The Mill Literary Magazine Issue 9: Fall 2017
Co-Editors: Joe Heidenescher and Marisa Mercurio Contributing Editors: Thomas Rushin and Claire Frisk Cover Art and Back Matter by: Marisa Mercurio Graphic Design and Layout: Joe Heidenescher Made possible by the English Department Shapiro Endowment Fund
Inside Michael Bérubé at UT
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Photography by Evan Sennett
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Photo of the Maumee River on Sept 23, 2017
“O’Brien’s Ode” by Jacob DeBrock
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From the editors In many ways, the world feels like it’s inching towards some kind of cataclysm. With the humanities increasingly in danger and the threat of funding cuts for graduate students, the future of art feels tenuous at best. How do we move forward? It’s a question we at The Mill we have been grappling with in our positions as students, instructors, editors and artists. How do we provide the answer when we’re looking for one ourselves? If we aren’t able to grasp a clear solution, we can be consoled, at least, knowing we’ve been here before. The humanities have always been confronted with interrogations regarding their usefulness, and yet, students have kept making art. In the last year since Joe and I have edited The Mill, we’ve seen an outpouring of art, both globally and here at UT. The work in this issue ranges from to poetry to fiction to photography and concerns itself internationally and interpersonally. Can the humanities hedge the bet? Maybe not. The solution, then, seems to be this: we don’t stop asking questions and we certainly don’t stop looking for answers. Sincerely, Marisa Mercurio and Joe Heidenescher
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PHOTO: Ella Musher-Eizenman
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From Haiti
By Teresa A. Northcraft, Poetry Finalist It's the same mutt all over town. Heavy nipples, fur like paper bags. The streets line with cardboard, shoes, water bottles, shit. We clamp to the crumbled truck and ride with the skill of plump, delicate Americans. Don't breathe. Don't feel. Lady the color of night meets my eyes, mutters something I can't make out.
PHOTO: Nicholas Gaietto, Photography Finalist
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Our Lady; Myself By Darryn Edwards
And the angel answered and said unto her, The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Highest shall overshadow thee: therefore also that holy thing which shall be born of thee shall be called the Son of God (Luke 1:35) I have found favor with God. Like a thief in the night He beheld my anatomy; There was no room, so He made room Pushed my organs aside Contracted my autonomy Colonized my body, now His temple. My womb is The Way, The Truth, The Life, No man may enter this Earth except through me. My bread becomes your flesh, My wine courses through your veins. Before your first breath You commune within me Stain me in glass For the child I pass from me Before he knew Galilee He knew me Before I had known a man He knew me Before he bore his cross I bore him. Call me mother- nay, Call me Mary.
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The Trees
By Alex Gray-Karcsak, Poetry Finalist So menacing they are, Looming over our heads. Always reminding us, Reminding us that nature is indomitable. Their trunks counting the years. Counting the years since their land was stolen. Their leaves rustling as if to remind us. To remind us that they still stand strong. Too often we forget them, Those who owned the land before us. But one day we will be gone, And they will take back what is theirs. So menacing they are, Lurking between the buildings of the city. Watching, waiting for the relentless march of time To return their land to them.
MICHAEL
BÉRUBÉ
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Literature professor, Dr. Michael Bérubé on the future of the hummanities With a long list of publications, accolades, and career accomplishments, professor Dr. Michael Bérubé’s position on the future of the humanities is held in high esteem. Bérubé is currently an Edwin Erle Sparks Professor of Literature at Pennsylvania State University, where he teaches and researches cultural studies, disability studies and higher education. Bérubé helped found and has served as the leader of several humanities institutes in Illinois and at Penn State. In 2012, he served as the president of the Modern Language Association, and he currently sits on International Advisory Board of the Consortium of Humanities Centers and Institutes. In a 2013 Chronicle article titled, “The Humanities, Declining? Not According to the Numbers” Bérubé writes, “There's only one problem with those insistent accounts of the decline of the humanities in undergraduate education: They are wrong. Factually, stubbornly, determinedly wrong.” Yet, at his talk given here, at the University of Toledo, he revised this earlier position. “There is a zombie myth that the humanities are declining, and I cannot get people to believe that they
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are not,” he said, “When I finally had people believing me, the myth was true.” Partially because now, in 2017, students seeking humanities degrees have dropped. However, this decline has been felt even in STEM fields according to the Association of American Colleges & Universities. However, as someone very aware of the prospects of pursuing humanities degrees, Bérubé remains hopeful. He told a group of us graduate students to “Keep all your options open, seriously.” Some of the work Bérubé was most passionate about is his work on a consortium called Humanities Without Walls. According to their website, “Humanities Without Walls aims to create new avenues for collaborative research, teaching, and the production of scholarship in the humanities, forging and sustaining areas of inquiry that cannot be created or maintained without cross-institutional cooperation.” In his talk, Bérubé reassured us that the humanities are not dead, but they are evolving in new ways. He mentioned dozens of students he has worked with on very interdisciplinary approaches to humanities fields. In fact, Bérubé acknowledges that this is
how he stumbled into his work on disability studies. Speaking about writing his book, Life as We Know It, he said “I actually thought the time that I was doing some cultural studies slash memoir.” Successes like Humanities Without Walls, Life as We Know It, and interdisciplinary approaches is part of the new shape humanities are taking. In his article from The Chronicle, Bérubé writes that “many of the accounts of the decline of the humanities are tendentious…they are attacks on current practices in the humanities—like the study of race, class, gender, and other boring things. Or the rise of “theory.” Or the study of popular culture.” These changes and evolutions stemming from research in the Humanities are regarded as the demise of the field, but in fact have contributed to its vibrancy. For example, Bérubé mentioned that the study of LGBTQ identities have become so ordinary in classrooms that they have influenced real world responses to them. “This is much better than I thought we were 20 years ago and I think the ordinariness of queer pedagogies in undergraduate classrooms have something to do with that.”
Ocypete
Marsh
The gods gave me wings and changed my name to Ocypete for my swift and bird-like foot, racing sisters to the scraps of prisoners.
He kneaded clay with his prints pressed everywhere like a crime scene. I never knew the body that sculpted these fossils, but I have befriended his grooves. A twisted face, sneering on the wall, frozen always, and always warm. But he is just a plate. Not one that holds meat, but a countenance resting vertically for me to devour. If Marsh were here, so I’m told, we would eat off his face. If he were to fracture, a little melted gold would restore him. “Back to the shelves,” he would say, “and off of the wall!” There would be no segregation between eat, drink, and devour-I commit them with my nose, my tongue, my eyes. I wonder if Marsh twisted his face into a sneer before he froze out there, his hands digging into the earth, kneading it, needing it.
By Kit McBee
The gods gave me wings, leaving my body to the ocean and its wantonness. Unable to bear the weight of reflection, I bow in the light of punishment. My wings, my youth, wasted nesting, puking, signing forms to find release. Perfection technique; snatching the energy to kill what is needed to be. My wings, my beauty shed overnight with my truth. Cause recedes, the gates of paradise become apparent and I am not welcome.
By Evan Sennett
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PHOTO: Evan Sennett, Photography Winner
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Ode to Sierah
By Madison Vasko I don’t even pray, but that week, I prayed that they would find you alive. All day I waited, even though I knew I would have never believed it. My friends and I went to the bookstore, because they knew it would make me happy, but all I could do was wander around listlessly They ran in to that annoying kid from our high school, the one who thought he was friends with everyone, and it was too much for me to handle. I stepped outside, and that’s when I found out. The news reports flooded my phone, and I drowned in them. You would never again feel this sun on your face, although I could imagine the way you would look up to the sky, your eyes squinting, hair brushing against your shoulders. Tall cornfields Empty country roads Bright summer days Purple bicycles I can’t believe I’m starting to forget the sound of your laugh.
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Vicious, 1979
By Ryleigh Wann To Nancy Spungen Lipstick and cigarettes Aligned on the bureau, Leather and lighters Scattered around the room. Needles on the sink In that Chelsea Hotel, Blood-filled cracks Between the ivory tiles, Running down My perfect thighs. Your fans wouldn't have thought I graduated high school at 15, Or I wouldn't make it to 25. When I met you I knew this would be it. The sex was good But the smack was better; You broke the promises of "eternal" With a single thrust of a knife And your malicious intent. But to me, you were God-like. My bruise-peppered legs Kneel before you, Because I want to become Your glory and fame. I needed a savior. You were a seraph; My light and my fire; My eyes bleed from your glory. But you picked the flowers That grew between us in London, And left nothing but roots. You crossed the T's in your suicide letter too low. You stabbed me But your knife felt like a kiss, As the lyrics to God Save the Queen Repeated in my head.
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Of Torch Songs By Kit McBee
How do I stop looking for love when its song amplified against shower walls accompanies running water in soothing the drought accrued across dreams of precipitation. How do I stop when he makes himself so easy on the dance floor yet remains unread in the morning when my arm ceases to be the serpent smothering his thistle. How do I go into darkness with no torch bearing crest no torch songs save for those I sing in the shower of morning— the name of the one I love.
East-Helvetica-New By Evan Sennett
I forgot most of my verbs. Outside, red and gold, the salute of blue challenging. “emily,” she lied, too polite, too nervous and honored, longing for uniqueness, starving for unity. I tried to play it, but my hands were too smooth. Bandage tape, making our nails seem long, giving us our gift, belonging without cause, but with intent and purpose. Burning silver, pointing where, perhaps, I shouldn’t, or am not expected to, I am asked to participate with them.
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PHOTO: Nicholas Gaietto
Having Coffee with Sylvia Plath By Ryleigh Wann
The chair squeaks as I sit in this dimly lit lounge. Rain descends, bouncing off the sidewalk outside. The neon sign flickers a soft pink against her face, As she stirs sugar into her mug. I try to ask what it felt like, The racks of the oven searing lines Across her face, like shadows from A blind pulled over the window. Instead, we discuss the beach And how the waves are so alluring, Their sand infused bodies mingling With the cool February air. “It was never bright enough there.” Her eyes mirror the vacant beach, Not even my reflection wandering across The dark lockbox that’s been back there for years.
I Don’t Love You Anymore
The chair squeaks, The rain descends, The light flickers. Sylvia stirs her coffee.
By Kit McBee
We’re somewhere in New Mexico, the Range Rover’s running on fumes. We’re circled by a silent vulture. This is how I dreamed it would happen, from a pot to a stove to a furnace. The radio’s playing a song I have never heard before about being in love; you've fallen asleepit hurts my mind to wonder if I'm doomed to remain beneath a setting sun with you forever. I wish I'd worn a better outfit for coyotes to tear through when they find me and they will; I’ve left the door unlocked. I will be stripped.
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And She Meant It By Benjamin Berry
She told me once, Imagine how small a whale would be at the scale of a tabletop globe. She told me once, You remember me, don’t you? We knew each other as children. Or in a past life, maybe. She told me once, No, those weren’t snores, I was just meditating. She told me once, I like the sound of wind and rain. I like to pretend they’re warnings. And maybe something in her tone frightened me. She told me once, I’m going away. You may never hear from me again.
Under Construction By Morgan Kovacs
He put his hand on my body like I was wet concrete. The indent of his palm stuck in my chest one-inch thick. He washed his hand of remaining guilt walked away before it hit the ground. I starved myself in unhealthy addictions of part-time lovers, using them like silly-putty bending them this way and that, molding them to fill his absence.
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But silly-putty isn’t sustainable. It will dry out and I will realize I’ve contributed to his cycle Of hurting out of hurt.
10:51 p.m.
By Teresa Northcraft it’s dark, & I slide beside you, press the bone-edge of my cheek on your shoulder, close one eye & watch the blurred newsman’s shadow. you’re asleep, breathing mechanically, the machine strapped across your face like a giant handprint, I think, I'm just the nine-year-old girl you used to take to the municipal park, & I am afraid.
PHOTO: Mairin Remaklus
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O’Brien’s Ode
By Jacob DeBrock, Poetry Winner The man, in his underwear, Struggling to find the right words. He went back and forth. A Minnesotan boy heads off To a bad war in a foreign land, Wondering why he came. A degraded professor plans his revenge Against his stigmata-laden wife. He chooses his words cautiously. A man with a daughter that doesn’t exist Leaves a pair of fake moccasins In a place he never visited. The Class of ’69 gathers Figuring out when things went wrong. Could it have been Vietnam? Inside a hole in the ground, A man is trying to figure out Whether the bombs are real. Night duty on the watchtower, He wonders how this story will end. It is his dilemma as time marches forward. Looking at the infinite angle, The sorcerer waves his arms at the water And is satisfied when nothing is revealed. As he sits in front of his computer. He isn’t sure if he found the words, But he knows it must begin.
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Youth
By Ryleigh Wann, Poetry Finalist Soft pastels of lavender and peach, The Earth wakes On a sand bar in the middle of Lake Erie. I clung to the bones of your back as you carried me out there. The 6 A.M. water too frigid. My honey blonde hair stuck in your beard, As I waved to our friends on the shore. We couldn’t draw my eyes from the swirl of colors Happening around us. As we walked back through the murky lake, stepping on harsh shells in the sand And avoiding needles poorly hidden by junkies, I knew that this was it for me. In that moment, you were my seraph. My religion and entire being. Other sun rises have greeted and left us from this day, Some through your bedroom window, Some slipping onto your front porch after a drunken night, And some following us after long car rides. But now, four years later, I let my thoughts drift back to this morning And disappear in the oils of mind, Until I drown it all out in the water.
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Study of the Man in a Bar By Madison Vasko
The man who used to come here killed himself last Tuesday. A .45 right in the chest. No one saw it happen. He walked back into town, from the lonely meadow where he had wanted to die, and succumbed a day later while he smoked his pipe and spoke of sadness. We all know he was a drunk, presumably insane, but when I saw from the window of my bar what they carried out of his home— well, I guess we never really know someone from the surface. His neighbors snickered at the bandages around his head and locked him up, but I drifted across the street, and into the modest apartment to look around— well, maybe we had him all wrong. Twenty people went to his funeral. Some artsy-looking types from Paris and Arles, strangely enough. I heard his brother isn’t doing well, but he brought the infant son he had named after the man. I can see his sadness, the ecstasy of life, in the sunflowers, the night sky, and in the cypress trees. His solemn face followed me about his house while I wandered. It still follows me now.
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Drowning
By Sam Ponke. Fiction Winner Despite the overcast skies, Dan, Eric, and Maggie headed down to the docks for one last practice run before their swim test later that day. And it looked like they weren’t the only ones who ignored the gray clouds that hung low in the sky. A lifeguard sat sentinel in her watch chair while a few kids played in the sand on the beach. “Okay Maggie, you’re up.” Dan smiled at her. “Whenever you say go I’ll set the timer on my watch,” Eric said, fiddling with his wrist. “Okay,” she said to Eric but grinned at Dan. The boys watched as she wiggled out of her jean shorts, both trying not to blush. She wore a simple blue and black one piece underneath. She offered one last grin to her friends and dove into the water. At thirteen, Maggie Rowan could’ve been the envy of all girls her age. Though young, her body was developing alarmingly well and the boys on the dock, still growing, noticed this. The small features that were budding at camp last year were now blossoming. Her long legs had toned, her swimsuit filled out, and she had a more confident air about her. Maggie cut through the cold water easily. As she surfaced, pushing her short hair back, Dan thought he could almost count her freckles. “Read—” she began, but
was cut off suddenly as she disappeared under the surface. The boys looked to one another, awestruck. And just as suddenly as she was pulled down, she resurfaced with a look of terror on her face. The young girl groped at the lapping water as if it would help, but with no success. Whatever it was had a tight hold on her. Its slimy hands clawed at her ankle, trying to pull her down into the depths below. Flailing, she struggled to get free from her attacker. With her free leg, she kicked hard at the water, but the monster was strong. It’s iron-like grip clamped further into her pasty flesh. Its clammy hands attempted to climb her, grabbing at her exposed ankle. For a moment, Maggie was frozen in fear, her brain only allowing her to remember how to tread water. As if her fight or flight mechanism was broken she could do nothing but watch in horror as the monster's scabby fingers wormed their way up her legs to her torso. Finally, as the threat drew nearer, something registered in Maggie’s mind and like the flip of a switch, her brain suddenly worked again. She began to resist, but it was already too late. She strangled a scream as a cold, gray hand reached for her mouth, but it couldn’t keep hold on Maggie’s wet, freckled skin. The claw tried once more to take ownership of it's prey and finally succeeded. The boys watched on in horror, not knowing how to react as one waxy finger found its way into Maggie’s
mouth, it’s long black nail, like a hawk’s talon, hooking onto the inside of her cheek. Lake water began to gag her as the attacker's hand carved into the side of her mouth. The taste of fish and piss filled her sinuses and burned her throat. Suddenly, another decrepit skin hook was cutting into her mouth now. Blood gushed from her cheek mixing with the murky water. Had her mouth not been full of muck already, she probably would’ve been sick. With barely so much as a splash, another hand appeared from the water and latched onto Maggie’s throat. It ripped her down into the water with such unrelenting force, she thought her esophagus had been torn. “Maggie!” Dan shouted, snapping out of his trance. He scrambled to the edge of the dock on his knees trying to find any sign of her fiery hair in the water, but the lake was so clouded that no one could even make out fish under the ripples. “Somebody help!” Eric yelled toward the few kids on the beach, but no one, not even the lifeguard, so much as breathed in their direction. It was as if an invisible wall had divided the trio from the rest of the world. No one was coming to save her. The water stifled Maggie’s bloodcurdling screams and all she could see in the cloudy green water were the bubbles from her breath float to the sunlit surface. If only when they popped, they could hear me, she would later think. Slowly, her life force
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drained from her body. She could feel it. Though the creepy claws were out of her mouth, she still felt its grip on her. The creature was simply too strong for a thirteen-year old to handle alone. And just as suddenly as she was attacked, she so suddenly felt calmer. As if the lake monster was finally letting up it’s handle on her. Being surrounded by the cool water no longer felt like a nightmare, no. It felt more like a dream, really, as she floated amongst the fish. She felt, for the first time in a long time, at peace. Then she heard a voice. “Maggie, you can do this,” the voice seemed to murmur, clear as day. It sounded familiar. Disturbingly familiar. For a moment, it brought her comfort. It even made her feel stronger, but she was also aware of her vision growing dark around the edges and how feeble her attempts at freeing herself had become. She figured this was simply a part of death, hearing voices. Like the role of acceptance in the stages of grief. But there it was again, cutting through the water as if the voice were right next to her. “Just hold on,” the voice claimed. It was then the water began to rumble as if thunder was rolling right over Maggie's head. Furious bubbles formed around her and her captor, violently distorting the ugly image. It’s grip went entirely slack as the ear splitting sound of activity boomed all around them. The gray, scabby hands that
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left imprints on Maggie’s skin were now covering the beast’s ears as it, too, began to shriek. A high pitched wail like nothing Maggie had ever heard. Somehow, Maggie realized this was it; if she didn’t get away now, then she would never see the surface again. She kicked her legs blindly, too terrified to really see what lurked beneath her. But in a moment of false bravery, or maybe desperation, she took a painfully quick glance in the direction of the creature. The water stung her nearly shut eyes, but she didn’t need to see anything more than the tangled mass of black hair that was splayed out in the dark murk. On instinct, she jammed her foot down straight into the mess of inky hair. It tangled around her foot as if the follicles themselves were asking her to stay. She watched for a second as it held it’s head in agony. Between the gnarled roots of black there was a small footprint in it's decaying scalp. The peeling skin molded around the footprint like clay. The creature glared up at Maggie with yellowing, cat-like eyes. Her eyes grew wide in horror transfixed at the sight despite her burning lungs. The creature looked almost human. Her powerful legs pumped against the current as she swam for the surface. The rumbling coming from what she believed to be the voice, vibrated through her body to her teeth. Truth be told, she wasn’t even that deep but the swim seemed to stretch for eons. Finally, her fingers broke
through the waves and at last she could taste air again. She took a heaving breath and attempted to tread water to get her bearings, but she was weak and rather than waste time, meekly began to paddle the few feet to the dock. Luckily, the boys had snapped out of their stupor and their hands were ready to meet her halfway. (And though they won’t admit it, they stayed on that dock because they were quite terrified of getting in the water). “Come on, Maggie!” Eric encouraged, stretching onto his belly to reach for her. “We’ve got you!” Dan assured her as his fingers stretched anxiously. Finally, she reached them. Her fingers latched onto Dan’s and he clung to her as if the last thing he would ever do was save Maggie Rowan. Eric scrambled to help as well, and gathered her up by the other arm. Together, they heaved her, coughing and sputtering onto the dock. Maggie landed on her hands and knees, shaking. The trio took heaving breaths together as she choked out the rest of the lake water. She shuddered as Dan put a gentle hand on her shoulder, but didn’t shake him off. Eric watched the scene unfold next to him uncomfortably shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He had wanted to comfort Maggie, but simply didn’t know how. So, without really thinking, he said; “What the fuck was that?”
About the Winners Jacob DeBrock Poetry Winner
My name is Jacob DeBrock and I am currently a senior. I am an English and Psychology dual major, with a concertation in literature. I am particularly interested in 20th and 21st American literature and postmodernism, with the caveat of me not always understanding why I need to research French liberal politics of the 1960s in order to understand the basic plot.
Ryleigh Wann Poetry Finalist
Ryleigh is a fourth year student at UT with a major in English. Her concentration is creative writing with a passion for poetry. Much of her writing is inspired by her home in Michigan, connections with people and the surrounding environment, and confessional events from her own life. Ryleigh wants to use her degree to continue to improve her writing and one day teach and inspire students of her own. She would like to thank her family and friends for their continued support and love.
Teresa Northcraft Poetry Finalist
Teresa is a junior studying English literature. She spends too much time attempting to construct overly-ambitious essays. Despite this, her poem “Homesick” will be published in Sigma Tau Delta’s 2018 The Rectangle. She works for the military abroad during the summer. After completing her undergraduate work, she hopes to pursue a graduate degree.
Alex Gray-Karcsak Poetry Finalist
My name is Alex Gray-Karcsak. I’m a classic nerd I suppose, playing D&D on the weekends and video games during the week. When I’m not studying that is. I plan to get a Masters degree with a focus in creative writing at UT. I hope to someday work as an editor for a publishing company while writing some books of my own on the side.
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Evan Sennett
Photography Winner Evan Sennett is an undergraduate at the University of Toledo double majoring in Film and English Literature. His interests include filmmaking, essay and column writing, and cartooning. Evan’s short films have been accepted into over 70 film festivals all around the world including the U.S., Canada, France, England, Italy, Israel, and the Dominican Republic.
Nicholas Gaietto Photography Finalist
Nicholas Gaietto is majoring in film at the University of Toledo. He hopes to become a director of photography for feature films and produce music videos in the future.
Sam Ponke Fiction Winner
Three years in and still fumbling his way through college, Sam is a junior majoring in Creative Writing and minoring in Film Production. After graduating, he hopes to become an author, director, or professor. At the very least, he would like to get a job outside the pizza industry.
The Mill Literary Magazine is now accepting submissions for Spring 2018! You can submit your poetry, prose, non-fiction, photography and graphic artwork to themillmagazine@gmail.com Deadline: March 23, 2018 27