MESH by Samantha VanSchoick

MESH

The Literary Society at Lyndon State College Spring 2013

MESH is Lyndon State Collegeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s student produced literary magazine. We collect submissions from students, faculty, staff, and alumni and select our favorites in a vote. Our goal is to show off all the creativity LSC has to offer. MESH is creative candy. Snack freely.

Cover Art by Cody Brackett

Table of Contents Poetry

Heather Perkins ... 4 Sarah Bruno ... 5 Megan Hassan ... 6 Wesley Hatch ... 8 Marc Samson ... 9 Joshua Cook ... 10

Fiction

Michelle Farnham ... 11 Samantha VanSchoick ... 12 Ashley Ahern ... 14 Kirstie Venne ... 16 Chandler Gilman ... 18 Sarah Bruno ... 20

Non-Fiction

Wesley Hatch ... 21

Design

Elizabeth Chenard ... 23 Cody Brackett ... 29 Krysta Davis ... 31 Cody Brackett ... 32 Kacie Holbert ... 34 Samantha VanSchoick ... 36

Photography

Katie Davis ... 37 Megan Hassan ... 38 Marc Samson ... 39 Brian Lacharite ... 40 Krysta Davis ... 41 Hannah Frigon ... 42

Artist Biographies ... 44 Staff Biographies ... 46

MESH

Poetry

Marching On

HEATHER PERKINS

Sixty-nine million afraid of a coming war.

Masses of students on a run from the Gods, Gods that don their veils, masquerading today as teachers – yesterday, it was social workers; they like to change it up, trick us, trap us, train us

until they know we’ll do exactly as they wish us.

Sixty-nine million or one, it doesn’t matter we’re all running now, turning every which way praying for refuge, but there is no God to pray to, no God that will listen. Masses of students in a drug-induced state, the Gods took the forms of dealers. Training’s failed, the game plan’s changed erase the boards, start anew, nowhere to run. Sixty-nine million dead in their homes. The Gods march on.

MESH Poetry

Sanity

SARAH ROSE BRUNO

“Be normal,” they say “You’re insane,” they say The mantra’s always the same But no body knows what sanity is Really, what does it mean to be sane? In debt to your eyes “Keep your sight on the prize!” The mantra is always the same. Is this really what sanity is? Why is this what is sane?

“Get a dead end career” Become the one thing you fear The mantra is always the same. “Get a job and a wife!” “Haves some kids” Take your life The mantra is always the same. When your dreams fade away And you are what you hate Then are you finally sane?

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MEGAN HASSAN

Through the City Blocks

Running down a street, through the city of blocks Left, right, doesn’t matter they’re always behind me. Opening a door, seventh floor at the window I see them A sea writhing and churning, wanting me. Blocks piled higher and higher Connecting just a hop-skip away I climb the city blocks glancing behind me They’re there, still after me, reaching for me. Reach the bridge, they almost have me Running again, the heavy door falling I don’t want to be trapped here with them Baseball slide. Safe! Just like Dr. Jones. A new part of the city of blocks But they’re still behind me.

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MY HALLWAY I’m walking down a hallway, And I don’t mean hallway as A metaphor for my mind which Is leaking memories, like a Dripping pipe, spewing water Into puddles, rippling like The waves of an ocean During a rather large storm, In which all hope would seem To be lost for everything above The angry waves, thrashing With the rage of Poseidon, Having no mercy for any Poor soul trapped in the Eternal storm raging and Tearing up the sea as an Angry artist would tear up Unsatisfactory work on a Day that their muse refused To make an appearance.

But it is just a hallway, That holds no special meaning. Just pictures upon the walls, And I’d describe them, but then Be risking another metaphor.

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ILLUSTRATION BY MEGAN LYNN SIEDELL 8

MESH Poetry

M A R C S A M S O N

Words They’re Yelling and screaming. Mom is crying again.

His relentless Words, Just being thrown, carelessly, Does he even know what he is doing? The bills again. Not letting him sleep longer. His Words told her to wake him up. I should be asleep.

He is about to leave, Grabs his Dunkin’ Donuts thermos, Grabs the door. I run out of bed, Into the kitchen, Mom and Dad are standing there

Looking. At me. “Shouldn’t you be in bed boy?” My dad acts as though nothing happened. I hug him and tell him “Don’t be angry, work is ok.” He doesn’t know what I am talking about. He thinks, 3rd shift job, the butchery, “I’ll be fine.” He chuckles.

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America Freedom ainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t no joke;

Joshua Cook

you ainâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t got it if you broke.

An Exercise Withering, with youthful love for white rolls who wring steam from the water and leave it white and thick

Close down the stream cut off the drinks tear down the colors and keep the scene brown and black weeding out the trees striving, no chance of survival only the evergreens stand free evergreens, and people

we have fought over this terrain we have loved over this plane and all Octobers and Novembers we have another option

MESH Poetry

Fiction

The Tenants of 18 Locust Street Michelle Farnham

Every night, Paul D’Angelo gets home and plugs in his car. He is a man of short stature with a large cowboy hat. He kicks each one of his tires--inspects the air compression--and walks away from 18 Locus street. He checks the balance of his bank account at the ATM, then comes bounding back back again. His head is always down. His door always locked. His apartment windows faces east--the only apartment that gets the taste of a first morning sunrise. And the only occupant who never draws his shades to have a sip of sun; he lives in apartment 1. Cooper Johnston was conceived on a night of hard liquor and hard decisions. His parents--barely old enough to buy at the bar--share the bills of Apartment 2. Greg, his presumed father, spends his time sitting in his car, smoking Pall Mall cigarettes, and blasting Mumford and Sons songs. His mother, Daphne, works at a hair salon--famous for giving tight perms and she routinely vacuums her living room at 8pm. Cooper can be heard through the thins walls crying. At first a soft weep and then so hard the even ghosts of past tenants can hear him. His cries are followed by the steps of his mother, heating a bottle, and his father’s car radio turned-up, playing: “Where Are You Now?” Kelly and J-Mack are best friends--but they may also be lovers. They share the second floor, Apartment 3, where Kelly buys the weed and J-Mack pays the electric bill. They are locals, who graduated high school, and settled on the minimum-wage jobs, that they already had.

MESH Fiction

Their L-shaped apartment is the hangout for other hopeless town people. Her IQ sits barely above “Low Average” according to the Wechsler scale. FedEx and UPS packages are left at the base of her door weekly, packages, as large as a microwave, or as small as a thin envelopes. Each one addressed to “Mrs. Carl Benjamin.” The rest of the building is left to wonder, what happened to Mr. Carl Benjamin? Sage Elizabeth Rachel Jenkins is better than the rest of the world. If someone doesn’t believe that, she will make sure to tell them. Her apartment is the largest, with a new oven and refrigerator, her second favorite topic to discuss with her neighbors. Her hair is always done, her make-up always carefully applied. She has been living in Apartment 5 for three months. She tells whoever will listen this is her temporary home, and she is soon moving to Maine. New York. California. She is going to start her career, go to college, take care of her sick grandmother, she yearns to live on the coast line, she hates the New England’s winter. It has become challenge to understand, not what Sage Elizabeth Rachel Jenkins is running to, but what she is running from. 18 Locust Street has seen families. It has seen young mothers, old bachelors. It has seen break ups, proposals, and affairs. Tack holes still scar the walls from former residents hanging pictures. Hallway ceilings are yellowed with time and cigarette smoke. And each night, the residents shut their doors, and turn off their lights. Each one with a different story, but something still in common. They all know what it’s like to live with strangers.

The Astoundingly Profound

Samantha VanSchoick

Charles Yankee Jr. was an incredibly dull looking man. Nothing about his features set him apart from any other bald South Floridian man in his mid-thirties, with the exception of the long, black unibrow that ran across his lower forehead, which jumped up and down every time he spoke like overweight women in Richard Simmons videos. When Mr. Yankee stood flat footed, he measured to be five-feet six-inches tall with a rather thin, unmemorable frame. Every day he wore the same outfit: a mustard colored polo tucked into khaki pants with white socks covered by brown faux-leather loafers. Mr. Yankee would lace those loafers up every morning after eating one-half a grapefruit, no sugar, and drinking exactly one cup of Florida orange juice. He might have preferred a breakfast of gravy waffles with pan-fried sausage links, but because of the diarrhetic effect oddly shaped foods had on his bowels, he stuck to fare of only the circular kind. Yes, everything in Mr. Yankee’s food pyramid had to be round: protein was ground and made into balls, juices strictly came from circular fruits, processed foods were a no (who knows what kind of oddly shaped ingredients tainted lollipops), and he ate only peas and brussel sprouts for his daily greens. Even in graded school, Mr. Charles Yankee Jr. was not noted for much of anything. Young Charles was not particularly intelligent, showed no aptitude for music, had no inclination towards sports or puzzles, and was decidedly not bookish. He was not stupid, but he was not smart. He was not weak, but he was not strong. In fact, young Charles possessed no skills at all (unless walking, sitting, and staring counted). “He’s such a queer little thing,” young Charles’s mother (a Native New Jerseyian) would worry to her husband. “I wonder what he’ll do once he’s older.” Charles Yankee Senior would reply by assuring Nicole their only son would find his talent. Though no one thought a man with his last name would succeed in the South, Mr. Yankee Sr. owned a successful waste management business that served most of the retirement homes in South Florida. His critics thought his slogan, “The war might not be over, but we’re takin’ out the garbage,” would not play well on the Florida audience, but most people thought it was funny. “I didn’t even consider garbage removal as a skill until I was working in the deli at Delmagio’s and they had that terrible garbage guy—what was his name—Mattison, or something like that. I knew I could do it better. I did. Charlie will figure it out.” Unfortunately for Mr. Yankee Sr., he was wrong. By his senior year in high school, teenage Charles Yankee Jr. still hadn’t found any talents. The career counselor had never seen such a hopeless case. Charles career aptitude test had recommended him as a great candidate for window washing (if he could just kick that fear of heights) or telemarketing (as long as no one ever hung up on him). Due to these distressing results, the career counselor knew there was only one possible career path: he had to teach. She recommended that he go to the state college and become a high school History teacher . And because teenage Charles didn’t have a better plan, he went to college and concentrated on The History of Farming in the America’s. During his studies at the state school, Mr. Yankee dis-

covered his affinity for food related puns and often tried to work them into his student teaching. However, he could never deliver these half-baked puns. “Lettuce turn to page 43,” he would chuckle, eyebrows jumping. Then he would wait. Thirty-seven laugh-less, pain-full seconds before continuing, “L-e-t-t-u-c-e turn to page 43.” All that was heard was the rustling of pages and all that was seen were expressionless faces. When college Charles graduated, he found employment at one of the local high schools almost immediately. Not many would be content with Mr. Yankee’s routine, but even after 14 years, he enjoyed it. After the closing bell would ring, he would sit on the bench in front of the school and watch the kids push and pull each other, then finally pile in yellow busses. After, he would walk to Ragonese, the Italian market a block down from the school, to purchase the ground beef for his meatballs. Then he would walk home, alone, and cook dinner while he graded papers in his navy blue recliner. Mr. Yankee had no pets, despite his mother’s nagging. “It’s not natural, you living alone like this.” Mr. Yankee had thought about getting a pet, but his allergies prevented having animals like gerbils, cats or dogs, and he was deathly afraid of goldfish . Anyway, Mr. Yankee’s favorite time of the day was watching the kids get on their busses. There was one girl, Lydia, who held a peculiar interest to Mr. Yankee. Not in a Lolita sort of way—no, the interest stemmed from an incident that had happened years earlier, when teacher Charles had still been college Charles. After a fascinating lecture on the technical difficulties of farming in swamp marshes, college Charles found himself sitting cross-legged on his usual bench at the local park. He liked that bench because it was under a tree, so his prematurely balding head was shaded. That particular day, there were three children in the whole playground. Their mothers, like ducks, stood by the swings while they gossiped about the mailman’s new haircut. The two boys were hanging from the top of the jungle gym telling a little Latino girl with a brown braid and a white jumper that they were the kings of the gym and she was their servant. “Kings need crowns,” the fatter boy told her. College Mr. Yankee shook his head at the injustice. The little girl began picking weeds to weave into crowns. She strung together dandelions, wilted and bent. She looked at the two boys, now hanging upside down from the gym belly fat jiggling, but instead of walking toward them she turned and approached cross-legged Mr. Yankee. “You the king of the bench?” It was more of a challenge than a question. “I hadn’t really thought about it, though I do sit here often,” replied Mr. Yankee, eyebrows jumping. “You can sit too, if you’d like.” She considered for a moment, then hopped on the bench carefully so as to not bend the dandelion crown. After a minute, she stood and placed the crown on Mr. Yankee’s round head. Mr. Yankee kept that dandelion crown in his bedside

MESH Fiction

Life of Charles Yankee Jr. table, though now it was so rotted that the yellow dandelion heads were dark brown and the green stems so thin that if pinched, would turn to dust. Occasionally he thought maybe he should throw it away, but he never did. No one had ever made him anything. As you may have guessed, that little girl with the brown braid and the white jumper was a young Lydia. Mr. Yankee, of course, had no way of knowing this, but Lydia’s long brown braid always reminded him of that little girl in the park. Every Monday Mr. Yankee gave timed pop-quizzes and every Monday he said, “Make sure you beet the clock!” And like every other Monday, no one picked up the pun. It was in that moment when Mr. Yankee noticed one student, Alfred, with his notebook open to a page filled with dates and tally marks. “This is not an open-notebook quiz Alfred.” Though slightly curious, Mr. Yankee did not think about the tally marks again that day. Tuesday, after watching his students pile on the bus, Mr. Yankee filled his book bag with student papers to grade and began to walk to Ragonese. As he was walking, one of the shoelaces on his brown loafer caught between his clumsy feet causing him to twist his ankle. With an ankle the size of his morning half grapefruit, he decided to skip the usual market visit. After limping home, he sat in his navy blue recliner, laid back, with a plastic bag of ice taped to his affected ankle. His book bag and papers were spread out on the T.V. tray in front of him. It was while grading that he began to notice there were groups of tally marks somewhere on every student’s paper. Some students tallied in the top-right corners of their papers, some in the left hand margins, and some dead center of the page. Slowly, an anger began to burn in Mr. Yankee’s chest. He thought of Alfred. His ginger freckled face and pig nose. They had a secret. Some kind of code they wouldn’t share. Mr. Yankee began watching the students carefully in class. He began to notice that the students would only mark a new tally when he spoke, but he couldn’t find any relation of topic to tally. What could they possibly be tallying? Mr. Yankee inspected all these tally marks for the length and width of line. Were they in pen or pencil? He made charts comparing the tallies of each student in Microsoft Excel. Mr. Yankee was sure there was a pattern to the tallies. There must be. Each student had similar numbers of tally marks on their pages, with a difference of only one to three tallies on each page. Then there was the problem of Lydia’s papers. She was the only student who did not have marks on her pages. Mr. Yankee wondered if this was the key to finding the pattern. The next few weeks were hard on Mr. Yankee. The tallies so consumed him that he no longer watched the students pile on the bus and never sat in his garden. Every day he demanded students pass forth their notes so he could add the tallies to his spreadsheets. Twenty-four. They only have 24 each today. There were 79 yesterday. Where is the pattern? He could hardly sleep, rocking back and forth in his recliner. Every night he dreamt about the long, thin strokes and slashes that took up entire pages in student’s notebooks. In

MESH Fiction

his dreams they morphed into mouths with sharp teeth that chased him. Even his students began to notice the puffy bags under his eyes. Loose-leaf paper and straight lines in groups of five became Mr. Yankee’s enemy. A tick-mark conspiracy! Something had to be done. Pawnshops ruled South Florida, so it was only a four block walk from the school before Mr. Yankee was staring at rows of glass display cases filled with used pistols, revolvers, and rifles of all sorts. Mr. Yankee wondered for a brief moment. How many things have died with these guns? The owner of this particular pawnshop was Willy Mattison. He was a bald, fat man, 73 years old, who had previously owned a failed waste management business. When Mr. Yankee walked in he saw an easy target. “How can I help you sir?” Mr. Yankee said he needed a gun for protection. Willy couldn’t imagine what a plain looking guy like him needed protection from, but he was all about making the sales. “If you’re looking for something small, I’d say a revolver would do you.” Mr. Yankee selected an older model that had no safety. When he held it, he twirled the chamber with his thumb. After the proper paperwork was complete, he walked home, carrying the gun in his book bag filled with tally marks. Before he got home, he saw Lydia pushing a baby stroller across the street. She was wearing a long white sundress and her brown hair was tied into a braid that curved down her back. She looked like an angel. She could save him. Before he knew what he was doing, Mr. Yankee shouted. “Lydia?” Lydia heard the shout and turned, saw Mr. Yankee, and smiled. Mr. Yankee imagined running up to Lydia and asking her about dandelions and tick marks. But he just stared down at the sidewalk until the cracks reminded him of tally marks and his anger turned to sadness as he trudged home. When Lydia got home from walking her baby brother, she went into the kitchen to warm up a bottle for him and put some frozen chicken fingers in the oven for herself. She slammed the door of the microwave shut, because if she didn’t then it would pop open on its own accord. She could hear voices and music coming from the living room, her mother had forgotten to turn off the television before she left to work the night shift at Crazy Horse. Breaking news: A history teacher at Public School 27 has been found shot dead in his home this evening. Police believed the teacher killed himself with a revolver he purchased earlier in the day. Lydia looked up. Holding her brother, she walked into the living room. A headshot of Mr. Yankee was in the upper right corner of the screen. Lydia frowned. The other kids in her class made fun of him, saying how ugly his yellow polo’s were, how stupid his jokes were, and keeping track of how many times his eyebrow wiggled while he spoke with tally marks in their notebooks. She wondered if he had known that she had been the little girl with the brown braid who crowned him King. 13

The Monsters Keep Him Up

An eight-year-old is tucked into bed by his mother and father. The clock on the wall reads 7:49. His father is last to kiss him on the head and when his parents walk out of the room he cries, “Don’t shut it all the way!” The door is left open a crack and then he says, a little more calmly this time, “You won’t shut the light off in the hall will you?” There’s no answer but with the light still on, he hears his parents walking down the stairs. That was all the confirmation he needed. The light still peers into his room, but with a pounding heart, he rolls toward the wall and squeezes his eyes shut. The sounds start. There’s a howling outside that could pass for a coyote. “It’s just the wind,” he tells himself. But then there’s a scratching on the side of the house. That must be the witch’s long fingernails. “Just the tree branches,” he thinks to himself. “Monsters aren’t real,” he whispers to his stuffed bear. The sound of his parents’ laughter downstairs comforts him just enough to fall asleep. *** Jace rolls out of bed, ready for just another day of high school. His room smells like sweat; he’s a baseball player that doesn’t do his laundry. The shades are pulled and the room is dark. That’s how he liked it. With a squirt of gel on his hands, he runs i through his already-tousled hair, grabs his backpack from where he left it the day before when he got home, and heads downstairs. “Don’t forget that you’re going to need a ride home from practice with one of your friends today,” his mother reminds him. “I know, mom.” He walked out the door without another word. He hated every time she bugged him. She was more wondering what happened to the sweet innocent boy that wouldn’t shut his bedroom door at night. Now the door is closed 24/7. “Come on,” the pitcher of the team provokes him. “It’s not going to kill you.” Jace takes the joint be14

Ashley Ahern

tween his fingers, brings it to his lips and inhales. “See,” he asks. “You’re already used to it.” The weed was a way for him to escape, forget. Forget the Sunday school teacher that took a “special interest” in his low reading level. Forget about the creepy coach he had in middle school that then followed the team to high school. The coach that lingered too long in the locker room and took his time on uniform checks; the coach that didn’t pay attention to anyone other than Jace. “If you work a little harder,” he’d encourage with a wink. “I’ll be able to put in a good word for you with the coach at Syracuse. You can go far.” After graduation, when he didn’t pass the mandatory drug test by the NCAA, Jace kept on living with his parents, refusing to go to college if he couldn’t play baseball. His parents staged intervention after intervention, watching him go down the tubes quickly. He found warmth on winter nights in a joint, pipe, or sometimes a needle; he would go mad for just a couple grams. Anything that he could get his hands on. Jace rejected the help that his family and few friends offered him. He could fix himself if he wanted to be fixed. But he didn’t want to be fixed. No one knew what he went through or what he was going through now. No one needed to know. Two months later, his mother found him in his room, a rubber band around his arm and needle next to him. He didn’t wake that morning or afternoon, or ever again. She wept over his body then, over the casket at the funeral, and now at night over his headstone. She prayed every night that God would keep him safe and she begged for him to visit her while she slept. But in the middle of February, angels are too busy fighting other people’s monsters to visit their own. MESH Fiction

To Whom It May Concern MESH Fiction

I want you to know that I still remember your name, it just pains me to even think it. I don’t know what it would do to write it. With that said, I want to ask why, or maybe what? Perhaps it’s both questions that I need answered. Three months ago, today, I woke up to feel the other side of the bed not only empty, but cold as well. Meaning you’d been up for a while, or what I didn’t know then: gone. I heard that you’re with her now. I always suspected there was something between you, but I never voiced it, for fear of it being true. Yes, her hair is longer and she’s and prettier than I am. Her laugh is quieter and her eyes are softer. But why didn’t you have the decency to tell me that you were leaving? I can’t tell you how many times my phone has chimed and I’ve been wishing for your name to be there. My friends still ask me why I bother thinking about you. It’s like letting you live rent-free in my brain. Waiting for you is like waiting in a drought for rain. I guess I never had your heart and I’m coming to terms with that. Thank you for teaching me not to trust so easily. Now I know when a man lies me down, it doesn’t mean forever. And just because you share a bed, doesn’t mean he’s not sharing it with someone else, too. However, I want you to know that you still have my heart, and I’d like it back, you greedy bastard. You can’t take what doesn’t belong to you, despite how quickly it was given. You can’t have my heart and hers, so let me take it back. I know it’s in a thousand pieces, so if you could just collect them, along with the rest of my belongings that I know you still have, and leave it in a box on my front doorstep, that’d be just fine. Don’t ring the doorbell because I don’t want to see you and don’t leave a letter because I don’t want to hear from you. Unfortunately, forever yours, Lucy

Last of the Daisies

Kirstie Venne

Apocalyptic Loot I cant even go to town. The department store windows are shattered in and the malls are dark like midnight. Everything in stores are picked over like the carcass of a cow after the vultures make a meal of it. All of that overnight snow is packed into gravel and asphalt with truck tracks and salt lines. Those herds of people shuffle fast, moving in huddled families and shifting their eyes around. Blood stains the sidewalks and men hang around poorly lit alleys with open knives waiting for wallets and watches to unluckily pass by. The police don’t bother with town. Their authoritative automobiles (cars and fire trucks)

Bar Bait

My sister called me "Bar Bait" once. I think it was the worst insult I ever heard. She told me: “You are the reason men go to bars. They come for girls like you.” Girls like me. I might sip burning bits of gin and tonics when wages of war break out over who buys my next. Men did fight for who got to light the tip of my unfiltered Camel. I'd just part those red lips of mine and drinks were paid for, bills were compt. Trudy often asked how she was the one who ended up pregnant—just unlucky I guess. I told her that too.

We live together, Trudy and I. My much older and much less-wise-to-the-world sister and I. She had mother put her up in a rented house in the good part of Poughkeepsie. Then the rent was raised when Natalie was four and she decided to draw daisies on white walls with black marker. I moved in after that. It was because my sister and mother were calling me at midnight and telling me to do “one good goddamned deed in my life.” Trudy always told me that she and I--that we were different. That she was sensible and I was, well, "Bar Bait." Our real difference Trudy: I let them all believe they have a chance, but you went through with it and now you have to live with it. 16

bridge around our suburban street. Lines of officers guide how to get down into driveways with whistles and pointed hands. I work from home—sales, telemarketing, some say, but Trudy, poor Trudy, she still has to brave the hour drive out of Poughkeepsie to that bank-teller job. They’ve already seen five attempted robberies. They have a squad of cops there now that take fingerprint scans at the door. All because the late night news, the one that comes on after a sitcom cancelled five seasons too late, says that this time next month--we are all going to die.

Flower Fascination All the news networks are having a field-day with the sun coming out from clouds and carving away at the snow. December, and not a flake was pooling the patched up lawn in front of the house. I watch my sister’s kid from the screen door. I sip some white wine from a straw in a glass. When she asks what it is, I tell her it’s “adult water.” Natalie was out there in mary-janes and lace-trimmed socks. How old was she--going on six, maybe, scuffling across the dirt in the yard. “Look at yourself,” I said walking down the steps. She turn around and sat on her white dress. Her eyes, blue and bulging, waited for me to scold her like her mother. When she was a baby, still with wild, reaching arms when she screamed for food, she would call me mommy too. I took my tar black hair and collect it up in a ponytail behind my neck. Natalie is dusted with red dirt on her skin, on her dress, and caked on the tips of her shoes. “I’m supposed to be watching you; what do I tell your mom?” “That you weren’t watching me?” “I said that last time.” I pick up the girl with my free hand and sip the rest of my drink. “I told you, you cant have any.” I say as she reaches her tiny, dirt-padded paws at my drink. “It has adult vitamins in it—not for little girls.” In her other hand she had a daisy. I let her down and she holds it in front of her as we swung into the front door of the house.

MESH Fiction

After Party She taps along the hardwood floors, skipping into the living room. Her hand grazes over the pink walls of the living room. She traced the outline of a flower that was barely covered by the thin primer of pink that Trudy had meant to trace over in a second coat. The news was on. They had a scientist from Russian talk about the interference of greenhouses gases on the Alaskan landscape. He was tall and hairy—looked like a gorilla or sort of like my father how I saw him in his coffin when I was ten. His hair slicked back and his arms coated in black mats of hair. The scientist was talking about how in seven days, we would all be in our graves. “Aunt Patricia? When are we going to die?” Natalie says. I turn it all off as they start talking about the sun sinking down to earth and setting us all on fire. “We aren’t going to die.” I say. “My teacher says the sun is going to melt us.” “Don’t listen to anyone else. Listen to yourself. Do you think you’re going to die?” She shrugs her shoulders and I think of how much she looks like her mother. Her freckles line around her forehead and her tiny hands rummage through her blonde hair: “I don’t know.” “Listen to me then, the sun is fine.” I swallowed hard and looked away from Natalie’s smile, loose with teeth ready to fall out to make room for adult appropriate ones. “What happens to the daisies when we die? Aunt Patricia, who will take care of them? I wave through the floor littered with dolls that sat in pink, plastic convertibles. The kitchen cabinets are full of cans, non-perishables, whatever-was-on-sale. Trudy said that water costs five dollars a bottle and that it took her an hour in line to buy her shelves of canned corn and beets and salted potatoes. “I don’t know, Natalie.” I say. “The same thing that usually happens to daisies in the winter. They die.” “I don’t want them to die.” “I don’t know, Natalie.” I bend my neck around and she is humming on a high stool at the kitchen’s island and laying this daisy in a glass of water. “Why do you care about what happens to Daisy?” I pour myself the rest of the gin I bought yesterday—liquor prices aren’t going up yet. Then, when I go to the bar again, I still won’t pay a penny. Natalie twirled the green stem in two fingers and watched it create ripples in the water: “I don’t care how small it is. It’s still important.”

MESH Fiction

Last call came when a man with a gun shot a hole through fifty dollar bottle of Patron at the bar. The crowd scattered and trampled the ones that didn’t scatter fast enough. I walk home because a car takes time and sobriety. I let him walk with me. Him being this nameless, faceless, nothing who called me sweetie, bought me whiskey, and tried to kiss me too many times. There are still white lights flickering around the roves of houses. Trees still stood tall. White ice laminating their gray branches. We walked along a side street of white houses with uniform white fences. Lights on in the living room to showcase their tree with angels and glass bulbs and homemade childrens’ crafts from kindergarten. We pioneered footprints in the falling snow, so heavy I held his hand to keep from falling. “Come on baby, its the end of the world.” That’s all he said to me--no romance coming from those wandering, whiskey eyes. There is just a hand spreading around my hip, then both hips, pulling me into his jacket smoldering with cigarette smoke. He breaths out a fog of steaming air, his nose tinged red like he burned it at the tip. “What do you say?” His arm locks around my back. He cranes his head back to let his eyes wash over my face. In the kitchen he asks: “Do you have a roommate?” “I have a sister.” She is in the basement feeding Natalie canned corn or beans or something persevered in tin. The girl would have to get used to that. I pour him a drink of muddy tap water and some stale vodka from the fridge. He takes it to his mouth with glugs until his eyes fall down the countertop. The daisy was shriveled now and breaking in its foamy water. The brittle white petals that remain, hang on by barely anything. “Throw that out will you?” “Why?” I center the daisy in a fresh cup of water and lay it out by the sink. “I don’t want to look at it.” “Then look away, if you don’t want to watch it die.” Curtis, I think that was the name he screamed to me over house music at the bar, stood up: “Everything dies tonight. You’re worried about a damn daisy?” He takes my hand away into his and we watch its final petal fall over into the drain of the sink. “Tonight, we can be anyone--do anything.” So we got in bed, decided to play dead, and waited for the morning I knew would never come. 17

Practice

Chandler Gilman

On the drive over, Denny practiced, but not so much that the proposal would sound memorized. He wanted it to sound like it came from his heart. It wasn’t the first time for either of them—Marlene had two kids, for God’s sake—but they’d been spending time together and Marlene’s friends, especially the fat one whose name he always forgot, were ragging him like he was taking advantage of her before ducking out. He didn’t have any kids himself, so getting to know hers took some doing. The other day she’d left him in charge while she went out shopping, and the older boy took off, leaving him with little Charlie. He didn’t know what else to do, so he flicked on some old horror movie from the sixties and they watched it sitting on the couch. It was pretty tame by today’s standards, but in five minutes the kid was whimpering, tears and snot flowing out of him like he was about to erupt. Denny leaned over and said it was okay, they were just pretending. It wasn’t real. He patted him a bit. Charlie stopped snuffling and, his face still all wet, slid over and leaned against him. Warmer and heavier than you might think. He put an arm around the kid, and he didn’t move until his mom came home. Denny planned on driving her up the coast to York. He pictured them walking along the beach; standing face to face, holding her hands, he’d ask her. They’d be all alone except for some gulls spiraling overhead. Then they could go pick out the ring at Fox Run together. When he pulled up to her house, the eight-year-old came tearing around from the back, jumped on his bike that was lying on the walkway, and took off, shouting hello or something over his shoulder. He tried to pop a wheelie, but his arms weren’t strong enough, so the bike just jerked a little. Denny let himself in, calling Marlene. “In here,” came a voice from the kitchen. The fat one sat at the table, smoking a cigarette. She waved her hand at the window. “Your lover’s out back, trying to straighten out what’s wrong with the world.”

MESH Fiction

Sure enough, Marlene was in the yard, shaking her finger at the three-year-old. Denny tapped a cigarette against the back of his hand and looked around for some matches. Marlene dragged the kid into the house. “Hey there.” “Hi, when I get my hands on Michael . . . do you know what he was doing?” She looked at each of them in turn. “Teaching him to spit.” She pulled Charlie into the middle of the room. He stood looking up, working his mouth, puckering his lips. “Don’t do that!” She jerked his arm. “I was pretending!” His voice was high-pitched, indignant. “It’s disgusting. Don’t ever do that, even pretending. Your brother’s in a heap of trouble.” She looked over at Denny, still frowning. “I was hoping we’d go for a ride.” He lit his cigarette with the matches the fat one had handed him. “Great timing.” She ran her hand through her hair and gave it a sharp pull. “Oh God, I’m sorry.” She went over and leaned against him, propping her head on his shoulder. “Sharon, would you look after the kids? And when Michael gets home, tell him he’s grounded.” Sharon shrugged, pretending to sweep some ashes from the tabletop, and Charlie puckered his lips and went “Ptoo, ptoo, ptoo.” Marlene was on him before the kid had time to move. He shrieked. She grabbed him, whacking him on the bottom as he squirmed, arching backward to escape the blows. “I was only pretending! I didn’t spit!” “I told you. There’s no difference.” Charlie’s face began to crumble as though everything he knew about the world had been undermined. He tried to speak, but nothing could be understood through his howling. Denny kneeled and, sticking the cigarette in his mouth, placed his hand on the boy’s small shoulder. “There’s no difference. None.” Looking up, Denny saw Marlene smile down on him, and his cheeks flushed with the warm breath of conspiracy.

MESH Fiction

Too Late to be Alive

It’s late. Too late to be alive. Too late to exist. The witching hour. Well, 3:07 to be exact. Too late to be awake. Enter my second sleepless night, second of more to come. I lean against the balcony, stairs to my right, bench to my left. The door to the safe inside is directly behind me. I stare across the grounds. Everything is too still. I should head back to my dorm, but am not looking forward to the daunting 200 yard trek across the dangerously still grounds. All that waits for me is an empty bed and a dark dorm room. I guess I can turn a light on. I turn to walk down the awkward, Tim Burton-esque stairs that curved slightly to the left, each step thrice as long as it is tall. I take each stair one large stride at a time before turning at the foot of the stairs, swiftly left, backtracking slightly as I walk along the wall supporting the balcony. The fading orange street lights glow eerily against the foggy grounds. Looking through the lit up haze makes it so my eyes cannot focus, causing me to wish I hadn’t lost my glasses. I lift my hood farther over my head, just covering my ears as I set off. I can hear the trickle of the water rising and falling in the fountain, and want so much to jump in it, but the thought passes. I hear crickets and grasshoppers singing with the bullfrogs that have yet to go wherever they go in the later months of the year. I wander left off the paved walkway a little and lean against a tree, facing the library pond, and watch the ducks bask in the cool moonlight on the still water, enjoying their time before their departure in a few weeks. How nice it must be to be a duck. There must be twenty of them, spread about the pond, but I don’t feel like counting. I rub my arms and attempt to make my hood go farther up my head, but the fabric keeps getting caught on the bun and again, reaching just enough to cover my ears. I push off from the tree and keep walking. What time is it? I look at my clock. 3:09. I rub my arms for warmth again, refusing to cover them with my sleeves, currently rolled up past my elbows. I don't know why, I just don't feel like covering my arms. I take the back way to the dorm, a sketchier way with less light and more time, but I, for once, am not afraid. I look at my phone. 3:09 still. I wonder when this night will end. I glance at the dorm building to my right. I see the window to the rec room. How much I want to be in there with the vending machines, billiards table, and piano. Oh, how I want to sit down and play those faux ivory keys; but it is too late to play piano and I am not very good. I hear the babbling of the stream to my left, the cold brick of my dorm blocking any sound to my right. The stream connects the library pond to some random water supply in town by the academy. Right now, this stream serves as the only loose connection to a sleeping civilization. I turn with the trail, down the hill to my right. The stream is now gone. I hear more crickets singing a song and the grasshoppers lamenting in the field. I am now in the lower parking lot. Before I turn to continue on the walkway, I look out toward

Sarah Bruno

the hill and the edge of the woods. A chill comes over me and I briskly turn right. Another right past a blue gallon size bucket filled with water, spit and cigarette butts. I find myself glancing backwards a lot, quickening my pace every time I do. I have my swipe card out ten paces before the door, but find when I arrive I do not need it, seeing as the door is unlocked. Charming. I bear left, passing the elevator to my right before swiping my card to get into wing C1. I try opening the door before I hear the click of the lock. The door doesn’t open. I try again, this time I wait for the click. I walk into the hallway, the cream colored off-white walls, white tiles, and florescent lights setting a sharp contrast to the dark, eerie glow outside. I reach the end of the fifty foot hallway and am facing the door to the stairwell. I open it, and am now facing a set of stairs with a break halfway through, and a window. I take the nine stairs to the landing and see my reflection in the window. I look dead. No, I look thirty. People always say I look older than I am. I am used to people thinking I am twenty three or twenty eight or some other ridiculous age. I sit on the windowsill. I smile to myself when I remember my friend’s reaction to finding out I am not turning twenty until this Sunday. Much too young to look thirty. I lean my forehead to the window and cup my left hand near the side of my face, pinky and side of my hand touching the cold pane, blocking the light so I can see around. All I see is the side parking lot. It looks so much more peaceful at this time. No cars, no skateboarders, no people getting in their cars for quick burn runs. I get up and turn, taking the next nine steps to a doorway to wing. I open it. I pass suite on my right before I turn at the third suite on my left. The only door with decorations on the front, thanks to one of my suitemates who thought paper bunnies and deranged kittens made it “cute.” I open my suite door quietly, step inside, and close the door, embracing the darkness. I walk toward the two bathrooms on my right. Both doors are open, both lights turn on automatically when I walk by, disrupting the atmosphere, penetrating every inch of the suite with soft light. I walk to my room and open the door. How lovely, I forgot to lock it. I turn on the light. My room looks just as uninviting with the light on. I turn around and head to the kitchen. I take my cup out of the drying tray and open the fridge, pouring myself a glass of juice. Downing the drink, I place the cup in the sink. I’ll wash it later. I go into the bathroom closest to the kitchen and stare at my reflection in the large mirror. I wince at the sight of my body; stomach large, giving the effect of me being a couple months pregnant. I laughed silently at the thought of me being the next Virgin Mary. I take a closer look at my face. I look like a whore who just had a bad night drinking who passed out on a random persons couch. My makeup was still perfectly in place on the left side of my face, but on the right it was all smudged and runny. I turn around, barely noticing my hand shut off the sensor as I walk out, causing the light to extinguish once more, and follow the light coming from my bedroom. I close the door and look at my phone. 3:11. Too early to be alive.

MESH Fiction

Non-Fiction

When Yahweh Became Conscious: A Study

Wesley Hatch

Is Yahweh, the Hebrew god of the Old Testament, a conscious being? In other words, can the god of Moses and Isaac and Jacob see itself in the cosmos as an entity of time and space, or is it trapped forever in its boundlessness? The book of Job, a complex and conflicting book which centers on one man’s struggle to understand the nature of suffering and to come to terms with Yahweh’s responsibility in human misery, might have an answer to this question. Job’s main concern with human suffering is the fact that innocent and God-fearing people, individuals like Job, are made to suffer in spite of their adherence to the code laid out by Yahweh himself in the form of the Ten Commandments, the Hebrew code written down in the Torah. Job attempts to make sense of – to come to terms with – both the unknowablility of Yahweh and the incomprehensibility of a universe controlled by a ‘benevolent’ god who allows suffering and hardships to be inflicted arbitrarily upon humanity. How can a god who professes adherence to a strict code in exchange for a healthy and meaningful life contradictorily inflict pain upon a righteous man? Why do the innocent suffer while the lives of the unjust and evil flourish? How can a righteous human being living on a physical plane of existence reconcile these apparent contradictions? What Job comes to realize after extended conversations with his three clueless friends – all preachers of the Hebrew code – and Yahweh’s epic scolding of Job’s grumbling – a speech so bombastic and braggadocious it seems laughable – is that there can be no reconciliation, that what is is and what is not is not (‘I am what I am’). Job comes to recognize that his god Yahweh sits so far above humanity he is simultaneously imperceptible and unfathomable to the human mind while remaining wholly attached to everything in the cosmos, all of life and inanimate objects alike. An end all be all see all sort of god. Job is wholly a man, a living breathing entity occupying space on the earth. Job is, a being literally sitting in a pile of ash thinking of its reality, upon the surface of a hanging rock contemplating nothing less than very nature of its existence. He mentions again and again connections to reality.

MESH Non-Fiction

When Yahweh Became Conscious: A Study (continued)

His questions of ‘why the suffering of the innocent?’ and ‘why despair?’ are rooted emphatically in the perception of one man on a physical plane of existence. On the contrary, Yahweh is the greatest, the biggest, the baddest thing that is in the entire universe. Not only did Yahweh create the whole of everything, he also controls it and bends it to his will. He is everything, the end all be all. Whereas Yahweh’s speeches focus upon his wholly superior being and the unfathomable power he possesses, Job instead “repents in dust and ashes,” and accepts his fate as a living being and temporal. A man. Where Job recognizes his place as time-bound and material, Yahweh brags of his gloriousness and unending power. Yahweh never speaks of human suffering, never reconciels the contradictions inherent in a god who promises justice for adherence to a code of laws while simultaneously allowing adherers to suffer intensely. He presents, in speech, the entire of the universe, quoting himself master of it all and by him completely, then expects the minuscule Job to answer for his human existence. “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?” Yahweh’s overblown and boasting speech chastising a righteous mortal man sitting lowly in the dust allows readers to see a kind if moral superiority of this persistent man against his more powerful, unknowable god. In this realization by the reader, a far more potent and subterranean myth is revealed: Yahweh, through the open and unflinching consciousness of Job’s righteous vision, becomes conscious, for the first time in the history of the Hebrew god, of his own existence. No longer does he stand as an infinite, all-powerful being, but, due to Job’s resistance to his bludgeoning attack, is left exposed and revealed, forever conscious of his own place in the expanding universe that he, myth with have it, created. A god.

MESH Non-Fiction

Typography

American

Typewriter Typography Feature by Elizabeth Chenard

MESH Design

American Typewriter Family

synopsis set in 12 point, leaded 7.5 points text sample- Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck

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A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank and runs deep and green. The water is warm too, for it has slipped twinkling over the yellow sands in the sunlight before reaching the narrow pool. On one side of the river the golden foothill slopes curve up to the strong and rocky Gabilan Mountains, but on the valley side the water is lined with treeswillows fresh and green with every spring, carrying in their

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lower leaf junctures the debris of the winter's flooding; and sycamores with mottled, white, recumbent limbs and branches that arch over the pool. On the sandy bank under the trees the leaves lie deep and so crisp that a lizard makes a great skittering if he runs among them. Rabbits come out of the brush to sit on the sand in the evening, and the damp flats are covered with the night

10 point, leaded 2 points tracks of 'coons, and with the spread pads of dogs from the ranches, and with the split-wedge tracks of deer that come to drink in the dark. There is a path through the willows and among the sycamores, a path beaten hard by boys coming down from the ranches to swim in the deep pool, and beaten hard by tramps who come wearily down from the highway in 12 point, leaded 3 points

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the evening to jungle-up near water. In front of the low horizontal limb of a giant sycamore there is an ash pile made by many fires; the limb is worn smooth by men who have sat on it. Evening of a hot day started the little wind to moving among the leaves. The shade climbed up the hills toward the

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top. On the sand banks the rabbits sat as quietly as little gray sculptured stones. And then from the direction of the state highway came the sound of footsteps on crisp sycamore leaves. The rabbits hurried noiselessly for cover. A stilted heron labored up into

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the air and pounded down river. For a moment the place was lifeless, and then two men emerged from the path and came into the opening by the green pool. They MESH Design

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10 point, point, leaded leaded 22points points snapped the moisture moistureoff. off.His Hishuge hugecompanion companion snapped the dropped his blankets blanketsand andflung flunghimself himselfdown downand and dropped his drank from from the the surface surfaceof ofthe thegreen greenpool; pool;drank drankwith with long gulps, gulps, snorting snortinginto intothe thewater waterlike likeaahorse. horse.The The small man man stepped steppednervously nervouslybeside besidehim. him."Lennie!" "Lennie!" he said sharply. sharply. "Lennie, "Lennie,for forGod' God'sakes sakesdon't don'tdrink drink so much." much." Lennie Lennie continued continuedto tosnort snortinto intothe thepool. pool.

point, leaded 2 points 1010 point, leaded 2 points the water. The rims eyes were with atat the water. The rims of of hishis eyes were redred with sun glare. said angrily, "We could just as well sun glare. HeHe said angrily, "We could just as well rode clear the ranch if that bastard ofof rode clear toto the ranch if that bastard busbus driver knew what was talkin' about. 'Jes' driver knew what hehe was talkin' about. 'Jes' a a little stretch down the highway,' says. 'Jes' little stretch down the highway,' he he says. 'Jes' a a little stretch.' God damn near four miles, that's little stretch.' God damn near four miles, that's what was! Didn't wanta stop ranch gate, what it it was! Didn't wanta stop at at thethe ranch gate,

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had walked walked in in single singlefile filedown downthe thepath, path,and andeven evenininthe theopen open one one stayed behind behind the theother. other.Both Bothwere weredressed dressedinindenim denimtrousers trousers and and in denim denim coats coats with withbrass brassbuttons. buttons.Both Bothwore woreblack, black,shapeless shapeless hats and and both both carried carriedtight tightblanket blanketrolls rollsslung slungover overtheir theirshoulshoulders. The The first first man manwas wassmall smalland andquick, quick,dark darkofofface, face,with with restless eyes eyes and and sharp, sharp,strong strongfeatures. features.Every Everypart partofofhim him was was defined: small, small, strong stronghands, hands,slender slenderarms, arms,aathin thinand andbony bony nose. nose.

Behind him him walked walkedhis hisopposite, opposite,aahuge hugeman, man,shapeless shapelessofof face, with with large, large, pale paleeyes, eyes,and andwide, wide,sloping slopingshoulders; shoulders; and he walked walked heavily, heavily,dragging dragginghis hisfeet feetaalittle, little,the theway waya a bear drags drags his his paws. paws.His Hisarms armsdid didnot notswing swingatathis hissides, sides, but hung hung loosely. loosely. The Thefirst firstman manstopped stoppedshort shortininthe the clearing, and the the follower followernearly nearlyran ranover overhim. him.He Hetook tookoff off clearing, and his hat and and wiped wipedthe thesweat-band sweat-bandwith withhis hisforefinger forefingerand and

The small small man man leaned leanedover overand andshook shookhim him by the shoulder. shoulder. "Lennie. "Lennie.You Yougonna gonnabe besick sick like you was was last last night." night."Lennie Lenniedipped dippedhis his whole head head under, under,hat hatand andall, all,and andthen thenhe he sat up on on the the bank bankand andhis hishat hatdripped dripped down on on his his blue blue coat coatand andran randown downhis his back. "That's "That's good," good,"he hesaid. said."You "Youdrink drink

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some, George. George. You Youtake takeaagood goodbig big drink." He He smiled smiledhappily. happily.George George unslung his bindle bindleand anddropped droppeditit unslung his gently on on the the bank. bank."I"Iain't ain'tsure sureit's it's good water," water," he he said. said."Looks "Lookskinda kinda scummy." Lennie dabbled dabbledhis hisbig bigpaw paw scummy." Lennie in the water water and and wiggled wiggledhis hisfingers fingers

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so the water water arose arosein inlittle little splashes; rings splashes; rings widened widenedacross across the pool pool to to the the other otherside sideand and came back back again. again.Lennie Lennie watched them watched them go. go."Look, "Look,George. George.

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Look what I done." George knelt beside pool drank Look what I done." George knelt beside thethe pool andand drank from hand with quick scoops. "Tastes right," he admitfrom hishis hand with quick scoops. "Tastes all all right," he admitted. "Don't really seem to be running, though. never ted. "Don't really seem to be running, though. YouYou never oughta drink water when it ain't running, Lennie," he said oughta drink water when it ain't running, Lennie," he said hopelessly. "You'd drink a gutter if you wasthirsty." hopelessly. "You'd drink outout of aofgutter if you wasthirsty." He He threw a scoop water into face rubbed it about with threw a scoop of of water into hishis face andand rubbed it about with his hand, under chin and around back of his neck. Then his hand, under hishis chin and around thethe back of his neck. Then

replaced hat, pushed himself back from hehe replaced hishis hat, pushed himself back from thethe river, drew knees and embraced them. Lennie, river, drew upup hishis knees and embraced them. Lennie, who had been watching, imitated George exactly. who had been watching, imitated George exactly. He He pushed himself back, drew knees, embraced pushed himself back, drew upup hishis knees, embraced them, looked over George to see whether he had them, looked over to to George to see whether he had it it just right. pulled down a little more over just right. HeHe pulled hishis hathat down a little more over his his eyes, the way George's was. George stared morosely eyes, the way George's hathat was. George stared morosely

that'swhat. what. Too God damn lazy that's Too God damn lazy to to pullup. up.Wonder Wonder isn't too damn good pull hehe isn't too damn good to to stopininSoledad Soledad all. Kicks out and stop atat all. Kicks usus out and says'Jes' 'Jes' little stretch down the road.' says aa little stretch down the road.' I I betititwas was more than four miles. Damn bet more than four miles. Damn hotday." day." Lennie looked timidly over hot Lennie looked timidly over to to him. "George?" "Yeah, what ya want?" him. "George?" "Yeah, what ya want?" point, leaded 3 points 1414 point, leaded 3 points

"Wherewe wegoin', goin', George?" The little "Where George?" The little manjerked jerkeddown down the brim his man the brim ofof his hatand andscowled scowled over Lennie. "So hat over atat Lennie. "So youforgot forgotthat that awready, did you? you awready, did you? I I gottatell tellyou youagain, again, Jesus gotta dodo I?I? Jesus Christ,you're you'rea a crazy bastard!" Christ, crazy bastard!" forgot,"Lennie Lennie said softly. "I"Iforgot," said softly. "I "I point, leaded 4 points 1616 point, leaded 4 points

triednot nottotoforget. forget.Honest Honest tried toto God O.K. GodI Idid, did,George." George.""O.K."O.K.O.K. I'll got I'lltell tellya yaagain. again.I Iain't ain't got nothing jus' asas nothingtotodo. do.Might Might jus' well tellin' wellspen' spen'all allmy mytime time tellin' 25

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John Steinbeck

Elizabeth Chenard

Me, Myself, and I Cody Brackett

MESH Design

N U E V A 28

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By Elizabeth Chenard

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MESH Design

Cody Brackett

Dance

MESH Design

Design

Krysta Davis

MESH Design

Cody Brackett 32

MESH Design

Kacie Holbert

MESH Design

Samantha VanSchoick

Photography

Katie Davis

MESH Photography

Megan Hassan

MESH Photography

Marc Samson MESH Photography

Brian Lacharite

MESH Photography

Krysta Davis Debra Bailin

MESH Photography

Hannah Frigon 42

MESH Photography

Ashley Ahern

Artist

Ashley Ahern is a senior at Lyndon State College. When she’s not writing flash fiction that no one will ever read, she spends her time partaking in National Lite Brite competitions (though she doesn’t like to brag, she always takes champion). She also has high ambitions of being a cat lady if marrying her various fictional character crushes proves impossible. Ashley suffers from a fear of heights and palindromes (aibohphobia).

Cody Brackett

Visual Communications (B.A.) Design (B.F.A)

He would say that as a designer he is constantly changing his mind about what he likes visually. For him, it seems that every semester he has a new perspective of what and how he wants to create his art, which always keeps him thinking. He believes that his inspiration comes from the places he has been, the people he has met and more importantly how he has grown as a person. His art is his style.

Elizabeth Chenard

Elizabeth Chenard is a Graphic Designer, Sculptor, Bookmaker, Jeweler, and Nail Artist. She enjoys rock n’ roll, Lord of the Rings and yoga. She currently attends Lyndon State College in northern Vermont.

Sarah Bruno

Born in 1991 at a colossal weight too embarrassing to say on television, Sarah grew up in a small Vermont town. When she is not absorbing British culture or crying over fictional characters, she enjoys spending her days procrastinating and sobbing in agony over homework. Her hobbies include making jokes that died in the 80’s, bursting into song in public, spiting (and smiting) her sworn enemies, and eating Jammie Dodgers. She began writing at the tender age of 21 and has only stopped because she is a Social Science major and it would be silly for her to pick a profession such as creative writing when she isn’t even very good. 44

MESH

Biographies Joshua Cook

Joshua, or Captain Cook as he prefers, graduated from Lyndon State College in May of 2012. Upon completion of his degree in Music Business & Industry, he launched his lifetime career as the least successful entrepreneur in history. He is currently bouncing from job to job until a small firm hires him for a full time 8-4 or 9-5 position so that he may have more organized free time to submit more stuff to MESH.

Katie Mae Davis

Katie Mae Davis: Born and raised in North Haverhill NH, I started to take photography in my sophomore year at Woodsville High School. I am a Natural Science major at Lyndon as well as a pitcher/outfielder on the Lyndon State Softball team. My main subject of my photography is nature and wildlife, taken at Lyndon State College or North Haverhill NH.

Michelle Farnham

Michelle Farnham lives in Woodsville, NH and works in the department of developmental service at NKHS. She is a former LSC student who is now pursuing her EMT certification. Her long-term goal is to become a midwife. Her story was inspired by just some of the characters she has encountered in her life.

Hannah Frigon

Hannah Frigon was born in North Conway, New Hampshire in 1990. Frigon primarily works in the medium of photography, but includes painting and drawing as favorite pastimes. Frigon is working on her B.A. in Visual Communications with an A.S. in Visual Arts and a minor in photography while attending Lyndon State College. She had the opportunity to get her B.F.A. in Angwin, California; however after a semester there, she realized the artistic community was more beneficial at LSC. Last year she was featured in the “Winners Gallery, 2012, Best of College & High School Photography Contest Sponsored by Nikon.” The pictures featured in MESH are from her trip traveling from East to West – sites along I-80 West and Yellowstone National Park.

Brian Lacharite

Brian Lacharite was born in Winooski, VT in 1987. He is a musician by nature, but dabbles in photography from time to time. Brian is graduating with a B.S. in Music Business and Industry with a concentration in production from Lyndon State College. The pictures featured in MESH are from his trip hiking up Mt. Philo in Charlotte, VT. There was an old piano abandoned near the side of the trail and it’s interior was perfectly exposed, allowing Brian the wonderful opportunity to showcase the intricate design of such a beloved instrument.

MESH

Staff Kirstie Venne, Editor-in-Chief

Kirstie cannot do a double-back handspring and she has never been a sniper in the belly of a Canadian desert. She also has never lived in Lyndonville Vermont and she is not the Editor-in-Chief of MESH. Although, the voices in her head tell her she is. They also tell her Justin Beiber is the greatest composer since Bach. She has learned to ignore the voices.

Bryan Barber, Managing Editor

Bryan Barber once spent six days traveling alone through Southeastern Asian wilderness, just to get a single photo of Red Pandas in their natural habitat. The journey was, in his words, “long, slow, cold, and totally worth it.” When he returned to the states, he joined MESH and rose to the position of managing editor. The group discussions and layout work in the lab was a nice change of pace from the cold and lonely forest, where his most riveting conversations were with Leon, his camera.

Anonymous, Copy Editor

Unfortunately, we still have no idea as to the identity of one of our staff. This person was very helpful, even while working in the shadows of the lab every week. We saw work appearing completed on our network between meetings and no one on staff claimed credit. The only clues we have to show who it might be, is this photo. However, we’re pretty sure our staff member isn’t a Landseer Newfoundland. To whomever you might be, thank you for all your help, your contributions will not go unnoted.

MESH

Biographies Samantha VanSchoick, Layout Editor

Samantha VanSchoick is a senior English major at LSC. She has a great love for alliteration, attempting to use the literary technique in all her work. As a matter of fact, this is what she submitted for her bio: “I am a petulant preoccupied porcupine persuasively putting pen to paper, perhaps pouting, pondering plays and profoundly proclaiming: Even putrid poetry is power!”

Megan Hassan, Copy Editor

Megan Hassan is a sophomore MBI major and English minor at LSC. She loves to take pictures of anything that catches her eye, especially her puppy Dutch. Megan also writes poetry, not about her puppy Dutch, about any and everything. Such as: “Warm sunny days are all that I need, / I can sit in this tree and sail the seven seas. / I can plunder and pillage and run around barefoot. / No one can stop me, / at least until lunch.”

Peter Nute, Genre Editor

After interning with the company “NicWorks” that painted portraits of Nicolas Cage and sold them at various carnivals around the Texas - Mexico border, Peter Nute attended a small college in Sandgate, Wisconsin, where he obtained his MA degree in Mongrel French Aesthetics. After finding the job prospects dim, he moved to Lyndonville, Vermont, and attended Lyndon State College. He will be graduating in 2047 with a degree in Cardboard Box Construction.

MESH

Wesley Hatch Staff Member

Special thanks to our faculty advisor Chandler Gilman