Montage 2020 Journal: To Be Brave by Montage at Quinnipiac University

To Be Brave Montage

Literary & Arts Journal Volume 39 2020

About Us

Montage is the student-run literary and arts journal at Quinnipiac University, located in Hamden, Connecticut. Our purpose is to celebrate the students who create art in any and every form. We promote the growth of writers and artists on campus and provide an outlet for those who wish to share their work. We seek art that pushes boundaries, is unique, and is inspiring.

Submissions

Submissions to Montage are free and open to all Quinnipiac University undergraduate students enrolled at the time of the journal’s publication. Submissions were accepted in the categories of poetry, prose, visual arts, and photography. All submissions were reviewed blindly by the Montage content panel.

Colophon

The fonts used throughout this publication are Didot, Baskerville Regular, and Montserrat Regular. Three hundred and fifty copies of this journal were printed by Tyco Print and Promo during May 2020 in New Haven, Connecticut.

Donald Hall Poetry Prize

Each year, Quinnipiac University’s College of Arts and Sciences sponsors a student poetry contest in honor of Donald Hall, former US Poet Laureate and native of Hamden, Connecticut. A committee of Quinnipiac faculty selects the best student poetry and awards cash prizes to the first, second, and third-place winners. Prizewinners read from their work at an annual celebration of student creativity in the spring semester, and the first place winner is automatically published in the Montage Literary & Arts Journal.

Wilder Fiction Prize

Each year, Quinnipiac University’s College of Arts and Sciences sponsors a student fiction contest in honor of Thornton Wilder, Pulitzer-Prize-winning novelist and playwright, and longtime resident of Hamden, Connecticut. A committee of Quinnipiac faculty selects the best pieces of short fiction by a student and awards cash prizes to the first, second, and third-place winners. Prizewinners read from their work at an annual celebration of student creativity in the spring semester, and the first place winner is automatically published in the Montage Literary & Arts Journal.

The Staff Editors-in-Chief Nina Leopold Joelle Gray

Journal Design Joelle Gray

Cover Design Ian Addison

Advisor

Samantha Bashaw

Executive Board

Rebecca Gatz, Secretary Katherine Iorio, Treasurer

Content Panel

Ian Addison Kiki Arevalo Haktan Ceylan Gabriella Dâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Annunzio Stephanie Felix Mike Fernandez Ashley Pelletier Jen Rondinelli

A Letter from the Editor Hi! Welcome to the journal. I think that writing this letter has been the most stressful part of being an editor of Montage. I mean, really, what can I possibly say in two pages to sum up what has been one of the most incredible opportunities I’ve ever had? How can I put into words how grateful to and proud of this journal, and everyone who’s contributed to it, in ways big and small, I am? To be clear, that is not to say that the rest of the year wasn’t stressful, because it was. It so totally was. I’m not sure if you guys heard, but in March of 2020, the whole country basically shut down. Something about a pandemic. Montage, though? Montage persevered. Our spectacular team continued to contribute their time, opinions, and thoughts to make this beautiful journal a reality, despite being, in some cases, thousands of miles away from normal – literally and figuratively. It’s hard to know that I won’t see a physical copy of this journal for quite a while, but it’s wonderful to know that this journal, and our team, wouldn’t let anything get in its way. It took bravery, and courage, and strength, cheesy as it may sound. When everything in the world felt scary and uncertain, we continued to push forward. We continued to be brave. See what I did there? Truly, though, we did. And, as you can see by this journal, it paid off. Big time. Which means I have a lot of people to thank. First, and most importantly, is, of course, Joelle, my lovely co-editor. She stepped into her role out of nowhere and completely knocked it out of the park. And Sam, our kick-ass advisor. Without Sam, this journal very well may have fallen apart. More than once. Thank goodness for Sam.

And Professor Cormier. There’s no way we would have gotten to (or through) the AWP Conference without him, and that is an experience I will be forever grateful for, hiccups aside. And our E-Board, Kate and Rebecca. Though their time helping out was cut short this year, I know they’ll do unbelievable things with this journal in the fall. And, lastly, our insanely talented contributors. Submitting your work is an act of bravery in and of itself, and I am beyond grateful to and inspired by every person that was courageous enough to submit. I don’t want to get too mushy, but I do want to say that this journal is the best. Just, overall, the best. It’s the best, and you’re the best, and we’re the best, and I’ll miss it, and you, and us, and that’s all.

Thank you. So much.

Nina Leopold

A Letter from the Editor Dear Reader, This edition of Montage has become something far greater than I ever dreamed that it could be. The fact that you have opened it means that it is finally out in the world! I joined Montage as a terrified sophomore because my therapist told me she wanted me to join a club. That same year, I began designing the Montage publications. Rosie Persiani had so much faith in me that no one else did. Now as an equally-as-terrified junior, I write this to you as a co-editor-in-chief. It was something I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know I wanted until I had it. Someone better tell my therapist the was right. This academic year didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t go how I thought it would. In September, Montage switched advisors after less than a month in school. In December, my father passed away after months of being sick. Then, in March, everything on campus shut down because of the pandemic that is sweeping the world. As someone who hates change, I have had to learn to adapt to some pretty major changes. Nothing in life is predictable, and now it feels like Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve lived through it all. Montage, this journal, and you, the reader, have helped me stay firmly planted in the ground, ready to learn and grow. No matter what happened, I knew that someone would hold this book in their hands and read the words I wrote here. This would not have been possible without my incredible co-editor Nina and our fearless advisor Sam. I have spent this year in such great company. These two amazing women have helped me to bring Montage to where it is today. There are no two other people I would ask to have on this team with me. I also want to thank Rebecca and Kate, who were two incredible assets to us this spring semester.

We had to do things a little differently this year. Normally, this journal is a product of hours of meetings, tall stacks of paper, and hundreds of cups of coffee. Instead, this journal was a product of hours of conference calls, thousands of emails, and still hundreds of cups of coffee. There’s a reason it’s not usually done this way, but we proved to ourselves that this can be done. Other student organizations stopped working once school moved online, but Montage started working harder. Life never goes the way you plan it. Even though sometimes it feels like your world might fall down around you, I’m here to tell you that it won’t. I ask you always to be brave, even when it feels like you can’t. Next year, I will be stepping into the role of editor-in-chief without any of my role models with me on campus to guide me. I trust that I have learned enough from them to lead Montage into the future, bravely. Thank you for picking up this copy of Montage. Let the beauty within these pages inspire you. Whether you read this book one time or a thousand times, I hope that this journal will always be a reminder for the artist inside of you to be brave.

With Love, Joelle Gray

Contents STAGE I: Acknowledge Fear 18

Hades and Persephone in the Spring Gabriel Purpura || Poetry

Domestic Constriction Alissa Walkowiak || Painting

20 Shakespeare Haktan Ceylan || Poetry 22 Blue Rug Mahi Sugebo || Prose Third Prize, Wilder Fiction Prize 27

Puddle Jumpers Ian Addison || Digital Art

28 Cracked Haley Cohen || Poetry 29 Secrets Ashley Amarante || Poetry 30 Goonies Gabriel Purpura || Prose 33

When Two Worlds Collide Brian Ziegelhofer || Poetry

34 Women 1 Corey Windham || Digital Art

Shattered Stars Brantley Boyda || Poetry

36 Clean? Jen Rondinelli || Poetry

Honorable Mention, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

38 Routine Mike Fernandez || Prose

STAGE II: Seek Change 46

The Bonds We Make Joseph Powell || Poetry

47 Art Haktan Ceylan || Poetry 48

Gunmetal Alkaline Ian Addison || Digital Art

The Mirror Haley Cohen || Poetry

50 How to Take a Blindingly Red Light and Muffle it into a Dull Glow Dorothy Watters || Prose 54

Honorable Mention, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

A Memory Glenna Gobeil || Photograph

What Would You Like to Talk About? Wesley Clapp || Poetry

Sad & Afraid of Rejection Stephanie Felix || Prose

Unfinished Brian Ziegelhofer || Poetry

Punta del Este Sophie Frank || Photograph

59 Blur Kiki Arevalo || Photograph

60 Church Alisa Meija || Poetry 62

Little Blue Petrina Robinson || Poetry

64 Within a Deep Forest Tyler Maron || Poetry Second Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

STAGE III: Find Courage

68 The Embarcadero Sophie Frank || Photograph 69 Crown of Fire Joseph Powell || Poetry 70 Needles Kerry Deasy || Prose 71

My Skin Petrina Robinson || Poetry

A Paris Couple Glenna Gobeil || Photograph

73 Mid-Summer Mediocrity Haniya Ahmed || Prose Third Place, Wilder Fiction Prize 78

For the Daydreamer in the Back Haley Cohen || Poetry

Leagues Between Ian Addison || Digital Art

The Ballad of Big Ben Stephanie Felix || Poetry

82 Burned Out Matthew Stayner || Prose First Place, Wilder Fiction Prize 87 Ode to Detective Olivia Benson Sophie Rodgers || Poetry Third Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize 88 Small Ashley Collins || Prose 89 90

Canyon Blues Sophie Frank || Photograph Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the Quiet Kind Mackenzie Fenn || Prose

95 To Make a Family Rebecca Gatz || Play

STAGE IV: Be Brave

108 This is Not a Manifesto Joelle Gray || Poetry First Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize 110

My Love Sunny Scalia || Prose

111

Montreal in Color Sophie Frank || Photograph

112 Pickle Girl Sophie Rodgers || Prose Second Place, Wilder Fiction Prize 114

Elegy for Repentance Mike Fernandez || Poetry

115 Women 2 Corey Windham || Digital Art 116

Two Promises Gabriel Purpura || Prose

Who We Are

125

134 Acknowledgements

Hades and Persephone in the Spring Gabriel Purpura

What does the warrior do when the war is all but won? Does he fight, does he run? Can he love again, can he put down the gun? His hands have only known one thing; taking that which he did not give, make, or create. The winter was cold, the battle just begun, but I was sent home to fight my own war. Lonely nights spent wandering the dark streets, only to find I had been left to rot swore they were there, just ghosts, alone, left me. Friends, lovers, family all gone away, Nothing left but salvation in the booze; the bottle had always loved me and I had always loved it. But I had been tricked and in the night, it had stolen my sleep. Everything changed after the winter had passed So different it was the trees, the grass. Even the new flowers smelled better it was Her then, the goddess, Persephone herself She came and changed land and perhaps myself. Once grey, world, spring forth under the red hue. For the green buds had not yet seen the sun. It has been ages since summer had come. The warmth of the of the star above me my muse, my heart, my armor was her soul. My lover holds my hand steady yet true, For it had only known the weight of the sword. Before her unsurmountable life, yet After even the hardest task was done. Now I move to the other side of life.

Domestic Constriction Alissa Walkowiak

Shakespeare Haktan Ceylan

Love is just a fallacy A tragedy, written by Shakespeare Unclear, whether it’s realistic or imagination But I’d prefer the latter, otherwise, we’d reach complications I feel too often but love less, you’ve turned me this way Where the idea of future is only layaway and things escape my mouth that I usually wouldn’t say Maybe I don’t deserve to be loved, but I stand here and preach about how you do A gallon of rude words and an ounce of regret, it doesn’t look as good on me as it does on you I’ve got a lot to say Just afraid that I’ll fade away Pick up a pad and I write Especially at night, where my conscious goes out of sight Wrong or right, the debates I fight Within my head, when the walls are white Heavier than heavy Your heart in my hand remaining steady Whenever you’re ready Let me hold you, it’s scary out there like Friday the 13th and Freddy I promise you make out hill won’t feel so lonely anymore For what’s in store is only that of lucid times four And serendipity modest of all it’s done for people like us Trust, if I had rooftop thoughts like my friends did I’d too be willing to discuss All that’s left out of the late-night conversations and 3 AM thoughts Maybe being broke was better, now that I have money I realize happiness cannot be bought Say what’s on your mind before we intertwine Define, what your sanity looks like compared to mine Look me in the eyes and tell me tonight wasn’t a sign that you love to lie I’m afraid of growing too apart to ever let you go

I’m a slave to your embrace and touch, especially when it’s slow Now I dance with the devil who lurks at the corners of every single one of your shows We were kids, instilled with curiosity and wit, pre-k through twelve But some of us never grew up, the way the world spinning making it seem like hell Tell, do you also have thoughts that you shouldn’t cross your mind? Maybe more than all the time, as if it rewinds Your secrets are safe with me, I’ve been keeping plenty quiet Besides, if I were to spill them I’d probably cause a riot

Blue Rug

Mahi Sugebo Third Place, Wilder Fiction Prize

Jack said that it wasn’t going to take that long for me to start feeling it. We both just took a tab of acid an hour ago, and I already feel like there is blood rushing through my veins. I mean, I know that there is blood rushing through my veins, but I can actually feel the blood crashing against the walls of my veins, trying to feed every organ in my body and keep me alive. The sound of blood waves echo through my ear drums–the soundtrack to my high is my own existence. Funny how even though my mind tells me I want to die, it still keeps me alive. Jack is sitting across from me, on my blue beanbag. His brown curly hair is falling over his eyes, so I can’t tell if he’s asleep or awake. I can’t even tell if he’s starting to feel it at all. He looks like he’s just lying there, but he told me that it takes him a while before he starts feeling it. He told me that he’s taken acid before with some friends and that it took a while for him to start tripping. He said everyone around him was on a different plane of existence, but that he remained on this one. I don’t believe him though. He’s told me many things about his life that are lies: how his parents are still together, how he grew up all around the country before he moved to my town and how he loved it, and how he loved beers. His parents divorced when he was five years old. He moved around the country, but he hated it. He was never able to develop fully-functioning, multi-dimensional relationships with anyone. Because of his social anxiety, an average conversation with someone makes his heart race–makes him feel like he’s the warthog and the conversation is a lion. He’s never had a drink in his life, not a sip. His mom was a big drinker, so he’s never had a sip. He saw his mom screaming at his dad when he was five–he said she was screaming all these horrible things at his dad, pointing out his insecurities and deepest fears, making his dad sit there and cry because he felt he didn’t have a choice but to listen to her. He saw the way alcohol makes a person embody the vilest version of themselves. He’s never had a sip. His mother is off in Nebraska with her new husband. They live on a remote ranch and she sends him mindfulness meditation videos every

month–each DVD paired with a note on how she’s bettered as a person because of Paul and how she’s stopped drinking because of mindfulness meditation. She says she hopes it would do the same things for Jack. Jack noted that she didn’t get better because she loved her own son, but because she met Paul. I wouldn’t have found this out if it weren’t for the long nights we spent skating in the skate park. Sleepless nights have been replaced with moonlit skate nights, with nothing but the sound of the wheels scraping against the asphalt–the soundtrack of our senior year. He told me he lied about his life because he liked thinking of the different ways he could imagine his life. I think he’s lying, though. I think he’s just too scared to face the things he has to. Now, he’s lying sideways, looking at me. I look at his brown eyes and they look back at me. The right side of his face is lit by the red lights I have all around the four walls of my room. He’s on a blue beanbag. He’s wearing a black shirt and black jeans. He blinks once–I think he blinked. I hope he blinked. His eyelashes have created small shadows below his eyes. He blinks again. I can hear his blink from all the way over here. It sounds like the flap of a bird’s wing. He blinks again. Flap. His eyelashes are getting longer and longer. Flap. They’re growing so fast that they’re starting to slowly cascade down his face–down his cheeks, down the shoulder he’s resting his head on, down the blue beanbag and all the way to the blue rug I’ve had since I was a little kid. The eyelashes keep getting longer, and they start weaving through the rug’s bumps, creases and stains. They start navigating their way through the blue forest that is the yarn that makes up the rug. Each eyelash is splitting into two, four and six. They’re slithering slowly through the blue forest, making a subtle hissing noise. The eyelashes are ecstatic to be going on an adventure like this. I guess they haven’t been given much freedom. I can only imagine how boring it would be if I were stuck on someone’s eyelids all day, doing nothing but protecting the eye day-in and day-out.

I never thought that I’d do acid. I never thought that I would do it in my room. I never thought that black eyelashes would be weaving themselves through my blue rug. My favorite blue rug. I got this blue rug from my dad. He bought it for me because I saw it in the store when I was three and demanded I have it. Or at least that’s what he told me. He could’ve been lying. My mother called him a pathological liar when I was four-and-a-half. She told me that while I sat and cried on this blue rug because she had also just told me that she and dad were getting divorced. I didn’t know what divorce meant at four-and-a-half, but I just knew that my dad wasn’t going to live in the same house as me anymore. And that’s what family meant. Family meant that we lived in a house together. That we would go to the job that we hated, go cheat on our wives and go to the preschool we were bullied in, all to come back into the same house and pretend like none of that ever happened. This house–this blue rug–was family. On this blue rug, my dad told me some of his favorite stories that he wrote. He hadn’t written anything big in a while though. He sent countless manuscripts to his publisher but none of them were good enough. He, then, felt like he wasn’t good enough for mom anymore. So, he started finding other women that were good enough. Mom tried. She listened to some of his favorite stories with me on this blue rug, even though all she would rather do after waitressing all day at the diner was go to sleep. She tried. His voice weaved through the air and into our ears the same way these eyelashes are weaving through the blue yarn. His lies wove a special place in both our hearts. His lies wove a web of wedges that slowly tore this family apart. His voice distinct and discernable through the clear air, sounded somehow like these black eyelashes sound as they rub against the blue yarn. Mom tried and he gave up. Mom decided she was done buying into his lies and left him. All I have left of my dad is this blue rug. “Have you always been a fan of The Doors?” Jack says lethargically turning his face towards me, referring to the poster on my wall. “Yeah, my dad listened to them all the time…” I say as I turn to him and look at his cascading eyelashes. “He would say, ‘Taylor, this is the greatest piece of music you’ll ever hear in your life…’”

Jack looks distracted. “Hey, can you pass me the cherry Cola from the fridge?” he says and points to the small black fridge I have in my room. I look at him… I know he’s talking to me but his words are just forming in bubbles outside of his mouth, and just… pop–just like that, they’re gone. I look at my fridge. “I don’t even know where I got the time to get all those stickers and magnets,” I say as the Bob Ross sticker looks in the eye. The eyelashes are still extending. They’ve covered the surface of the rug now. They start making their way through my room. I can still hear the eyelashes flap as Jack blinks. I think he’s crying. I look up at him and see a single tear streaming out of the corner of his eye, down the bridge of his nose and to the cheek that the eyelashes brushed past on their journey to freedom. The teardrop falls with a big thump, like the heavy sound of a Tyrannosaurus Rex’s foot landing on the ground. The teardrop then grows into a small puddle once it hits the ground. It merges with my own tears. The puddle starts moving across the room. Every part of the room seems to be waterproof because the puddle is gliding over the surface of everything like a snake gliding on that branch on his way to Eve. Nothing is getting wet. That is until it got to my green Tyrannosaurus Rex. My mom won me that at a carnival when I was eight. I was there with her and with her new boyfriend, Mark. Mark was one of many “new boyfriends”. There were Jacks, Mikes, Kyles and Ryans. There were Xaviers, Richards, Roys and Williams. There were Bills, Davids, Josephs and Tylers. Mom’s heart had a golden revolving door that always seemed to be spinning. I’m 17 now, and there are still Josés, Henrys, Nathans and Sullys. The puddle is soaking my green dinosaur. It’s sopping wet, because Jack and I are crying now. The small puddle is turning into a big one. It’s morphing into something I can’t recognize, like myself. No matter how many times I think about my blue and black rug, or my sopping wet green dinosaur, I still cry–every time. And even though I still cry about my things, my tears just seem to flow more easily once I think about Jack’s past and his mom. I still can’t stand the idea that anyone in this world has even the slightest idea how I feel. I don’t want anyone to ever feel what I feel, to ever go through what I went through.

My dad said he would keep writing. My mom said she’d keep trying. Jack said it would take him two hours before he started tripping. It’s only been one and he’s already tripping. I can tell, because his eyes are dilated, and his heart is racing–I can hear it from here. He might be a liar–thump–but at least he admits it–thump–my mom said each new boyfriend would be the last one–thump–but there are still Hunters, Bills, Jonathans and Tobies–thump–and my dad never wrote anything ever again–thump–so, at least… at least Jack admits it–thump.

Puddle Jumpers Ian Addison

Cracked

Haley Cohen I have no skeletons in my closet. I’ve dressed them all up and written them down for your entertainment, and if you’re not amused, oh no you’ve hurt all three of my feelings. Though it’s more therapeutic for me than you; if you relate then I’m sorry. My brain is a floor of torn-up puzzle pieces, and even if you taped them together, you’d get a more devastating image than that brain blown to smithereens. Maybe a better metaphor would be a vase shattering into pieces, and there’s this illusion that if you can pick up the pieces quicker you will somehow restore the thing that broke fully to its original form. The problem is sharp edges now replace what you had, so you may as well take your time. No glue can truly stick together those shards of broken mind, but eventually you can get back a distorted “sanity” that blends in with the unbroken. But there will always be a piece missing.

Secrets

Ashley Amarante How do you keep a secret that isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t yours to keep? Do you hold it in your heart so deep? Do you prioritize it over your own wellbeing? Knowing that in listening you are agreeing? Are secrets just a precursor to lies? Ones that might just break all ties? Is there a rider in the unspoken terms of agreement? Hidden so well by good intentions even you couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see it?

Goonies

Gabriel Purpura It’s a warm Saturday afternoon, and you are seven years old. The smell of his fresh brewed Dunkin Donuts coffee is married with the lingering scent of his last cigarette and it fills the room. The daylight seeps through the blinds revealing a pleather couch and an old school television. The television is flanked on both sides by seemingly endless catalogues of films left unwatched. There are blankets draped over the couch, one of which sports a Miami Dolphins logo, his favorite team. Butterfly decorations adorn the walls. They mimic their real-life counterparts. The table in front of the TV is scarred by coffee rings and covered by photographs. Standing proud in the center of the table is the picture of a young man wearing an army uniform. You know him, but you cannot remember why. You enjoy these days, the lazy Saturdays of childhood. While your contemporaries were watching Saturday morning cartoons, you got something much different and in turn, intrinsically more valuable to you. You spend the Saturdays with your Aunt Martha and Uncle Rick. Aunt Martha is your godmother she is short roughly 5’1”. She wears her long light brown hair down, and wears glasses, reminiscent of the era when she originally bought them. Her face, like her personality, is kind and loving. Uncle Rick is more like your surrogate grandfather than an uncle. He wears his hair medium length and neat. His face is weathered; despite this he is very kind and loving man. It’s about to begin your Saturday tradition of watching movies. He’s shown you all the good ones. Your go to picks are normally the cheesy b-movies that never quite made their return on investment. Your favorite movie, however, is The Goonies. The movie chronicles a group of young misfits trying to find treasure in order to save their hometown. You and Uncle Rick both consider yourselves like the titular characters. You both think that you are young, and just waiting for your own adventure to start. What you both failed to realize is that the adventure had already begun. Unfortunately for you both, the adventure is almost over. The only thing you both have to look forward to is finding the illustrious treasure and hopefully the supposed happy ending that goes along with it. He reaches over, grabs the clicker, and turns the television on. He presses play. The movie begins. You fall asleep.

*** I awake from the dream and I am left wanting more. Like I am still holding on to the last remaining warmth of the dying light the candle. Memories like these seem far away and distant now to me as they begin flicker away. I regret to say that his face is fading in my memory, long preceded by the sound of his voice. He passed away when I was eighteen. Upon writing this, it has been four years since. The odd thing about loss is that the pain remains long after the memory has turned to dust. Like a phantom limb getting stabbed, I cannot quite identify why I am crying only that I am indeed crying. When I think about these memories, I wish I was a Goony, trying to save the memories from my childhood. If only there was an adventure that I could go on to save my memory of his face, or maybe at least restore the sound of his voice to my ear, or embrace him one last time and thank him for everything. I wish I could ask him if heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s proud of the man I became. I wish he could see my kids so that they too would be fortunate enough to have someone like him in their lives. Unfortunately for them, there is no such treasure and I am not a Goony. My hometown will inevitably be destroyed not by bankers, but instead, by new information removing and replacing all the old stomping grounds in my mind. The only hope my kids will have is that I learned enough from him. I get dressed and walk down to my car. The bitter cold reminds me that I am alive and not still dreaming. I go about the rest of my day in the normal fashion. I focus on my classes and try to do my best. I mimic the motions while my mind escapes me. The thought of my childhood lingers in the back of my head like a flickering tape reel only revealing tiny bits of the whole film spun on repeat. At this point it feels more like something I watched on the television; rather than something I experienced myself. I return home. I get ready for bed and drift into the other plane. *** You dream of him again. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s on a horse and the sun is setting over the desert. He is getting further and further away. You call out to him to return but, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s too far gone now to hear your cry. You see his shadowy figure lighting one last cigarette as his body slips past the

horizon. Only the picture of the sunset reaches the facet of your mind now. The sun inevitably sets in front of you; seemingly following him to the great beyond. The sky you see is now cast by a black sheet, dark yet warm. You look up into the infinite abyss. It reveals the dying light of stars long forgotten. You are small, the expanse is vast, and you are now alone. You look again to the horizon where you last saw him. You do not know whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s on the other side. You have never believed in religion, but God, you hope you are wrong. If you are maybe you too can meet him again beyond the sunset. Maybe then, you can be Goonies again.

*** I awake from the dream and I am left wanting more.

When Two Worlds Collide Brian Ziegelhofer

He was a star Future brighter than belief The warmest heart fathomable He was her everything Until he wasn’t Oh how quickly stars turn to Comets With one comment, everything came crashing down In a grandiose blaze passion burned hotter than hell as tensions flared. Zeus and Hera were at it again But this time, it would end. Eventually the dust settled. The hour and minute hand danced for weeks But time stood still Consumed by the carnage of the outburst Both parties remained mute Two worlds had shattered The start of it all He uttered “I cheated” She replied “I’m pregnant” In unison they sang “And it’s all your fault.”

Women 1

Corey Windham

Shattered Stars Brantley Boyda

Shards of glass are scattered around me, Jagged pieces burrowing into my skin. Perhaps with time they’ll round Becoming nothing more than a grain of sand. “Did you know, That there’re more stars in the sky Than grains of sand on earth?” You told me that once, Upon a time, as you wished to be among those very stars While I preferred to have the solid ground beneath my feet. When my life was a fairytale, Where you were the bestest person in all the land, Together we would look in the mirror, With our gap-toothed grins reflected back at us. Now it’s all in pieces. As scarlet drips down my arms To paint an abstract on the stained tile, I look up to the stars. As my solid ground crumbles beneath me, And I’m left with shattered remains, I’m wishing that I was among them too.

Clean?

Jen Rondinelli

Honorable Mention, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

I wake out of clean linens And take off clean pajamas To put on a clean shirt, Clean pants, and clean socks To wear outside of this room I have to leave every day, And when I do the dirt in the air that can’t be seen, only felt, Is grabbing hold of my clothes And my hair, oh my hair, It’s so clean, but so dirty; It’s been five minutes since I left what I know is clean, But I don’t know what’s filthy So everything is filthy And I spend the whole day feeling Like I’m sweating out my body weight, And it’s fixing to my skin, This scent that’s not mine Telling others, “I smell like this always,” So I go home and strip off The clean clothes and go back

Into the shower, or, sauna, Where the heat will keep rising So my skin will peel back And reveal a new space The water can reach, as I linger To remove the filth and I find The mold in the caulking and the tile To be comforting, The mold being clean filth That I accept because the water runs So clean and pure and hot, Contrasting with the cold, wet bathmat That has mold, but no water, Making it filth like everything else, Like you, Like me.

Routine

Mike Fernandez Before opening her eyes, Haley shut off the blaring alarm coming from her phone. Before opening her eyes, Haley wrapped her arm around Jacob, the rhythm of his gentle snores uninterrupted by the world around him. Before opening her eyes, Haley absorbed every sensation of the moment: the musky smell of her husband’s neck, the sweet sound of birds chirping outside, the awful taste of morning breath, the smooth touch of the padded mattress. After waiting five minutes that inevitably turned into ten, Haley opened her eyes. 35 people confirmed dead in mass shooting last night. As the clock drew closer to 8:00AM, Haley let go of the moment and walked over to the bathroom. She picked up her frayed purple toothbrush and brushed her teeth, left to right, up and down, over and under. She watched herself in the mirror doing the usual motions, her muscle memory taking control as she analyzed the blemishes on her face. Today she had three pimples, which was a minor improvement over the four she’d had all week. She planned on applying a face mask after work, just as she had been doing every day for the past month. She also planned on buying a different brand since this one didn’t seem to work very well. As she washed her face and brushed her hair and put on her uniform, she dreamt of staying in bed with Jacob all day. Billionaire tied to sex trafficking ring has died by suicide. After getting herself completely ready, Haley started up the coffee machine and jammed two pieces of bread into the toaster. She opened the fridge and took out the lasagna Jacob had made for dinner the day before. Microwaved lasagna always ended up feeling cold in the center, but Haley desperately needed a break from the menu at work. Once the toast popped up, she covered the pieces in jam and cream cheese and ate them both at the same time. She quickly checked the day’s forecast on her phone as she ate. High of 85, low of 56, 30% chance of rain

between 4:00PM and 6:00PM. The odds seemed low enough that she opted not to take the time to look for her umbrella. After finishing her breakfast, she poured her coffee into a plastic cup and left the house without the lasagna. Most recent California wildfire has burned down over 43,000 acres of trees. Haley quickly walked to her job with her coffee in hand. Gusts of wind carried yellowing leaves from their branches to the concrete below. She couldn’t tell if she was intentionally stepping on every leaf she saw or if they all just happened to fall in her path. A few cars occasionally passed by, though they drove in irregular groups that were far detached from the high concentration of afternoon traffic. She took large sips of her coffee whenever she remembered that it was in her hand. As she turned a corner, she noticed a jogger running towards her in the distance, no doubt taking advantage of the cooler end of a hot autumn day. Haley wondered if she’d ever served him at the diner before. He could have gone there with his wife and kids one day and ordered them all the “famous” pancake special. Or maybe he went there with his girlfriend and ordered a vegetable omelet to make it seem like he was healthier than he actually was. Or maybe he went there with his mother-in-law and only ordered a small salad after she insisted on paying for him. As he passed by, Haley thought she saw him staring at her chest. Man accused of raping three women wins seat on Supreme Court. Haley threw the half-full coffee cup into a recycling bin as she entered the restaurant. It was 8:05 and Lydia was already taking orders from a few early customers. They were mostly seniors taking advantage of the early-bird discount, though there were also a few younger people getting meals before their nine-to-five jobs in the city. Lydia looked over at her with an exaggerated smile, an expression that she now recognized as meaning “hurry up and help me, I need to start cooking the food.”

Haley signed onto the board and grabbed her blue apron from the labeled hook. She ritualistically brushed her fingers over the pins clinging to its outer pocket: the cartoon heart, the open book, the polaroid camera, the miniature Pikachu (she grew up collecting Pokémon cards), the Mexican flag, the American flag, the little acoustic guitar. Each one was a gift from Jacob. He’d come home every day throughout the first week of her job and say “I know how much you love reading” or “photography” or “Pokémon” and present a new pin as if it were a second engagement ring. Haley treated them with the same level of importance. Smiling, she got out her notepad and pen, ready to serve. Cities on the U.S. coastline are projected to be flooded in water by 2050. The diner was full of life by the time the clock struck noon. The regulars wasted no time requesting their usual orders while new customers scanned over each item on their menus. Haley managed her orders from table to table, diligently serving each person with halfgenuine-half-forced politeness. As she brought a new order to the kitchen, Lydia pointed out a lone customer sitting at booth 24. He was a younger man who impatiently tapped his fingers against the table as he stared out the window. As Haley approached, he turned his head towards her and grinned. She suddenly noticed the message sprawled across his black T-shirt: Natural Born Citizen, Border Hoppers and Terrorists Go Home. She felt him eyeing her up and down, questioning to himself if she was illegal and making internal jokes about the border and cages. Her muscles tensed up at his overtness, a collection of goosebumps popping out of her brown skin. She stared at him for a fraction of a second before smiling and asking if he wanted anything to drink. In the next table over, a woman cheerfully spoke in Arabic with her two children. Shooter’s manifesto released. Police confirm he intentionally targeted the Latino community. After work, Haley decided to take a bus ride alone to Mallow Beach. During the colder months, the beach was the perfect place to go and forget about everything. Haley could always count on it being totally empty, with the exception of a few couples scattered around on picnic

blankets. The salty wind buffeted her uniform as she stepped out of the bus. She picked up her shoes and walked barefoot towards the water as pink and orange hues washed over the sky. Haley tended to keep her eyes on the sand to search for seashells, but in this moment, she kept her gaze steady as she approached the shoreline, basking in the vastness of the world and her insignificance within it. She instinctually matched the pace of her breathing to the movement of the waves, integrating her small presence into the grandness of the ocean. In the back of her mind, she lamented that she didn’t bring a camera to capture the pure perfection of the world in that moment, though she knew that a picture wouldn’t have captured the feel of the sand or the sound of the waves or the smell and taste of salt filling her lungs. The beach seemed to change as she walked further and further out. The sights grew bigger while the smells turned rancid. She felt herself stepping on more rocks and shells, though she never looked down to check. Once the smell reached its peak, she finally looked away from the horizon and saw it: a small, severed shark head with pieces of plastic hanging off its innards. It was nearly unrecognizable, the pathetic, garbage-filled head a far cry from its mighty reputation. Its shriveled eyes looked up at Haley, seemingly asking how she could stand by and allow this to happen. She testified her innocence out loud, assuring the shark head that she did her part by recycling and using public transportation and shopping with a reusable bag. She was busy with her own life, working endlessly for paychecks and tips that just barely gave her enough to live on. She constantly sacrificed spending time with Jacob, who was busy with his own job and his own shifts, so that she could survive. She didn’t have the time or money to solve all the world’s problems and the shark’s death likely had nothing to do with her. Regardless, it continued to stare in that same, scornful manner. With nothing more to say, Haley clutched her fist and walked further down the shore, leaving the shark to be swept away by waves that moved like breaths, in and out and in and out. The sky had completely darkened by the time Haley returned to her empty home. Jacob was still at work and wouldn’t be back until 11:00PM. Opening the fridge, she found the lasagna she’d left behind and decided to save it for the next day. She hated eating meals alone,

even if it was in the privacy of her own house, and opted to eat grapes while reading a book instead. She tried staying up to wait for Jacob, but exhaustion kicked in and she quickly fell asleep on the couch. In the middle of the night, she woke up to find Jacob’s arm wrapped around her. She turned over on the couch’s cramped space and watched his expressionless face breathe in and out. She felt herself breathing to the same rhythm. She let the image of his face replace the image of the beach. She let the smell of his neck replace the smell of the shark. She let the sounds of chirping crickets and the taste of half-morning breath and the touch of Jacob’s skin replace every horrible thing in the world. And then, Haley closed her eyes.

The Bonds We Make Joseph Powell

Already the bonds that we make are breaking apart, ripping at the seams Never closing back up again. Do we lose ourselves when we enter this stage of our lives? For better or worse, Good or bad, Hell or high-water, I will stay with you. Justify the pain we endure, Killing off the parts of us we hate, Letting those we love leave because we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe that we matter to them anymore. Ignoring the basic needs of our humanity, Negligence of the soul causing us to wither away only inside ourselves, Our perception a substance to be ignored, Or at best, suspect. Will we quarter ourselves in order to please others? Will you ravage your body, to meet the stubborn demands of those who ask too much? You should be as steadfast as terracotta. Unwavering, unstoppable, covered from hate by an umbrella. Should someone demand something as such from you, Turn vermillion, ball up your fists, and fight as deadly as the most ancient Wight. Play on their skeletons like Xylophones, And think of the world as it was Yesterday. Yesterday will never Zombify and return to today.

Art

Haktan Ceylan today i saw art for the first time and it was you walking candidly amongst the streets and every avenue begged to hear your voice as maybe i would months later over voicemail operator automated messages today i saw art for the first time and it was when we woke up you were there and whole, without enhancers or aesthetics and for a moment, i remembered how to whisper love again you smiled when i spoke your name and it made me fall for you today i saw art for the first time a broken table and glass shards everywhere i couldn’t believe my eyes; i thought i had been peering into my soul’s reflection your shouts and screams apparently ventured off the walls of the halls to my living room although you’re not here right now, you’ve left me overborne by your presence today i saw art for the first time it was when you were leaving we had been fighting, introducing each to nothing but scars your skins gone pale and you whisper when you speak as you drove away, the collateral beauty raced across the summer pinkish sky, and that, that was art

Gunmetal Alkaline 48

Ian Addison

The Mirror Haley Cohen

My reflection wears my vintage misery. This shirt brings out the water in my eyes and I think it looks a little better on me. I see streaks down my face as it dries. What exact color is misery, you ask? Red pain, blue pain; are you Dr. Seuss? Hurt can’t only exist in blue and black. I don’t think it matters, whatever the hue. I feel like Van Gogh, who ate yellow paint, and I bet my insides are painted silver. If yellow is happy then I can’t relate, so silver for second best, never better. Van Gogh wasn’t crazy, he just thought yellow might brighten up even one spot.

How to take a Blindingly Red Light and Muffle it into a Dull Glow Dorothy Watters

You were a force of nature. You rolled your eyes at your sexist uncle and well-intentioned father when they would say, “God bless the man that’ll have to handle you.” Headstrong and opinionated, you were a nightmare of a daughter for anyone who deemed “lady-ness” a virtue. In elementary school, you played tackle football on the asphalt, making glory dives for balls. As you grew, you found your place in the classroom with an insatiable curiosity. You never shied from a raised hand. Getting a secret pleasure from shutting down any boys who dared to talk down to you, you wore the disgruntled, huffed “bitch” they gave you like an award. You used to refuse to wane into a sliver of yourself for the comfort of anyone else. You meet a boy–– a fragile, seemingly sheep of a boy. Accept the pink glow he gives you. Expect for you two to share it. You’re confused when things don’t feel right. At first, credit this discomfort to you being sensitive. You tell yourself, “He’s just joking and accidentally went a little too far”. Have quick moments of doubt when the laughs fade. Is your boyfriend supposed to tell you that you’re useless? Or that no one will love you after him? Are boyfriends allowed to ignore you when you say “no’? He tells you it’s normal. Believe it’s normal. Spend those six months deconstructing yourself into what he demands you to be. Lose your headstrong and opinionated –– they’re not attractive. Wane into a sliver of yourself. The sheep boy holds an exceptional talent in handing you thorns and claiming their flowers. When they prick you, he teaches you it is your fault. Certain pricks catch more skin than others. You feel the callouses that begin to form. The hardened skin over the tip of your index finger sings his ballads for you: crazy, ugly, fat and unlovable. The scarred ring finger marks your loss of self as your curiosity becomes punishable by isolation. Learn quickly how to shrink into submission. The pinky, in all its tiny might, scars like a wall of apathy building around his favorite

story for you– the one where your body is no longer yours to control. Spend hours feeling those numbed fingertips like they belong to an anonymous hand. Who do you blame when it feels like you were the one holding your hand to the stove top? Unsuccessfully try to find a balance between hurt and guilt. It is your fault, right? That’s what he told you. When you finally escape, that pink glow he gave you hatches. It stretches and cracks until an ugly red brightness is left in your lap. At first the red only exists behind corners. It jumps out at you, spooking you, then disappearing with the promise that it’ll be back. Check under your bed for it. Then in your closet. Sleep with nightmares of stop signs, flags and firetrucks. You feel it in your heartbeat when you discover terms like gaslighting, coerced consent and relationship abuse. Feel it choke you as you read your past six months–– the jokes, the ballads, the stories –– splayed out on the National Domestic Violence website. Don’t feel freed by this validation. Instead, feel smaller than ever before. The red grows uncontrollably. It now oozes from every wall, crawls across every floor, drips from every ceiling onto your nose. Inhale the red. Feel it course through your veins like a gush of boiling bleach. Try to see yourself in the mirror. You can’t anymore. Take a step closer. Maybe if you press your nose to the glass? Maybe if you squint? Try to spew it out of you. Always aim it at the wrong people. Feel it burst through your pores and carve out letters on your forehead that say, “I HAVE RED INSIDE OF ME”. Get bangs to hide it. Let it escapes through your tear ducts when an anonymous set of brown eyes hesitates and asks, “This is okay?”. Feel disgusted with yourself that consent now comes with an automatic “thank you”. You hear he’s done it to two other girls. Think about the three of you, quietly tethered. Like a broken traffic light––red, red, red, blinking in

beats of three. Try on the term victim like a two-sizes-too-small turtleneck sweater that traps your face and sends spores of fluff down your throat. You don’t tell anyone for three months. Or was it six? You never tell your family. You finally talk about it. It’s like popping a champagne bottle. Moments of hesitation as you peel the foil, loosen the cage and yanked the cork. Suddenly, it sprays. Apologize for the mess. People might think you’re just trying to add dimension to your landscape. Some might even be so colorblind; they won’t believe that red exists. But then, someone comes up to you with their hands cupped. They pull you aside and go, “Here. Look.” Like their sheltering a fragile, injured bird, they take back their hand and you see it. They have it too. But theirs is just a small glow. They lock your eyes and say, “It won’t always be this bright.” Well-meaning friends want you to talk about it more. Struggle to find concrete words. You wrack your brain for a quick and simple way to say “I know I hate him, but I really hate myself, but I know that’s because he told me to hate myself, which makes me hate him more while also feeling bad for hating him because he told me I wasn’t allowed to hate him?”. The only way you know how to describe it is through this abstract, fucking red. You have no other words for it. Feel fury swirl around you when they respond with confused, tilted heads and concerned, sad eyes. Most of all, feel tired. How do you describe something when it covers everything you do? Even happy moments are tinted red. Be angry that they’ve never felt red. If they have, they would’ve never asked. In the same breath, be so grateful they’ve never felt red. So, you keep trying to talk about it. Credit vodka for most of these attempts. Each time you do choose to talk about it, it’s like coughing up clouds of red. Write stories like these. Learn about people like him and why they do this. Learn about people like you and why you feel this. Find out that red is normal. Find people who have it too. Cry when you read #MeToo stories. It’s exhausting, but these are the only ways to take it out of you. As time goes on, you learn to coexist with it.

Red becomes your companion. It walks you to class, passes you notes and giggles in your ear. The red feels like the only thing that understands you. It feels like it is you. But it isn’t a good friend to you at all. It also stands behind you in the mirror and chants what he used to tell you. It lays down next to you at night and asks you, “Are you sure you aren’t just dramatic? You’re ruining this poor boy’s life!” It never asks you if he ruined yours. Although it’s been with you through it all, it traps you in the past. So, when its bulbs start to die out, chose not to replace them. It takes a year until the last drop of red drains from you. However, it is not an impolite guest; it leaves you gift as it exits. A deep, burgundy glow now sits on your jeans where your button should be–– just hovering right below your belly button. It screams bright red when the first pair of hands since his go to undo it. Maybe it happens for the next five pairs of hands. Fine, it still screams every time. Don’t see it as a determined stain or burden. Don’t be scared of it. It is kinder than the red, it lets you breathe. You can almost forget it’s there. Name the glow so it becomes your friend. Yours will be called Patricia. Whenever she acts up, you say soothingly, “Now listen Patty, we are safe. We don’t need to be causing a scene.” You take care of each other. It’s your companion, a soothing alarm. You think about who you were before this; you were so unapologetically yourself. You used to be a tornado, that is true. You don’t have the naivete of a cyclone anymore, that was taken from you. But you keep the beginning quiet winds, the ones there long before and long after the storm. Yes, you and Patty are still the wind.

What Would You Like to Talk About? Wesley Clapp

Honorable Mention, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

I guess I’d first start off by saying that I’d like to know how people don’t know what they don’t know, especially because lately so many people act like they do know things that they might just, you know, not know… and I guess that’s fine, I suppose, because it’s pretty normal for people not to quite understand what’s suffocating and swirling around them, especially when they’re already doused in it all — and then I’d probably continue by going further into detail about what I mean about all of this, explaining that it’s not necessarily an analogy about today’s political landscape (although it could be) but rather a narrow metaphor about what it means to dominate in a world where docility might almost be the name of the game, where, for example, you can just stamp your way up into an office job and plateau yourself until retirement, and then try to explain all those things about “standing out” to your grandchildren when you hadn’t even done any of that yourself, you know, and then I’d probably conclude by tasking everyone else, myself included, to figure out what the hell we’re even trying to determine, especially if we can’t possibly know the things that we don’t know if we don’t know them to begin with, you know, because we can’t just suddenly figure out the “right” way to incentivize ourselves and ricochet our way up the ladder of life, especially with the American Dream in the way of it all, but I don’t know, maybe I’m just a pessimist.

A Memory

Glenna Gobeil

Sad & Afraid of Rejection Stephanie Felix

What special ingredient makes it so that certain people can handle rejection better than others? Is it some sort of emotional fortitude or just a thick skin after a variety of previous rejections faced? sometimes with rejection, you’re told directly what prevented you from being welcomed with open arms. But most other times, you have to face life knowing you’ve faced countless rejections without a real explanation as to why, finding something within yourself that allows you to continue on and jump back into the fray. I’ll be honest, it sucks so much moving on from any form of rejection, whether it’s being looked over for a job or facing the fact that the person you had your heart set on doesn’t feel the way. The only thing keeping me from being wrecked every time is knowing that there is a wide array of people at my side, reminding me that I’m more than what could’ve been one half of a relationship or an employee. I don’t need to be in a relationship or employed to be significant or important to someone, I already know I’m important to the people that really matter to me most.

Unfinished

Brian Ziegelhofer A broken hearted soul Felt worse than broken bones In due time, the wounds do close. But, the scars of yesterday Linger like lost hope.

Punta del Este Sophie Frank

Blur

Kiki Arevalo

Church

Alisa Meija Please be seated, into the wooden bench, grasping the written works of human vices in the youngest of hands. I gladly rose for the gospel, because I knew all the words, though I lacked the ability to conceptualize Who it was I was truly singing for. Again please be seated. The wood of the bench began to age, and so did I. Why my faith must be confined within those four walls; When all the daylight shone through the colored pains? Beyond developed thought. Exposure to a world of sins caused discomfort upon the bench. I sat corrupted by corruption; A corrupted mind. A corrupted heart. A corrupted soul. Stained glass windows became a mind stained with the permanent ink of questioning. A heart stained with hatred, A heart stained with jealousy. Broken bread became a broken soul, Exposed to pain, Suffering. Water turned to wine and wine turned to liquor

To Remember. To Forget. Still I stay seated, as I did as a child, while faith like the forbidden fruit, out of reach, is lost within the Garden of Adolescence. To be lost. To be found.

Little Blue

Petrina Robinson Pretty little blue Petty little blue Devil evil blue Angel blue eyes. Elegant dresses in the moonlight Tripping your best friend and watching her cry. Master plans with devious strategies. A misinterpretation of innocence Blue is the intelligent but Unhappy boss in her office The water soaked chatter of the teeth of stray animals. The color of perfect eyes that tell incomplete truths. The color of empty, where lonely sits in a booth. Blue is Quiet with all the Bold things to say. Blue The color of lips that belong to Death The color of the face of those whose life is a victim of theft. Blue is my intelligent best friend. A scar left by my ex boyfriend. My car when I own my first my house. The accident that happens in it. Blue is my past in the future. Mom, Dad, Big Sister, the grad next door. Wearing blue makeup. Playing blue sports. Listening to blue songs. Buying blue plaid.

Using blue lipstick so you won’t hear her lies. Wearing blue gloves so he doesn’t leave prints on your heart. Crying blue tears that conceal behind a mask. I’m next. It’s time. Finally grown up. Now I’m wearing blue too.

Within a Deep Forest Tyler Maron

Second Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

Two hanging hooded lights Didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t care much As they lit six Ceramic Chinese cups, adorned With intricate Prussian design. And beside them stood eight Tall-necked drinking glasses, Upturned, and sleeping In double-file lines, Crafted in the Eighties, Fogged from the wear of Ten thousand dish-washes. And beside it all, There sat an American bouquet Having earned its place, As it represented Quite a lot. And twenty-seven years ago, On the day I was Born, at five oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock at night, A young Chinese woman handled These very same cups, Washing them by hand Without much care As a liuqin played over the rusty intercom And the dinner rush was impending. And above it all, Affixed to the wall, A back-lit specials menu, Proud of all its savory dishes Prepared perfectly to photo;

Its colors one day washed out And tinged turquoise, But they were not Always that way. For right now The dinner rush Of November twenty-fourth, Nineteen ninety-two, At six oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock at night Has commenced.

The Embarcadero 68

Sophie Frank

Crown of Fire

Joseph Powell

I want to tell you how you make my heart Rattle and spin, reminiscent of car Accidents. How the confidence that you impart, Makes me capable of destroying the world. I want to tell you how your crown of fire, Has melted my heart of ice. How your steel Eyes have scrubbed my rusty soul. How you clear My mind, blowing away storm clouds, to heal. I look at you and think of the ways you’ve fixed me, Made me better; I am a man I’m proud To be. I was a sinking ship, sailing the sea, You, a lifeboat, floating on by, unbowed. I tell you all of this, and so much more But I know that you’ll never believe me.

Needles

Kerry Deasy She picked up the needle. There’s no other word for it. She’s addicted. She needs help. How is she supposed to tell anyone? She tried to quit, but she just couldn’t. The way it made her feel was indescribable. Happy. Amazing. Exhilarated. No words could do it any justice. With great disdain for herself and her choices, she slid the needle to its usual spot and let the vinyl play.

My Skin

Petrina Robinson Rip into my skin and make me bleed My blood reflects my strength My tears reflect your weakness Lock my skin away in the dark My hope will remain my light My dream will remain my thoughts In my skin I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stand alone In my skin I wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stand against In my skin I will stand for peace Peel my skin like that of fruit Only to find my skin is the best part of me I am my skin I am proud of my skin I have dreams for my skin I will light your way with my skin.

A Paris Couple Glenna Gobeil

Mid-Summer Mediocrity Haniya Ahmed

Third Place, Wilder Fiction Prize

The food was getting cold. Mrs. Edward-Macallan waited at the table, foot tapping in her pretty red high heeled shoe, second glass of wine in hand, contemplating whether or not she had enough funds saved up to pay for a divorce lawyer (have you ever seen the obscene amount of money a divorce lawyer costs?). The table was covered. She’d made fettucine alfredo (from scratch), garlic bread (from the store) with fresh garlic and herb butter (from scratch). She’d laid out the pretty red and white checkered tablecloth that they used to take on picnics up the hill, or to the park. You know, back when Mr. Macallan still loved her. She’d made a big salad with succulent grilled shrimp, a tray of the cheesy spinach and artichoke dip that she knew he always loved so much, and to top it off, one very large, very decorative, perfectly moist, crumbly and exquisitely baked apple pie (from scratch, of course. She wasn’t a complete heathen.) And it was getting cold. Mrs. Edward-Macallan continued to drink her wine, wondering why she was drinking it, considering the fact that she fucking hated wine. Hated the taste, hated the way it stained Mr. Macallan’s lips and teeth, hated the way he would kiss her after a few sips and she could feel the sour imprint of it on his tongue, hated the way it reminded her of that one college night when she threw up so much of the icky, red stuff that she started to think it might be blood. Yet she drank it, because Mr. Macallan thought having a glass of red with dinner was good for heart health. She wondered if he’d been secretly slipping an Ambien into his wine. It would make total sense, considering the way he stumbled up the stairs after dinner and fell face down into bed every night, leaving her sexless, with only a pile of dirty dishes waiting for her. She wished he’d fall face first off of the side of a cliff. Maybe somewhere like the Grand Canyon, somewhere big, where his body wouldn’t be found, or if it was, it would be so mangled and deformed that she could accept-

ably get him cremated and send his ashes to sit in his mother’s living room. Grief is a strange thing. Tragedy, too. People would understand if she didn’t want to have a funeral, or if there was a funeral, she was too stricken to come. Completely acceptable. She looked at her diamond studded watch, which he had given to her for their third wedding anniversary in lieu of his presence. It was quarter to nine. He was supposed to be home by six thirty. She took off the watch and tossed it onto the counter. There were the same excuses every night: honey, there was so much traffic; honey, there was an accident on the freeway; honey, the guys wanted to go for drinks; honey, honey, honey. But she wasn’t honey. She wasn’t sweet or kind because she didn’t take his excuses. Most nights, the radio said it was a straight ride home from his office, little to no accidents, congestion, or any other astronomical events that would inevitably make him late. Congestion, what a word, like a bad cold. She was the nose, constantly pushing, pushing, pushing, and he was the snot; ever slow, ever stuck, never leaving, even when she ached for him to put them both out of their misery. She listened to the radio often, especially the channels with a heavy layer of static over 80’s, 70’s and 60’s music. What it would have been like to live in a time like that. She would have been in the same situation, likely, unable to escape a man who seemingly felt nothing for her, but at least she would have had children. Even if she didn’t, in the 60’s she could’ve run away with a man who’d escaped the service; a man with capped brown hair, matching brown eyes and strong political opinions. In the 70’s it would’ve been another man. She’d love living out the back of his van, the stink of marijuana, sweat, sex and maybe even opium (does opium have a smell?) permeating the air. They’d go to rallies in the capitol and sit under the stars with friends and preach love and peace in tune with a lightly strumming guitar. In the 80’s she would dance. Men be damned, she’d spend her time as a groupie at concerts, following along with crews of people just as obsessed with the sounds as she was. But she was here, and she worried about joint accounts, bills, security, family, a mortgage and, above all, if she could ever muster up the courage to leave Mr. Macallan at all.

She stripped off her pretty button-down blouse while walking back to her bedroom. She pulled out the twenty or thirty bobby pins in her hair, wiped off her lipstick and exchanged the torture contraption she wore strapped to her chest for a soft sports bra that gave her body a much younger look. Her cellphone lay crookedly on the dresser, and not for the first time, she fantasized about picking it up and calling her neighbor, Scarlett. “Hey,” she would say shyly, “are you doing anything right now?” “Not really, why?” the sultry voice on the other side would reply, a hint of satisfaction in their tone. “I seem to have cooked far too much for one person. Do you want to do dinner?” She’d feel the flutters in her stomach: excitement. “Sure, come on over. I’ll leave the door open for you.” And she would. She’d sit on a warm carpet with her companion and eat dinner over a rickety wooden coffee table. They’d talk about their days, share small anecdotes about Scarlett’s many jobs: a bartender, an artist, a Reiki practitioner. They had done this many times before, but in Mrs. EdwardMacallan’s imagination, there was always more. It would start with easy, familiar touches. The brush of a hand while passing a plate, the spiky touch of the ends of Scarlett’s hair when she leaned over to show her a picture on her phone, and the sweet smell of her breath wafting through her smile when she leaned in so close, even though no one was around, to tell her a secret. Her heart would beat in her chest. Faster, faster, faster, until the single brush of one of Scarlett’s fingers across her bare shoulder would make her leap out of her own skin.

At five or six years her junior, Scarlett was Mrs. Edward-Macallan’s favorite fantasy. She knew, without a doubt, that in this era, if she were to run away with someone, it would be Scarlett. She’d find a job doing the kind of thing she should’ve, ten years earlier. She’d become a Yoga instructor, a Starbucks barista, a travel guide, she’d become something. Together, she and Scarlett would adopt a white cat with colored spots and call it freckle. The three of them would go on adventures to the UFO watchtower in Colorado, the world’s largest chest of drawers in North Carolina, and that one museum she always saw quirky ads about (you know, the one that’s all art painted on toilet seats!). They would have more than just simple touches if they ran away together. They would be madly in love and unable to stand the thought of not being near one another for more than a few hours. Mrs. Edward-Macallan was sitting at her dressing table, mind a million miles away, when Mr. Macallan finally made an appearance at ten minutes past ten. She saw his silhouette from her bedroom window, opening up the car door and walking out with his usual confident swagger. She could hear the low timbre of his ‘phone voice’. There was once a time where he’d consistently used a different intonation with her, a softer, sweeter one. Now it just came in bursts. She listened carefully as he opened and closed the front door, the jingle of his keys and the click of the lock under the sound of his ‘fake laugh’ (because he never laughed for real on the phone with his collogues of course). She strained her ears for his footsteps, and the lack of them once he reached the kitchen. She knew the food was still sat perfectly in its place, now cold and probably getting hard. ‘I’ll have to call you back, Steve’ she heard him say. After that it was silent. She wondered what he was thinking, seeing the meal she had so painstakingly prepared. Guilt, perhaps, and how satisfying that was. She wanted him to ache with misery the way she did; to feel the tear in his chest where their picnics, days of hiking,

vacations and cold nights wrapped up in each other used to lay. She wanted him to hurt. Eventually she heard him move again. Mrs. Edward-Macallan stood too quickly and knocked a few bottles of perfume off her dressing table in her haste to lock herself in the bathroom. She stripped out of her remaining clothes and turned on the shower, belatedly hoping the bottles shattered, and he would step on them. When eventually she emerged in a cloud of steam, Mr. Macallan was sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. He was still in his navy suit and (a pity) brown shoes. She said nothing to him, and instead dressed in her favorite pair of soft pajamas (the ones that stuck to her curves just right). “Honey I’m so sorry.” He said. Even with her back turned, she could feel his eyes skimming her body. “Don’t fucking talk to me.” She replied, climbing into bed. “Vanessa, please.” He whined “Just stop, James.” She said, closing her eyes and thinking about all the places she’d rather be.

For the Daydreamer in the Back Haley Cohen

Your intense and distracting imagination will be its own worst enemy, yet you’ll love it like family. As maladaptive as your thoughts are, they cover your eyes and stroke your hair, saying “I’m the only one that understands” even while you try to focus on reality, you cannot escape pretty poison. Staring through your teacher won’t help you, but the video they’re showing triggers vivid scenarios your mind eats up and you hate yourself for being “lazy.” You’ll rack your brain to find why you can’t stop imagining events that will never happen until finally you get sick of your own life and imagine another and another, and another, perfecting each one. Living in your own world is lovely, but eventually your daydreaming will eat you alive. Your real life awaits, tapping its toe, and watches you waste opportunities that may steal you away from the fantasy you’ve grown so fond of, but you have to leave. It’s inevitable, and it hurts, and it feels like Velcro being ripped across your very soul. You want to go home. By home you mean back inside your head, but haven’t you seen yet that your festering shell can’t take much more and with every escape you dig a deeper hole.

It’s hard, I know, sorrow steals your breath. Reality is a monster you haven’t faced in years. Trust me, though, the first step is the hardest and then you bring life back to your cheeks. The gray pallor of your skin returns to health, and once you break free, that pretty poison can’t blindfold you anymore. Your thoughts and daydreams might feel incredible, like brilliant stories, yet you close the book. For facing and then mending reality will eliminate this need to cocoon yourself inside these gorgeous worlds. Your maladaptive daydreams. They’ll still be there, calling your name and you may answer sometimes. Point is, don’t let them take over your life; you deserve real happiness, not candy-coated lies.

Leagues Between 80

Ian Addison

The Ballad of Big Ben

Stephanie Felix

Bing bong This is my song I am Big Ben bing bong.

Burned Out

Matthew Stayner

First Place, Wilder Fiction Prize

1. This town is so fucking boring. You’d think, since it’s so close to New Haven, that there would be at least a little spillover of arts or culture, but no. In a town of 30,000, we have four drug stores, 3 liquor stores, 5 pizza restaurants, 4 urgent care clinics, 3 churches, and a synagogue. And that’s about it. Me and my friends, the eternal loiterers, the burn-out losers, the “hood rat dipshits” as the manager of the McDonalds on the south end of town calls us, we don’t have much going on. We skate around town and scare suburban soccer moms with our tattoos and gauges, and t-shirts that prominently display our band’s name, “Fuck the Middle Class”. We play our music too loud, and walk around stoned and drunk at all hours of the day and night. Sometimes I wish I could be like those people who are content living a boring little life, taking Xanax and drinking wine, talking about the PTA or little Grayson’s math grades. Marrying someone nice, someone inoffensive. Someone who won’t come home shitfaced at 3 AM. Driving a minivan, with little stickers on the back telling the world how many rugrats I have in the back seat. Not breaking the law. Contributing to society. I guess I’m just not cut out for it. 2. On Fridays, everyone goes over to Jimmy and Spirit’s place. Yes, her name really is Spirit. Her standard reply to this line of inquiry, that her parents were hippy freaks, tends to shut down most follow up questions. Usually, it’s me, Jimmy and Spirit, Jam, Carlos, T.J., Michelle and Nick, and Sam. Sam used to be Samuel, but now she’s Samantha. I don’t know why she didn’t change her name to something different, since we all still just call her Sam. But who am I to judge. Tonight, I’m sitting on the couch, lighting a small stick of incense so their neighbors don’t smell our pot and call the cops. Each and every Friday, we congregate in this house. We smoke, we drink, sometimes we take acid, or shrooms, or molly. We watch movies. We listen to music. We fight about Marx, or Engels, or Lennin. We write out signs for that weekend’s protest. We talk about how goddamn bored we all are. Sometimes we’ll try to have band practice, but the neighbors don’t generally take kindly to loud, shitty punk, and practices don’t usually go

well for us anyway. We’re a more spontaneous group. Or maybe that’s just a nice way of putting it. 3. When I first told my mom I was a communist, I think she almost fainted from the shock of it. Ironically, she took this news much harder than when I told her that I’m bi or that I wanted to start a punk band. It was about the same reaction as when she found out I was using drugs, which is odd to me, seeing as no one that I know of has ever overdosed on Communism. She told me that taking extremist political stances wasn’t safe, and that I should just keep my views to myself. She told me that I was embarrassing her. I didn’t care. Back then I would walk around my high school carrying a copy of the Communist Manifesto everywhere I went. I thought it made me look like a badass. I remember one day Mr. Lender laughed when he saw me holding it. At first, I assumed it was derisive laughter, but before I could start debating him on the pitfalls of capitalism, he said that he remembered his Marxist phase in high school. It didn’t make any sense to me at the time. He seemed way too normal. 4. I wish I still talked to my parents. Well, my mom. I don’t regret not talking to my dad. I don’t really believe in an afterlife. But I feel bad for cutting off my mom. It’s best that I don’t talk to her, for me and especially for her, but it’s hard. Sometimes I’ll write out a whole letter, and I apologize for stealing from her, for crashing her car into oncoming traffic, for dropping out of school. I apologize for embarrassing her in front of the other moms in town, who used to gossip about us at their overpriced salon appointments. I never send those letters though. Maybe I’m a coward, but I don’t think that’s what it is. I know I’ll never be the person she wants me to be. And to perpetually disappoint her seems much worse than to cut contact altogether. Who knows. 5. On the night of November 19th, and we’re on a top-secret mission. About a week earlier, we’d heard about a new billboard on the side of 91 south. The billboard, payed for by some fundamentalist Christian

group, read “Every 21 minutes, a future leader of America is aborted.” The moment we heard about this eyesore 10 minutes from our house, we knew we had to do something. Under the cover of darkness, dressed all in black, we climb into Nikki’s van and take off. We each have a military code-name. I’m Orca, because I’d just watched a documentary about how they treat them in Sea World and I was still fired up about it. Nikki is Panther, because her father was a black panther, and because it sounds pretty sweet. T.J. is Hippo, which as he explains is actually the animal that kills the most humans in Africa every year. Jam shows up late, so we just call him Jam, which is alright, since that’s not his real name anyway. As we drive down the highway, we can see the billboard looming in the distance. Nik pulls over, and turns off her lights, leaving her car running in case we need to make a quick getaway. I’m sure each of us is scared, but no one would ever admit it. As we get out of the car, I look up at it, realizing for the first time how big billboards really are. Staying low to avoid detection, we trudge through the knee-high grass towards the ladder. Panther makes a comment about tick season, but no one listens. Once we reach the ladder, we argue for a minute about who should go up first. It comes down to rock paper scissors between me and Jam. Jam throws out paper and I throw out rock. I swear he waited a second too long, but I would never accuse him of cheating, so begrudgingly I go first. I can see my breath in front of my face, a steady reminder of how heavily I’m breathing. Once we reach the top, we work in teams. Panther and Hippo look out on either side for cops or nosy onlookers, while me and Jam use our cans of spray paint to write a new message on the sign. After a while, I turn around, and realize I can see the whole town from up here. The few lights that are still on illuminate little cookie-cutter houses. Corrections officers drive to work the night shift at the huge state penitentiary in town. A neon Coors Light sign buzzes on and off on the front of the local bar. I think I might be able to see my parent’s house, but I’m not quite sure. I turn around and we finish our new paint job. Once we finish, one by one we carefully climb back down the ladder. Hippo almost slips off, but catches himself with the heel of his big work boot before he falls. Once we all reach the ground, sweaty and exhausted from both the climb and nerves, we look up at our handiwork. Our new billboard reads, “WOMEN’S RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS”, in huge, black letters. I remember being so

excited to see it on the news the next day, with interviews of horrified residents crying about how terrible vandalism is, or whatever it is that upsets them about our little stunt. That was a great night. 6. I hate people who litter. It is such an evil, selfish, shitty thing to do. How could anyone possibly be so incredibly self-important, that they think the earth is their trash can? When I walk around my neighborhood, I find McDonalds bags, liquor bottles, gum wrappers. All from lazy assholes who refuse to think of anyone but themselves. It’s truly disgusting. My friends know by now that I won’t tolerate it. Once, when Sam threw a cigarette butt out her car window, I made her pull over and find it, so that she could throw it away. I screamed in her ear until she stopped the car, while she shouted about me causing a crash. I didn’t care. Cigarettes are the worst kind of litter. Do what you want with your own body, I don’t care if you want to give yourself cancer. But don’t you fucking dare throw your butts on the ground. 7. It’s not morally wrong to shoplift from Walmart. Stealing from some mom and pop store is bad, of course, because it directly affects the owner’s ability to provide for themselves. But not at Walmart. Walmart inc. makes tens of billions of dollars per year off the backs of the working class. They employ people at slave wages, give terrible benefits, and ruthlessly squash any effort to unionize. The family dynasty who owns the company has more money than anyone could ever possibly need. Stealing from my local Walmart doesn’t affect a single employee’s pay. The manager isn’t going to get in trouble, the store is the size of a small village, so no one will ever know. And even if they did, who would care if I steal a couple of things here or there. I never steal anything big, but a pack of gum or a lighter here and there are fine. Little things. What I’m saying is, I’m poor, the people working there are poor, and the people who actually own the capital that makes the store run are rich, so I’m really not hurting anyone by taking a couple of things every time I go in. If anything, it’s the right thing to do. 8. It’s a Sunday night, and we’re carpooling into Connecticut’s great capital city to see a hardcore show. Most of us are dressed in metal studs and Doc Martens. I’m wearing my Antifaschistische Aktion t-shirt, the

same shirt that I wore to a black lives matter rally in New Haven. When we walk in, I notice that the crowd looks different than usual. There are the regulars, who I see at every show, some older punks, but there are also some who I immediately peg as skinheads. I see that some have red laces on their boots, a symbol they’ve spilled blood for the cause. As Kill Your Landlord, the band we came to see, takes the stage, I see a huge skinhead cornering a skinny young kid with long blonde hair and a rainbow flag draped around his shoulders. The Nazi pushes the kid up against the wall, screaming slurs at in his face. I can see a vein in his neck that looks like it might burst. As he raises a fist to hit him, I move in. I grab his arm with one hand, and as he turns to look at me, I spray my can of pepper spray directly into his eyes. His shrieks fill the hall, the rest of the crowd falling silent and turning to face us. The skinhead drops the kid, who sprints towards the exit as fast as his legs will carry him, and takes swipes at the air, trying desperately to connect with my head, but unable to see a thing through his swollen eyelids. During the commotion, the rest of my little group rushes over, and a couple more skinheads emerge from the crowd. Silently, we stand and stare at each other, until Kill Your Landlord starts a cover of “Nazi Punks Fuck Off” by the Dead Kennedys, and Jimmy pulls out his switchblade.

Ode to Detective Olivia Benson

Sophie Rodgers

Third Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

“Oh! Hero of victims, angel of justice” Is how this might begin in Shakespeare’s time. But back then you would’ve been charged with the crime Of women who dare to be disgusted, Who refuse to succumb to the numbness That we’re taught to feel, that keeps us in line— White-knuckled in the dark, dreading the slime Of the Earth, hoping next time it’s not us. “How do you watch that every day?” mom asks. Special Victims Unit is fantasy. The real world doesn’t have the capacity To care for each victim the way you do. To fill each precinct with the SVU cast. To keep fighting, always, until it’s through.

Small

Ashley Collins tell me a story. i won’t go to sleep until you do. tell me a story and i’ll cling to every word. tell me that the boy really does still love the tree and the bird finds its mother and we can discover the end of the sidewalk. be my Seuss and my Silverstein. write me poems i’ll remember twenty years from now. i want to memorize you. i want all of the kids in my class to be jealous of me for having you, jealous of how i know you cover to cover. i want you to keep me up past my bedtime. open up for me and i’ll run my fingers along your spine. i’ll be meticulous with you. i’ll study every image you show me under a dim reading light and forget i have school in the morning. i want you to make me feel small. every time i smell you bring me back to piggy banks and sidewalk chalk. you make everything so simple. tell me a story and make me hear my mother’s voice and feel my father’s kiss on my forehead. make me believe in happy endings. make me believe that coming to you can feel like coming home.

Canyon Blues Sophie Frank

It’s the Quiet Kind Mackenzie Fenn

Steve said that he liked me because I was so quiet. His voice was strained and choked as he said this. Probably because he had just taken a hit off the joint we were sharing and was still holding the smoke in his lungs. I wasn’t sure how to reply so I didn’t, just took the joint in my fingers as he passed it. He blew the smoke out with a little moan, the cloud dispersed into the chilly night air around us. We were laying on an old quilt in a field. I wasn’t really sure where we were. The details were hazy. I knew I was baked out of my mind. My thoughts blew around my head like the wind so I couldn’t seem to hold on to anything. My sense of time felt off. I didn’t know how long we’d been here but I figured it had to be long past midnight. What Steve said had seemed important for just a moment. But the importance eluded me. Music was playing from his phone but it wasn’t anything I knew. It sounded like punk music, which he loved but I didn’t. I wanted to hear blues or folk. Something soft and mellow. I found myself fixated on the pattern of the quilt. The base color was cream, with red and blue patches in a diamond pattern. I could hear Steve singing under his breath. I handed him back the joint without taking another hit. “Hey, you ok?” “Uh, yeah just….” “Oh I get it” he laughed, “Here, why don’t you lay down, it’ll help.” He helped me lay down, his hand was warm on my back and I could feel his breath on my ear. He stubbed out the joint with the end of his lighter, then placed the roach in his shirt pocket for later. He pulled on my sweatshirt, which I’d shucked off earlier, and leaned over me to kiss me gently, then curled up around me with his head on my chest and began to fall asleep. I lay there for a while, enjoying the high. Enjoying the cool spring air and the sounds of crickets and other insects singing and chirping. Enjoying the swirl of stars above me, cold pinpricks of light in the vast black sky. Fireflies drifted through the field like will-o-thewisps all around us, their little lantern bodies blinking softly as they landed on blades of grass or floated through the air. Steve was a warm,

heavy blanket against me and I felt myself beginning to drift off. He began to snore softly and clutched me tighter in his sleep. I thought about being quiet. … When I woke up my face felt like cold wax. I was curled up on my side with the quilt wrapped up around me. Steve was gone. Our impromptu camping trip had been planned very last minute. Sometime around ten o’clock at night Steve had suggested the idea and we both packed a few things in his 70s Ford Econoline van, an olive green beast he affectionately called “Roberta.” The idea of sleeping out among the stars in late spring, when the nights were still chilly, was an attractive one. Now, in the grey light of dawn, I sat up in my dew-damp quilt and blinked fuzzy eyes. Spider webs, made visible with clinging dew drops, were scattered all around me throughout the field like crystal veils. I could hear Steve fiddling with something in the back of the van a few feet behind me. I could only think of how cold he must be, wearing only black basketball shorts and my college sweatshirt. A size too large on me but perfect for him. “Whacha got there? Need any help?” I called. He turned back at me and smiled. “I got it babe.” He lifted an old camp stove out of the van and carried it over to me. “I didn’t see you pack that,” I said, as he began to boil water for instant coffee. He just shrugged but smiled up at me again. When he really smiled, his whole face crinkled up, his eyes shut into little crescents and his cheeks became plump. The sweetness of such a fullfaced smile always caught me a little off guard. As I grinned back at him I felt a strange feeling in my leftnostril, as though snot or something were coming out. With cold, trembling fingers I reached up to touch my nose, smearing whatever was coming out over my upper lip. The tips of my fingers came away bright red. “Oh honey” Steve said. “Hey, I think I have napkins in the van. Just hold on one sec.” He rushed up from his spot by the camp stove

and loped to the van. The blood continued to drip from my nose, dripping into my hand in warm, sticky droplets. He ran back back to me, fists stuffed with a bunch of brown McDonald’s napkins, skidding a little over the wet grass as he came to a stop and dropped down beside me. Without speaking, he wiped my hand clean, leaving behind a sticky pink stain, and helped me stuff a napkin up my nose. He rubbed my back as I pressed the napkin to my nose. I watched him, thinking again about last night, and what he’d said. About me being quiet and that was why he liked me. Once the bleeding stopped, the rest of the morning was relatively quiet. We sipped black coffee while he talked about whatever popped into his mind. His job at the shoe store, Jeff’s Shoes, his brother living up in Vermont now, his problems with the van, wondering if he should enlist in the army. I listened as he told me about the older woman he worked with at the store, Janet, who would have him drive her car to the front of the store at the end of her shift when it was cold out. Or who had no qualms about farting very loudly in front of him or other employees, but would go in the stockroom to do it if customers came in. The sun soon began to rise. Streaks of golden light were the first signs of its presence as it rose above the pine and birch trees in the distance, slowly gilding the field and Steve and I. I shut my eyes as the light touched my face, warming my chilled cheeks and forehead. Sparks of gold and amber shimmered in Steve’s long hair, still mussed up from sleep. “Do you remember last night?” I asked. He was sitting so close to me I could feel the warmth of his body against me through the quilt. He cocked his head slightly at the question but kept his eyes on the coffee mug in his hands. “Yeah, why?” “Well, there was something you said that I keep thinking about.” He nodded, waited for me to continue. “You said you liked me because I’m quiet. I know we haven’t been together too long, and that we’re still getting to know each other, but is that the only reason you like me?” It all came out in a rush and I couldn’t look him in the face. I stared out over the field instead. I’d always been told I was too quiet or that I didn’t talk enough. My mom

had been a quiet woman too. I wasn’t sure how to feel now that my boyfriend had said it. “Oh honey. No, look, I shouldn’t have worded it like that. I love hearing you talk and listening to you too but… Well it’s just that in my last relationship, my ex wouldn’t let me get a word in.” He took my hand and kissed my knuckles. He gazed at me, even as I continued to look out at the field. “She’d just talk about herself all the time, never asked me about myself or seemed to care. I just love that you actually care about me and the things going on in my life, boring as it is.” He chuckled and rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb, moving over the bumps of veins and tendons. My hand felt so small within his. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause any problems,” he said. “No, you didn’t. I just wanted to make sure of what you meant” I said, finally turning to look him in the eyes. His eyebrows creased and his lips pressed together. I leaned forward to kiss him. His face felt so warm against mine. His hands moved up into my hair to hold either side of my face. “I love you,” he breathed. “I love you, too.” … As the morning passed with a sort of lazy radiance, we began to pack our things back into the van. While I shook out and rolled up the quilt, Steve packed up the camp stove and dumped out the coffee we hadn’t finished. Steve always went at his own pace. I’d learned this over the course of the four months we’d been dating and knew that he couldn’t be rushed. He took his time waking up in the morning, he took his time getting the van started to go somewhere, he always took a while to smoke when he did. And now was no different. I knew as we got in the van we wouldn’t be taking off right away. “You hungry, baby? I’m sorry all I packed was the coffee” he chuckled. “Yeah, I could eat,” I said. “You mind if I smoke a little first?” “No,” I said. “Go ahead, sweetheart.” I did mind a little bit. But I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t even sure why I minded. Instead,

I waited as he took his time. I grabbed his brown winter hat from where it lay on the dashboard and pulled it on over my head to keep my ears warm. Roberta always took a while to heat up. He was changing the track on the CD player when I asked if I could warm my hands up on him. He sighed but nodded. I stuck my chilled hands up under his clothes and pressed them into his warm belly. He hissed and grimaced but held my hands down rather than pushing them off. “God, your rings make it that much worse,” he said. I laughed. I wore a ring on nearly every finger like my mom used to. I took my hands away and shoved them underneath my thighs for warmth. We sat together without talking for a while. I gazed out the window over the field while he finished smoking. He rolled his window down a bit for the smoke to escape and despite the heat being on, the chill still crept up on me. Cold fingers of air slithered beneath my clothes and caressed the back of my neck until gooseflesh formed. I shivered. The sun was climbing higher in the sky, becoming a paler yellow. A breeze began to pick up as well, shaking down the trees in the distance and whispering through the tall grass. When he was ready, he began to drive the van slowly out of the field, careful not to tear up any of the grass. He changed out his CD and put it the Elvis one he knew I liked. I smiled at him and he beamed back. Once we got back to the road, he reached out for my hand to hold and I took his in both of mine. I kissed his knuckles and pressed the back of his hand against my cheek. He turned the heat down so it wasn’t blowing so loud and we sang along to Elvis as we made our way back home. I didn’t think so much about my quietness and instead, focused on the feeling between Steve and I in that moment. It felt like looking at an old photograph and getting a head rush and a slow spread of warmth that trickled between your ribs. As I gazed at him in the driver’s seat, it felt almost as though I were looking at him through the haze of memory. It was as though this were a moment already lived and long past. Elvis’s voice swam thick like honey around us. Steve squeezed my hand and I turned to look out the window and up at the moon still suspended in the early morning sky. It seemed to follow us from behind the rush of tall trees that were silhouetted black against the pale blue sky. The moon glimmered and flashed its pallid face from behind and between the trees until we turned a corner and I couldn’t see it anymore.

To Make a Family

Rebecca Gatz

Characters ADAM, 28-ish, Jewish culturally if not as religiously. New Yorker. Margaret’s boyfriend of two years. MARGARET, 26-ish, a feminist, left-leaning recovering Catholic. Bostonian. Adam’s girlfriend of two years. Setting: A Boston apartment bedroom, nicely decorated if a bit thrifty. There is a door leading to the main room of the apartment, and one leading to the bathroom. We don’t need to see the interior of the main room, but the sink of the bathroom should be visible to the audience when the door is open. Act I, Scene I It is late at night on a Saturday. Margaret sits at a vanity in the bedroom removing her makeup. Adam is in the bathroom performing his bedtime ritual. ADAM -and Jaimie just could not shut up about all the baby shit at dinner tonight. Oh my God, I know.

MARGARET

ADAM Like, I now know wayyy more about that woman’s uterine lining than I ever needed to. MARGARET (Laughing) And Dan was just as bad! I thought he would never stop talking about how they were going to make their office space into a nursery, and the life or death choice of whether they should paint the walls yellow or green. She’s not even pregnant yet!

(She takes a pill bottle out of a drawer in the vanity and shakes out a tablet)

ADAM God, when we have kids I hope we arenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t that bad. (He starts brushing his teeth as Margaret goes to take a sip of water to take her pill)

(Coughs, sputtering)

MARGARET

ADAM (Peaks his head out from the bathroom to look at her, still brushing his teeth) Are you okay?

(Still coughing) What?

MARGARET

ADAM (He walks closer, mouth soapy with toothpaste suds) I said, are you okay? MARGARET No, what did you say before that. (Sheepish) Oh, that. (Gives him a look) Yes, that.

ADAM

MARGARET

ADAM Well, we’ve been dating for two years now. Is it really so surprising that I’ve thought about it, us having kids? MARGARET (Slowly) No, I guess it isn’t surprising, it’s just that… (Nervously) What? (She steels herself) I don’t want children.

ADAM

MARGARET

ADAM (The toothbrush falls from his hand) Oh. (He kneels down slowly to pick it up, and starts to walk back to the bathroom) MARGARET (Rushes to clarify) It’s not even that I’m opposed to the idea of having children, I just don’t want to have kids that are biologically mine. ADAM (He spits noisily into the sink, and rinses his mouth) I don’t understand. MARGARET (Defensively) What don’t you understand, how a woman could not want to take up her patriarchally mandated duty that she bear children, how she could be so heartless as to-

ADAM (Cuts her off, exiting from the bathroom) No, you know I don’t think thatThen what?

MARGARET

ADAM I just, I feel like I’ve mentioned having kids before and you’ve never said anything. MARGARET You have never said anything to me about it before. ADAM No, no, I definitely have because there was that one time when we went to eat at that place you love by the FensThaitation?

MARGARET

ADAM Yes, that place, and we passed that woman with a super ugly baby and I said that our tykes would definitely be cuter than that kid and you just laughed and said you were sure they would be! MARGARET (Incredulously) Adam, that had to be within the first two months we were dating, of course I wasn’t going to say anything! It’s not exactly something you bring up at the beginning of a relationship when you’re not even sure where its going. ADAM Okay, okay fine but what does that even mean, that you are open to having kids, just not biological kids?

MARGARET It’s a decision I made a long time ago, it has nothing to do with youADAM Oh, thanks for that, that’s really what I was worried aboutMARGARET (Talks over him) -I just think the world is overpopulated as it is, and there are so many kids without a good family to come home to, that it seems selfish to have my own children when I can adopt and give a kid who already exists a better life. ADAM So you think Jaimie and Dan are selfish for trying so hard to have their own kid? No, I don’t think that at all!

MARGARET

ADAM Then explain it to me, Margaret, because this is important to me! I’ve always wanted to have my own children. MARGARET What, it’s a deal breaker that I don’t want to have biological kids? ADAM No…yes. (He speaks quickly) I don’t know! It’s not really something I’ve thought about! MARGARET You’ve thought about it enough to have this fight with me. I don’t think we’re fighting-

ADAM

MARGARET (Laughs despite herself) Of course we are fighting Adam! What do you think a fight is? A philosophical difference in opinion between two people constitutes as a fight. ADAM (Looking down) I really think it’s more of a verbal arguement (Annoyed) Adam!

MARGARET

ADAM (Deflated) I don’t want to fight with you, I love you. MARGARET (Moves to hold his hand) I love you too, but I made this decision years and years ago, long before I met you. I’m not going to change my mind all of a sudden just because you want me to. ADAM I just… it’s really important for me, to me, to pass along Judaism to my kids, biologically. MARGARET Doesn’t Judaism pass through the mother though? So by that right our kids wouldn’t be Jewish anywayADAM (Suddenly agitated, he moves away from her) It’s not like that, it’s like… (He trails off, unable to verbalize his thoughts)

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Like what? Explain it to me.

MARGARET

ADAM Like.. like… they, the English, the Spanish, the Germans, they’ve all tried to wipe my ancestors, my family, my…people out. It’s not even about the religious aspect- you know I don’t really care about that. It’s more of a… it’s the biggest fuck you I can imagine, to all the people who tried so hard to kill all the Jews, to make sure that we continue to live and breathe and.. thrive on this Earth. It’s just this base instinct that makes me want to…it’s going to make me sound like a caveman. (Seriously) No, go on, say it.

MARGARET

ADAM …to make sure that after I die, some part of me lives on. MARGARET That doesn’t make you sound like a caveman. It makes you sound very human. ADAM Really? So you’d consider having biological kids with me, made the old fashioned way?

(Sadly, warningly) Adam…

MARGARET

ADAM Come on, you can’t just give me that bullshit from before and expect me to believe it. I know you. I know there has got to be more to your choice then just that.

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MARGARET … Did you know that if you adopt and the child isn’t Jewish by birth, you can convert them? Yes, I did actually, but Margaret-

ADAM

MARGARET (On a roll) And did you know that in most reform circles, they don’t care if a child is Jewish by birth or by conversion, that they treat all children the same? ADAM Dammit, Margaret, that’s not the point! We are having an adult conversation about this. I gave you the truth, don’t you think you owe me the same? MARGARET (She pauses, and when she speaks, her voice is emotional) Do you not know that I am just… a little bit broken? ADAM (Reaching out to comfort her) Margie… MARGARET (She shrugs him off) No, I mean it. I know you know. ADAM Margie, having depression doesn’t mean that you are broken. MARGARET I know that. I know that but… what kid wants a mom that can’t get out of bed some days? Who can’t pick them up from school because she’s disassociated and doesn’t know what’s in her head and what is real?

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Who might have an episode and not be there for them right when they need her the most? (She starts to cry) ADAM (He gathers her up in his arms) Margie, I honestly don’t know what to say. MARGARET (Talking through her tears) And it’s not only that! I am a goldmine of bad genes. ADAM What the fuck does that even mean? MARGARET It means that every woman on my mother’s side of the family has had breast cancer before they turned 35. It means that depression and anxiety are present on both sides of my family tree. It means that those genes— along with a whole host of other issues, including but not limited to liver cancer, diabetes, autism, high cholesterol, you name it— would be passed along to my children through me. And I don’t want to put my children, even potentially, through that suffering. ADAM (Slowly) You don’t want to have kids…because there is a chance they might have high cholesterol?

That’s not what I said at all!

MARGARET

ADAM It basically is! Because you know what all those things are up to?

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(Exasperated) What? Chance.

MARGARET

ADAM

MARGARET This isn’t chance, its probability! It’s scientifically proven that these things run in families andADAM That’s the same thing as chance! Sure, it might be a higher chance, but that doesn’t mean it’s definitely going to happen! And you know what it would make you for worrying about all that stuff? What?

MARGARET

ADAM A damn good mom. (Margaret starts to cry again. He holds her until she stops.) (Shakily) So what do we do now?

MARGARET

ADAM I don’t have the slightest idea. (They both laugh, slightly at first until it turns into larger hysterics. As they both calm down, they look at each other.) MARGARET (Sobering up) Have you changed your mind?

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(He thinks about it) No. Have you? No.

ADAM

MARGARET

ADAM We don’t have to decide anything today, right now. (Enthusiastically) No, definitely not.

MARGARET

ADAM And…we can keep talking about it? (He looks at her for confirmation) MARGARET (Reassuringly) Yeah, we can keep talking about it. ADAM We can just go on as we have been, and continue having mind-blowing, super safe sex. MARGARET (Laughing) Yes, we can… (She stops, and looks at him) But is that enough? Will that be enough? ADAM I really don’t know. (Margaret’s face falls. He grabs her hand.) We’ll never know until we try though. They both crawl into bed. They kiss. Lights dim. Blackout. End of Play.

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This is Not a Manifesto Joelle Gray

First Place, Donald Hall Poetry Prize

I told myself I would never write a manifesto because manifestos don’t represent what they used to. I believe that these days, when you hear the word “manifesto” it is certainly not because anything good has come of one. A man with a gun walked into a mosque this March and murdered fifty Muslims after he wrote a manifesto that told him to—one in which he spewed the hate that he believed and showed the world that a bigot with a gun and an imagination can do anything he sets his mind to. I cried myself to sleep that night. I hate what the manifesto stands for. I hate homophobes and xenophobes and racists and anyone who thinks it’s okay to point a gun at anyone for any reason other than self-defense. I hate having the power to write my own manifesto and I hate that I don’t want to do anything about it, because maybe I’d write the world’s greatest manifesto about how everyone deserves to be happy, how girls should get free tampons, or how half-birthday parties should be a thing, except I can’t write that manifesto because I don’t want to write one. I hate that I hate so much, because feeling hate is so much work for a mind that knows trauma like an old friend and comfort like a stranger. I hate that sometimes I don’t know when to stop writing, because I always have something to say, but I can never get the words exactly right no matter how many times I press the backspace key, and lately I’ve been so frustrated because my computer sometimes adds a period where I don’t want one to go, and it takes me even longer to write the words that are already moving too fast to fit comfortably on one piece of paper.

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So, noâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;this is not a manifesto. I am not the kind of person who writes manifestos. Manifestos are for hateful people whom I struggle to even call human beings. I write poems. I write poems to inspire people, to make them feel something, and to prove that the good in the world is worth more than all the bad.

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My Love

Sunny Scalia I love intensely and with such great passion. I feel empathy strongly. To explain how love feels would be to explain the universe. It is impossible. but I can try. The supernova: a star that suddenly increases greatly in brightness because of a catastrophic explosion that ejects most of its mass. It is a mesmerizing image. It is made up of endless colors, changing colors, lights, specks, living things. What love feels like for me is golden. It is warm, soft but bumpy. I feel it around my entire body and brain. Out of my body emerge stars. The stars are all little things that add to the love. I radiate gold and sunshine when I am in love. I feel so greatly. I feel like Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m on top of a mountain, screaming even though itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s hard to breathe. Emitting light brighter than our sun. Imagine the power of the sun and how much heat and light it gives off. Love is more powerful than that. The feeling is so great, so intense there is no stopping it. There is no hiding it. It comes out in my writing, in my art, my view on life, my smile, my hands, my hips, my hugs, my dreams. It goes everywhere with me. It makes me want to dance, it makes me want to cry, it makes me want to laugh and sing and do all the silly things I do, fearlessly. It makes me want to travel everywhere so I can spread my love all over the world. I can leave stars everywhere. They will emerge and make their way into the atmosphere and hopefully someone takes them and feels them too. The stars make up the golden glow I feel. I love the small things. the little things. in people, in life, on the earth. I love it all. imagine a supernova: bright, powerful, colorful, massive, part of something so unexplained and unexplored and scary. This is what love is to me, in the simplest of terms.

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Montreal in Color Sophie Frank

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Pickle Girl

Sophie Rodgers

Second Place, Wilder Fiction Prize

Whenever Phoebe would go through the sandwich line at the cafeteria, she would ask only for pickles. Not on the side, which would imply that there was a main course that the pickles were there to compliment, but only pickles, all by themselves, cut into coins if she was lucky that day. Sometimes they would put the pickles in a paper cup; other times a little plastic salad container. Then she would go outside and take a seat on the concrete steps and, bathed in the dim neon light of the “Subs and Grub” sign, eat them one by one, closing her mouth over each coin and letting the sourness and salt flood her tongue, before finally, with one quick bite, swallowing. There were two dining hall workers that regularly staffed the sandwich line and who, day after day and week after week, served Phoebe her pickles. Some days it was Kim, who smiled right at her and winked as she scraped the pickle slices into the plastic salad container. Kim knew Phoebe—it was a small school, and her order always stood out. She didn’t know her name, so in her head she just called her “Pickle Girl.” Some days, though, it was Pat behind the counter. Pat had a name for Phoebe too: “That Goddamn Pickle Girl.” Phoebe would hesitantly wait by the counter for the time when Pat would narrow her stone-grey eyes at her, sullenly dumping the pickles into the paper cup, her movements sudden and jerky, like she could barely control her annoyance. Pat would go home and complain to her wife and mom and anyone that would listen about this spoiled goddamn kid who always needed her goddamn pickles that weren’t even an option on the menu, who the hell did she think she was anyway, the queen of Sheba? And Kim would go home and sit on the couch and maybe mention something to her roommate about the sweet girl with the curly hair who always said please and thank you twice when she got those pickles. The pickles weren’t even very good, honestly, but Phoebe didn’t care (and also couldn’t really tell). The pickles were her rebellion, her Boston Tea Party, her French guillotine. It had taken her a while to find it. Drinking hadn’t worked. Neither had smoking weed, even when her bowl and a plastic baggie had been discovered under her bed. She

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couldn’t break a non-existent curfew. And any curse words she could’ve used would have been just background noise to the conversations that went on around her. But pickles… pickles were perfect. Her mother despised pickles. They hadn’t been welcome in their house since before Phoebe was born, ever since the incident with her father that resulted in a jar of pickles smashing into a million pieces and the juice instantly soaking the family dog, who reeked for days. Pickles were contraband when drugs and alcohol were not. Phoebe would’ve had an easier time sneaking a boy up to her room than a jar of Vlassic’s. And so with the start of college came the start of her seedy double life — the seeds being cucumber ones. One day towards the middle of the semester, Phoebe didn’t come in to Subs and Grub. She didn’t come in the day after that, or the day after that, until two weeks had passed without Pat or Kim seeing her once. Thank God, though Pat, good riddance, until she reached for the pickle slices for a kid’s sandwich and, instinctively, thought of her. Is she gone? Kim wondered. Did she transfer? Is she sick? Does she hate pickles now or something? Both of their lives were busy enough that after the first few days, they stopped wondering, and Pickle Girl was pushed to the back of their minds. Until one day, a few weeks later. Kim looked up from a buffalo chicken wrap to see Phoebe and two other girls walk in together, making their way to the order kiosk at the front of the line. “Why hello,” Kim said, smiling at her. “We haven’t seen you around here lately.” “Hello!” Phoebe ducked her head shyly. “I had a bit of a realization.” Kim looked up from chopping lettuce. “Yeah? Sick of pickles?” Phoebe laughed. “Well, this is silly. I finally realized I could just buy a jar of pickles at the store and it would be a lot easier. And then once I did that, I realized I don’t even really like pickles that much in the first place.”

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Elegy for Repentance Mike Fernandez

His pretty eyes locked onto me And made me question my intentions That night we kissed in the baseball field And I betrayed your trust in my innocence. I used to think I’d love you forever And devote my life to your beautiful body When you promised me a perfect communion Of imperfect souls that heal one another. Back then, I groveled and kissed your dirty feet So you’d forgive my treason and heal my pain; I must have said “I’m sorry” a thousand times before And I never felt a difference in any of our sorrows. You told me you loved me with your eyes cast down, Your holy figure hanging by a righteous thread, Yet, even when you held me and kissed my swollen cheek, You never actually forgave the sins of the past. I didn’t love myself until I left you behind. I never let go of that night on third base. I wish I hadn’t wasted so much of my time On a perfect man who promised a path to forgiveness.

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Women 2

Corey Windham

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Two Promises Gabriel Purpura

“They said get back to work, and there were no jobs for a man in the fetal position, under his desk which I gladly would’ve taken. So, I come back here.” – Jon Stewart, 20 September 2001 “I’ve been searching for biblical quotes, none of them... We don’t know how many are dead it’s gunna be a lot, gunna be thousands. We don’t know who attacked us we don’t know what’s coming tomorrow, and I don’t know what I’m doing... But I’ll make you this promise; I’m going to be with you all night, I’m not going anywhere I’ll be right here.” – The Newsroom *** At 8:46 a.m. on September 11th, 2001, the world would be forever changed when a plane crashed into the North Tower of The World Trade Center. Over the course of the day: the South Tower would be struck at 9:03 a.m., the Pentagon would be attacked at 9:37 a.m., the South Tower would fall at 9:59 a.m., Flight United 93 would crash into a field outside Shanksville, Pennsylvania at 10:03 a.m., and finally the North Tower would collapse at 10:28 a.m. If it were not for the heroic actions of the passengers of Flight 93, our Nation’s capital would most likely have been destroyed as well. If it were not for the brave firefighters, police officers, and EMTs, some of whom gave their lives for others; we inevitably would have lost many more. The acts of valor displayed on that day made by American men and women are now etched into the very fabric of our nation. It defines who we are as a people and who we are as a nation. On that day we learned two things: America was not invincible, but even on our darkest days our resolve had the ability bring our nation together again to shed the light to usher in a new dawn. The sheer loss of life on that day still saddens me and I believe, everyone else who remembers exactly where they were. On that day there was a call to action to seek out and destroy the people behind the attack. A call to protect our nation and to restore our sense of safety. What resulted over the course of the next eighteen years was millions of

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American men and women participating in the Global War on Terror. Many of them would give their lives; and those that did made the ultimate sacrifice for retribution. *** On a warm, rainy day nearly two decades ago, I was four years old. I didn’t know waking up that morning that the direction of my life and the course of history would drastically change. Hell, I don’t think anyone did. I did not go to a normal day care: instead, went to the kind that was in the daycare provider’s residence was also the daycare. I was wearing a GAP t-shirt and jeans, eating breakfast and watching the news. A developing story interrupted the broadcast: our nation was under attack by an unknown enemy. I watched in confusion. I couldn’t understand what was happening before my eyes. The daycare lady promptly made us finish our breakfast and hurried us downstairs. She told us our parents would be picking us up shortly. My mother, meanwhile, rushed home to pick me up from daycare. She hurried up the stairs leading into the house. She then went down the stairs to the basement. She hugged me tight; she squeezed my body like she was never going to see me again. She picked me up, brought me to the car, and then placed me in the booster seat in the back of her blue 1994 Honda Civic. We began to drive home. The overcast sky mixed with rain set the tone like God himself was crying. “Mommy why did those planes hit the towers,” I questioned not fully able to comprehend what was actually happening, “Don’t the pilots know how to fly?” My mother was choking back tears when she said, “Very bad people hurt a lot of good people today.” I thought for a second about what she said. “Are the mommies and daddies okay?” “No, honey they aren’t.” She could no longer hold back her tears and began wiping her face. “What about their kids Mommy?” I was beginning to better understand what was unfolding.

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“They aren’t going to have their mommies and daddies around anymore, sweetie.” I could see my questions were beginning to make her sadder. “Mommy, I promise someday I’m going to get those bad guys.” *** Thousands of American men and women died on that day; thousands more would die throughout the next eighteen years, fighting an unending war against an unyielding enemy. On September 11th, 2001, there was a call to arms. Twelve years later I would make good on my promise and answer the call myself. I am among, now, the last generation who remembers the event as it unfolded. The day still resonates with me to the core of my being today. We were vulnerable. *** It’s a blistering hot summer’s day and I’m eighteen years old. I’m wearing a black polo t-shirt matched with black shoes and black slacks. The pants are blotched with orange spots denoting I had recently been cleaning the floor with bleach. I was at work, but my mind was elsewhere. I thought of my Uncle Rick; he had served in the Navy during Vietnam, but more importantly to me, he served as my father figure for the formative years of my life. I thought of the days of the two of us wearing pajamas watching movies from the eighties; our favorite movie was The Goonies. I remember he smelled of cigarettes and how I enjoyed the enticing lingering scent. I was so naïve back then when it came to understanding the big picture that was being painted around me. It’s like they say, “You can’t see the forest for the trees.” I thought about how his choices were responsible for his declining health. Every smoke took hold of his body; removing what was left of his free will. I remember how I swore I would never make the same decisions myself; a promise that I would inevitably break. I was weighed down by my decision. I wanted to be United States Marine more than anything, but I also wanted to be able to spend as much time as I had left with Uncle Rick. Midway through the shift, I was washing the morning’s dishes. It had been a busy day at Aziago’s, the local Italian restaurant I had been working at for the past two years. I enjoyed the work, and I liked

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my co-workers. My phone began to ring. I wiped the cleaning solution off of my hands, reached into by pocket, and flipped my phone open. The contact name read ‘Sergeant Luna’. “Hello,” I answered hesitantly as I could think of no reason my recruiter would be calling me. “Hey Good Afternoon, Poolee Purpura, it’s Sergeant Luna.” Her voice was warm and inviting, but her manner of speech was deliberate. This is the way of the Marine: to speak deliberately, saying exactly what they mean to say. “Hi, how are you Sergeant?” I responded. “Good, I hope you are doing well too. We wanted to know if you wanted to leave for boot camp a little bit sooner, next weekend?” Mixed emotions engulfed me. Do I accept the offer and began living my dream, or do I stay home to spend more time with my uncle? I didn’t know what to do I needed more time. I was at war with myself. I couldn’t make a decision. So, I did the one thing I could do. “Can I think about this for second, I need time to think.” “Yes, absolutely, we just need to know by 4 o’clock this afternoon.” I expected more dialogue, but I was met with the end of the phone call instead. I glanced at the clock above me on the wall, it read 1:25. Time was running out and I had to make a choice. I hated that I had just been confined to such limited window to make a decision. I was frozen. I was unable to make any movement, lest I lose my train of thought. I was useless and could only think of one person to call. I dialed the number my hands trembling was I pressed the phone against my ear. It began to ring, and I was filled with anticipation waiting to hear his voice on the other side. I thought of breaking my promise to my mother and to the nation. He was there for me when I needed him most. Did I have any right to leave him now? My mind was inundated with thoughts of contempt towards myself; was I going to make good on my promise? “Hey, Gabe, how are you?” The voice brought a smile to my face. For a moment the comforting sound of his voice brought me back at ease. “Hi Uncle Rick, how are you feeling?” I was made uneasy again, awaiting the response, for fear that his condition had worsened. “Well, I’m alive, aren’t I?” His sense of humor made smile even though I was shaking.

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“I’m scared Uncle Rick, the recruiter called and said I can leave next week.” I was choking back the tears and my voice was audibly trembling. “I’m scared if I leave now, you won’t be here when I get back. I can’t leave, not now.” “Of course, you can. I promise I’ll be here when you get back,” he paused momentarily, enough for me to hear the strain in his voice. “I love you buddy, but I’m tired and I’m going take a nap. Stop by some time; we can watch Godzilla.” “I love you too Uncle Rick, I’ll be by soon.” “Ok, I love ya kid.” Abruptly, silence. The empty sound of the phone served as a reminder that I was alone again. I hated the silence. It brought more thoughts to my head than any conversation could. In that finite moment I thought of all the infinite possibilities laid out before me. Only one, I would find more pressing than the rest. I still wish I had convinced him to stay on the phone with me for just a minute more, even one more second would have been enough; just to hear him say “I love ya kid” one more time. He made a promise to me, so I could make good on my promise. I knew, in my heart the right thing to do was to call him back just to hear his voice. Instead, I stared blankly at the phone. I began to dial. I raised the phone and pressed it to my ear. It rang, again I swelled with anticipation until I received an answer. “Hello?” “When do I leave?” ***

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*** Dedicated To: My Uncle; Richard E. Lacombe (1947-2015) Thank you for always being there for me and teaching me to be “easy like Sunday morning.” My Friend; Lance Corporal Austin J. Ruiz (1997-2017) He made the ultimate sacrifice while participating in the Global War on Terror. All the American Men and Women; That lost their lives on September 11th, 2001. That rushed into the flames and smoke to save others that day. That participated or are still engaged in our nation’s longest war. That gave their lives for our freedom in the ensuing 18 years. That are still grappling with the horrors of war and loss of life. May God bless you. May God bless America.

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Who We Are Ian Addison doesn’t think having a bio is very punk rock of him.

Pages 27, 48, 80

Haniya Ahmed is an aspiring writer and double major in

psychology and English at Quinnipiac University. In her free time, she enjoys befriending strangers, waking up at some god-forsaken hour before the sun has risen and making people severely uncomfortable. She was one of the winners of this years Wilder Fiction Prize.

Page 73

Ashley Amarante is new to the lineup this year and sharing her amateur poetry skills with the world (or the small part of it that will actually read this). She has no formal education in writing poetry but hopes to take a course with Professor Koo in the fall. When she isn’t writing, Ashley spends her time racking up karma points on Reddit, making Spotify playlists, playing with her puppy, or anything else to avoid actual school work.

Page 29

Kiki Arevalo constantly lives with the fact that she’s half an inch away from being five feet tall but has stopped growing. She thinks this is why her work is usually tinged with melancholy. Kiki has been published with Spillwords Press and has won the Wilder Fiction Prize for her short story “Poppy.” She’s thankful to have been able to witness Montage grow over the years and wishes the best for all the future members!

Page 59

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Brantley Boyda began writing as a hobby when she wrote a

story about her aunt winning the New York City Marathon while simultaneously becoming a secret agent, and Brantley has never put the pen down since. Her other main hobby is photography where she is known as the “official” photographer for all friends and family. Brantley’s work has been featured in several Montage journals over the last three years and her poem recently placed first in the WAC “Truth” contest.

Page 35

Haktan Ceylan is a spoken word artist from Danbury,

Connecticut, currently working on an EP entitled “Ineffable,” detailing his coming of age and experiences with allowing the past to reside. Using the alias “Natkah Nalyec,” Haktan aims to represent the unique sense of artistry which allows anonymity through candid expression utilizing the platform of a stage name. A sophomore philosophy and political science double major, Haktan studies different forms of ideologies ranging from the questioning of our very fabrics of reality to the decisive nature in which an individual’s beliefs influence their life decisions. Pages 20, 47

Wesley Clapp is a senior filmmaker from woodsy-who-cares

New Hampshire. At Quinnipiac, he can be seen fast-walking to meetings, wearing Vans slip ons, and eating on-the-go. When he’s not busy scatterbraining film ideas and ventures, he spends his time writing characters who monologue dangerously, juggling multiple freelance opportunities (because who knows what skills you’ll need, am I right LinkedIn?), and almost always forgetting to drink water.

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Haley Cohen is an English major who enjoys doing creative

writing, specifically poetry, above all other types of writing. She placed in the Donald Hall Poetry Prize in 2018 when she had only taken two creative writing classes at Quinnipiac University. She graduates in May and hopes to either work at a publishing house or attend graduate school to get her MFA in poetry. Pages 28, 49, 78

Ashley Collins is a self-proclaimed poet of the class of 2022.

Without any writing classes, experience, or following, it is by sheer luck that she has produced something people enjoy reading. Some may say she is “underground,” or even “exclusive,” as Montage is the only place her work can be found. Moving forward, she plans to continue writing poems about her remarkably average life in the hope that her friends keep putting them on their Snapchat stories.

Page 88

Kerry Deasy is a first year student with a passion for words.

Whether it’s reading or writing, she can often be found working with words in one way or another, especially as an English major. She is hoping this will be the first of many pieces that she submits to Montage as well as other places to show off her writing. Page 70

Stephanie Felix is the previously pink-haired girl walking around wearing tacky (but fashionable) pieces you’d never think to wear. Her unhealthy coping mechanisms include making Spotify playlists at 2 a.m., spending money she doesn’t have on scrunchies and makeup, and going on Tinder (then immediately being reminded why that’s a bad idea).

Pages 56, 81

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Mackenzie Fenn is a craftsman of the pen who grew up in

northwestern Connecticut. Alongside her trusted feline and canine companions, Mackenzie spends her days in the wild forests of Hartland, Riverton, and Barkhamstead, taming the wilderness and fending off wild beasts from her homestead. When she is not creating stunning pieces of literature, Mackenzie Amber Fenn can be found keeping her friends in line and hunting for jewels at local bookfairs with her trusty sidekick Kate. (Written by her best friend Jessie Leigh.)

Page 90

Mike Fernandez is an expert at handing things in at the last minute. When he’s not stressed about writing his thesis, he enjoys reading, playing video games, and going to obscure rock concerts. He strongly believes that everyone should read George Saunders and play What Remains of Edith Finch. After May 2020, you’ll find him skulking around New England begging for a job in the games industry.

Pages 38, 114

Sophie Frank is a junior psychology major from Menlo Park,

California. She loves photography and traveling and can’t wait to graduate so she can adopt a dog of her own. Sophie has been a part of Montage since freshman year has enjoyed meeting so many great people who share the same passion from creativity. Pages 58, 68, 89, 111

Rebecca Gatz cannot come to the phone. This is is the first play she has written and she’s super excited to share it with the world, but also very very nervous so she is hiding from her phone. She is a sophomore at Quinnipiac if you were wondering. Leave a message at the beep! *beep*

Page 95

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Glenna Gobeil is a first year in the class of 2023. She enjoys

reading, photography and spending time with friends. Glenna is majoring in media studies and minoring in sociology. Her influences in art and literature are Georgia O’Keefe and Harper Lee.

Pages 55, 72

Joelle Gray is a Taurus. When she isn’t talking about the

possibility of a One Direction reunion tour or gushing about the time she saw Hamilton, she’ll probably tell you that she’s a junior advertising major from New Hampshire, and probably also that she misses her mom.

Page 108

Tyler Maron, one of the non-matriculated minority of Quinipiac University enrolling in literature classes to improve as a writer, takes pride in being human. An ex-graphic designer, Maron involves himself in casual photography, serious prose and poetry writing, and unlawful swigging of vodka in empty parking lots with lovers. Your support for student press is appreciated.

Page 64

Alisa Mejia is an undergraduate volleyball player at Quinnipiac University. She is currently pursuing a double major in psychology and criminal justice while minoring in English. Her interest in writing escalated in 2017 after being invited to Columbia University for a writing workshop where she was inspired by talented individuals sharing their pieces of work and lectures. She was co-president of the book club in high school and has been published in her hometown’s literary magazine. She uses her love of poetry, writing, and music to try and encourage disabled people at her local volunteering spot, Abilis, to find new ways to express themselves.

Page 60

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Joseph Powell is a poet, actor, director, wine connoisseur,

and dragon expert. Critics have described his writing as “simply stunning,” “who are you,” “why are you in my house,” and “wet.” Joseph has appeared once before in Montage, and never before in anything else. He is a senior game design and theater double major.

Pages 46, 69

Gabriel Purpura is Marine Corps veteran and is currently a sophmore at Quinnipiac University. His favorite authors are F. Scott Fitzgerald, Cormac McCarthy, and E. B. White. His favorite companion is his dog Daisy.

Pages 18, 30, 116

Petrina A. Robinson, or Robin, is a freshman entrepreneurship major. She finds herself at peace when writing and so she does it often when conflicted or stressed which explains her dark, moody writing.

Pages 62, 71

Sophie Rodgers has wanted to submit to Montage since her

freshman year, and is very glad her dear friend Nina finally bullied her into doing so. Over the past year, she has placed second and third in the Wilder Fiction and Donald Hall Poetry prizes, respectively, as well as been Co-Editor-in-Chief of The Quinnipiac Barnacle. She will graduate this summer and return to Quinnipiac in the fall to pursue an M.S. in Journalism, and hopes to continue being a part of the university’s amazing community of writers.

Pages 87, 112

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Jen Rondinelli is now a senior and is growing increasingly sad

about it. As a biology major and psychology minor, she hopes to have a career as a research scientist one day (while still being able to take as many photos as she can). It is highly likely that she is somewhere wishing she was either sleeping or eating clam chowder.

Page 36

Sunny Scalia is not a writer by any means, but sometimes words do the trick. She’s an artist with no technique, using whatever feels right. She turns her feelings into pictures and paintings and poems. Caffeine is her fuel, sleep is her rival, and time is her enemy.

Page 110

Mahi Sugebo is a junior journalism major that fell in love with

writing and words at a very young age. She’s a closeted writer, though. Now, she’s very slowly, but surely, getting out there and sharing her stories. You can find her romanticizing a life for herself over a cup of tea, blasting Lana Del Rey in the background while dramatically staring out of a window. Her story “Blue Rug” won third place in the Wilder Fiction Prize. She really hopes you enjoy her story–she wrote it on her dorm room floor at 2 a.m.

Page 22

Alissa Walkowiak has been doing fine art ever since she was

a child. She graduated the prestigious visual and preforming arts academy, in the fine arts strand, at her high school. Alissa has done three various internships, ranging from graphic design to working in a museum. She is currently transferring to pursue studio art and psychological sciences at The University of Vermont. This piece was made for the senior capstone film project “Snakeskin.”

Page 19

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Corey Windham is a sophomore graphic and interactive design

major and psychology minor at Quinnipiac. He has been published in Montage before and is also a part of AIGA, The Quinnipiac Barnacle, and other campus organizations. In his free time, he likes to express himself through different creative outlets including digital design, photography, and music. He also has a love for fashion history.

Pages 34, 115

Brian Ziegelhofer is a sophomore 3+1 management major. He placed 2nd in the Annual Siegelbaum Literary and Visual Arts Competition three out of the four years he entered. He also wrote two pieces in Montage’s fall journal under the pseudonym Unspoken Truth. The name stems from an Instagram handle “weareunspokentruth” which is a movement started last March. The movement is about using poetry to normalize common, sensitive, and unspoken issues.

Pages 33, 57

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Acknowledgements Thank you, Ian Addison, for designing the cover art and section headers for this journal. Without your dedication to Montage, no one would be holding this journal. Thank you to The Quinnipiac Barnacle, Stella Vlastakis, Haktan Ceylan, Greta Stroebel, Steve Tarnok, and AIGA for featuring at our Open Mic Nights. Thank you, Jason Koo and Ken Cormier, for sharing your talents with us here at Montage. Without you, we would be lost. Thank you, David McGraw, for helping to plant the seeds of leadership in us. You did so much for us at Montage while you were here with us. We wish you well at your new job and in any future endeavors. The doors are never closed! Thank you, Samantha Bashaw, for stepping up to take on the role of staff advisor for Montage. On top of all your graduate work, you made sure that Montage always had everything we needed, and you made our whole organization feel loved. Thank you to Brendan Brooks, Dan Bahl, Bryan Murphy, Will Fowler, and Sydney Iannarone for being such cooperative Student Media leaders and for helping us to achieve our goals. Montage has been in great company this year. We have loved working with all of you. Thank you to Tamara Anderson, Katherine Iorio, Rebecca Gatz, and Glenna Gobeil for getting ready to join Joelle in taking on Montage as an awesome executive board for the next academic year. We are so ready for you. Thank you to our readers. You make Montage exactly what it is. Without your support, Montage would be just another college literary journal. We love you. Always remember to be brave.

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Montage

Vol. 39

2020