’s A Metaphor Samantha Schlemm

“It’s a metaphor.” I smile at him. I am already aware that it is a metaphor. It’s obvious to me. It’s something I have known since the first time I heard her sing the words, but he is hoping he knows something that I do not. “You know, she really doesn’t mean they’re a firework.” My smile grows. Outside, the road surges backwards as the car out races our surroundings. We only have a few minutes as I drive him from place to place. The radio sings and I don’t have to look at him to know that he is grinning. “Is it?” The sarcasm slips out. It’s a part of who I am and I can’t seal it in like jelly in a jar, the top twisted tight. But he knows this and laughs. He wanted to impress my four years of college that will end soon with nothing more than a bachelors in English and the ability to identify a metaphor, even when I don’t realize I am. Katy Perry is not a literary genius, she didn’t even write the words to this song, but I wonder if he hears, do any of them actually listen? Metaphors are meant to be put on, wrapped around you like a leopard print Snuggie. Okay, they’re usually much less garish, you melt into them and feel their comparisons like grooves carved into a table. Your fingers can’t resist touching, to know that they are real. They’re not just something your ninth grade English teacher points out in class. Listen. She is talking to you. They hear the music the instruments and the mixing behind the words their lips say the lyrics repeating after Katy and yet I think all they learn from it is purple highlights are kind of cool. He’s laughing now, at something else he’s said. At fourteen we’re ignorant, no perhaps it’s more blind. We hear songs like we hear our ninth grade English teacher, but we don’t see those very words inside of us. “Even brighter than the moon, moon, moon”

Do you think he knows? They must have all known at some point. It must have been their vision they were blinded, or blocked like when your contact shifts out of place and gets stuck to the corner of your eye only some things are in focus. That must be the reason you’d end your own life. You couldn’t see all of the things, all of the people who knew there was a spark in you. Your eyes must have just been stuck in that moment one of defeat, failure. But we all get to hold our disappointments our downfalls like id cards, proof that we are human that we are perfect because of the things we have ruined or caused to collapse. They must have all known. Four now and two tries. He only knew three of them. The other three were just a story something people were talking about. I wonder if he hears her metaphor. I wonder if he knows or if he just wanted to share with me to give me that grin that is worth so much more than a firework. Even if he fails science, if a girl doesn’t love him back, if he gets a DWI, hell if he gets ten DWI’s, if he doesn’t make the basketball team, or if he robs a bank. I wonder if he’ll always be able to see exactly what I have always known, the obvious. It’s a metaphor yes. A figure of speech used to understand one thing in terms of another Wikipedia could tell you just that, but metaphors usually tell you the truth in a creative way. We all feel small sometimes, we all feel “like a plastic bag” even if we don’t use that colorful simile that Katy gives us. I wonder if they know this. That they all have something worth sharing and that they’re not alone. Four young lives have left us, with so much time, so much much because they missed the metaphors they missed the sounds of tomorrow, The Kinks weren’t keeping all of the Better Things for themselves. I’d give anything to be certain, to be sure that he knew. Because the rings in a ripple are something you wouldn’t think you’d need to be afraid of, but like all metaphors they’re the truth.

Bethany Warnock Beta Fish

A Quiet Darkness Kate Taussig

From this place that has the scent of old books and silent prayer My dirty, heathen self walks And, suddenly, the air is clear This filth turns to water And I am not alone. Somewhere inside me, a man says “We are all in this together. If you love them, and if I love them It does not matter why Or from whence comes that love Only that they are loved.” Turning back, the air grows thick and stale once more And my breath comes shallow. Behind me, the darkness remains Something soft and beautiful. Harsh fluorescence suddenly abounds And the beauty is gone. No, not gone, just somewhere else And if I look in just the right places At just the right times I’ll see it.

Nourishment Kate Taussig

I could subsist upon your words alone Were there no wheat for bread Nor fish nor fowl for meat But only your lungs, your mouth, your tongue, I would not die from naught that passed my lips But live upon that which passed through yours. I could subsist upon your words alone If darkness claimed the sun And left us hiding in the night. Your voice would be my drink of water, My Sunday feast, My ever fruitful crop. I could subsist upon your words alone For each one is a morsel Sweeter than the ripest apple And more tender than the flesh of lambs. While others starve for want of food Your lips shall feed my starving soul And soothe the ache of hunger in my gut. I could subsist upon your words for years Until the rain comes back, And sun returns, And people live as well as die, And rivers flow once more. Until we have seen the world from beginning to end And back to the beginning again, I could subsist upon your words alone.

Jonathan Grado

Mystic Sun

Death of a God Henry Victor

The skies darken and rain poured down as if the heavens themselves were mourning a loss, and perhaps they were. In a small, remote village a cottage was lit by the flames of candles. Countless had gathered, the cottage was not enough to contain them; the majority had spilled out into the rain and willingly so, just so long as they could say they were present. These people were not zealous religious fanatics, or joyous friends; but normal people who sought immortality, they wanted their names to go down in the history books for the privilege of being present when a god died. A god among men, a man who became a god; a god in his ruthlessness, in his mercy, in his evil, in his goodness, in his callous disregard for human life, and in his love. Now this god laid powerless in his bed, the only one allowed near was a single raven haired woman, who sat by his side wiping the sweat from his brow so he would be presentable in the face of Death. His eyes, once a vibrant green were pale white, only illuminated a bedside candle. This god looked up at his care giver, a young beauty, who should be spending her time engaging in frivolity, but instead remained by the side of her beloved. A love that was never realized, for a god could never succumb to personal desires. A world plunged into chaos and darkness was the one he was born into and the world he destroyed. Slowly the despots, the tyrant, and the zealots were deposed, for they had no place in his world. Armies fell as did churches, if a divergence ever truly existed between the two. The gods of old were eradicated, and in there

Lauren Wolman Nature’s Mirror

stead he fostered peace. His contemporaries saw him as vile and monstrous, but he remained unaffected, freedom prospered and it was only the tyrants and ignorant that whimpered. By his side remained the woman, the pagan that worshiped at his altar, the witch who all others feared but he adored. Neither judged the other for their actions, but it was never to be, he fell ill. He returned to his place of birth to spend his last moments and she followed without question. He found the crowds a nuisance, fools too quick to latch on too affluence, leaches, as were the rest of humanity. But this god had solace in that he was no longer for this world and his beloved witch would follow. He gave his gift to humanity and yet they still bled him dry. She leaned forward to place a simple kiss on his lips, his eyes closed for the last time and with the last of his strength and breath he spoke, “Choice is the only freedom we have, what we have, what we do, and who we are, are our choices. I chose this, and not you. I trotted in the realm of gods for humanity only to forsake my own. That is this world’s law: you cannot gain without loss; I gained peace but lost you,” tears flowed from his eyes, “Farewell my love.” His words were recorded by those present, to be pasted down to those decades after him. They removed the beloved from history, and bastardized his teachings. They undid all his works and chaos reined.

Dream Catcher Carole Ann Kinnaw

Kay Walker

Frosted Intricacies

“Maybe it will make your bad dreams go away.” That’s all it said. Those words. They stung. What if she knew that all my nightmares were about her? Truth is I didn’t want them to go away. That scent of glue, making her fingers raw. She touched my cheek. It felt like sandpaper. The rope clung tightly to the endless circle—it dug deep into the leather ring, so full of life So full of pain Pulling and prodding. It was being strangled. Help it. The air leaving my lungs. Trying to force myself not to speak. Not to walk right over there and kiss her. It was imperfect. You were mad. I’m sorry, I enjoyed it. You couldn’t find my favorite. “It had to be blue.” It didn’t matter—all that mattered was that you still knew my favorite. You thought the bead looked purple. Now that you mention it—I think it does too. Hanging on display, the feathers look lifeless Big. Small. Big. Small. Lain perfectly at the ends of string Floating off the wall as if afraid to touch it To come too close. To feel the cold skin—the friction of bodies, rubbing together for the first time Forcing the mind to stray away from that thought. Torturing it with the memory. Back when this wasn’t even in our heads. Well mine, at least. It is always there. Trace the leather ring. Count the holes where the rope parts—until you finally close your eyes. You’ll be there. Like usual. Sometimes when I look at you, I don’t feel anything. I don’t even remember who I am. Slipping, sliding, on the slick street. I saw your face. Your green eyes. I made you dance in the rain. That’s all I saw. That’s where I pretended I was— And everything else went away.

Kelly Moran Balloons