The Mill Fall 2014
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Mission Statement The Mill is a literary journal that publishes poetry, short fiction/essays, and art by University of Toledo students in an attempt to strengthen ties and voices in the literary community at the university. It is edited and produced once per academic semester. We consider all submissions for the writing and art contest and publication. Three pieces are awarded top honors in this publication: one fiction/non-fiction, one poetry and one visual art. Through blind-judging, each finalized acceptance and contest winning decision is made by the staff of The Mill. For more information regarding the editorial board, past issues, or general inquiries find us at our website: themillmagazine.blogspot.com, or on Facebook.
After initial publication via print and online, all Copyright reverts back to the author/artist. All photos inside of The Mill are Public Domain photos depicting street graffiti around the world.
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The Editorial Staff
Chief Editor: Charish Halliburton Co-Editors: Blair Donahue
Laura Haldane Rebekah Philips Jilian Stefango Nitya Tripuraneni Cover Art Contest Winner: “Nature Fairies” by Alexis Thomas Non-Fiction Contest Winner: “Great Literature for the Everyman” by Morag Hastie Poetry Contest Winner: “Dusk in West Toledo” by Brenda Castelllani 4
Dear Reader: “Do Epic Shit.” As crass as it sounds, these are words to live by. All of our contributors did. They dropped word bombs. They told the truth. And they do all of this because it’s their job as writers, thinkers, and creators. They take on an obligation that not everyone can handle. It is the artist’s obligation to sheds light on the human experience by telling the world what we need to hear. When I first took on the job of editing The Mill, I was apprehensive about judging another writer’s work. It’s an eerie place to be. Also, I don’t like too much responsibility. But the best part of being an editor is seeing the excitement of so many contributors. They filled The Mill’s inbox at such a rapid speed, it made my head spin. The co-editors and I had a field day with all wonderful things we got to read! Thank you for taking this copy of The Mill. When you flip through it, you will see the work that your peers have given us. These artists walk among you, sit in your classes, and they are a strong community. If you see them, let them know that you support their art. The results of their labor is tremendous. I also want to thank the people that have supported The Mill’s publishing process. My first thank you must go to the University of Toledo English Department and the Edward Shapiro Fund. The second thank you must go to the first Chief Editor of The Mill, Peter Faziani. He had the original vision of what The Mill should be. And while every Chief Editor after him has a new twist on each issue, the message is still the same: “Do Epic Shit.” Enjoy, Charish Halliburton Chief Editor— The Mill Magazine
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Table of Contents
Interview with Peter Faziani Great Literature for the Everyman- Morag Hastie Dusk in West Toledo- Brenda Castellani The Scorpion in the Halfway House- LaVelle Ridley I See My Role Model- LaVelle Ridley Fence- Erynn Daum Your Electricity- Erynn Daum 1963- Joe Heidenescher A Different Kind of Freedom- Mazzer D’orazioSwitching Cells- Andrew Nale The Piece is the Whole- Andrew Nale The 3rd Person- Chayla Adkins The Pilot Episode- Anna Barnes White Walls- Rebecca Haidet Bathroom Etiquette- Katherine Davis Cotton and Bodies- Delaina Lane Nebraska Avenue at 7:20 PM- Yousra Medhkour Open Mouth- Andrea Bruno Words on White Paper- Jill Jablonski The Note Inside the Purse- Jill Jablonski Nursing Home- Lanette Dukett September Sickle- Lanette Dukett
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Banksy 7
Interview: Peter Faziani I caught up with the original editor, Peter Faziani, who published the first issue of The Mill in the spring of 2011. Back then he was a graduate student in University of Toledo’s English Department. I asked him about the beginnings of our literary magazine and what he’s up to these days Halliburton: So what gave you the idea to start The Mill? Faziani: During my undergrad at CMU, I had a poem published in the lit mag on campus, and that feeling made me want to pursue creative writing and English that much more. Noticing that UT didn't have a creative outlet like CMU, I wanted to offer undergraduates the same opportunity to see creative writing as I saw it. H: Were there any challenges getting it off the ground? F: There were a ton of challenges to launch the magazine; from gathering the courage to bring my proposal Dr. Sara Lundquist (department chair), to getting the staff and tools needed to develop the magazine I wanted. In my mind, the first issue was more of a trial issue than a real showing of my plan, but each after (and from what I can tell, since) my plan is still developing and unfolding. I never wanted to create a magazine that functioned "one way," because it would have surely failed. Instead I wanted to create a publication that allowed each new editor to take ownership of The Mill and mold it to best suit their undergraduate audience. I must also say that without the help of Laura Scroggs in the first year and then Lindsay Vreeland in my second, The Mill wouldn't have gone as far as it has. H: What was your time like at UT as a grad student? F: UT was great. I was able to make lasting friendships and work with amazing faculty that helped me prepare myself for my brief time as an adjunct and now in my PhD coursework.
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Interview: Peter Faziani Cont’d. . . H: What have you been up to since you've graduated? F: After leaving UT, I spent two years as an adjunct faculty in local colleges. As of Fall 14, I started my PhD coursework at Indiana University of Pennsylvania. I've also been working on my novel in my free time. Recently, I've launched a new publishing endeavor that aims to deliver poetry to mailboxes on a monthly basis called Red Flag Poetry. Our website is RedFlagPoetry.com H: Why do we need English? Better yet, why do we need Creative Writing? F: This is the question of our time. Some students treat college as an obstacle standing in the way of their job, but when they're given the opportunity to read literature, and better yet, write it, I feel, college once again becomes a place of learning and understanding that builds a cultural awareness that isn't taught in the same way in other fields. So if you were wondering: What can I do after I get an English degree, worry not! Peter’s new project, Red Flag Poetry is innovating and exciting. For $10/year, you can receive poetry in your mail box every month. How nice is that? If you’re a poet, who’s interested in submitting work, they are definitely taking it! Please check out their snazzy website: RedFlagPoetry.com
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Morag Hastie Great Literature for the Everyman: Best Essay Prize Winner It was a four volume, hardbound, 1980 edition of The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night that started my love affair with The Folio Society. I was around eight when the bond formed and to this day, it is my longest standing amour. The books themselves are a photo-litho reprint of the original 1958 ‘Folio Press’ letterpress edition, and stand today where they stood all those years ago, on my parents’ living-room bookshelves. I am not sure if it was the thrilling tale of Scherazade who held off her impeding execution by waiving story after story to her betrothed King Shahyra that held the magic of this book for me, or perhaps it was the gold gilt lettering on each spine as they sat snug in their communal slipcase that appealed to my girlish magpie tendencies. I suspect it was more to do with it being one of only a few books in the house that I wasn’t allowed to read at the breakfast table with fingers coated in sticky jam. In fact, a hand washing ritual vigorous enough to rival that of any surgeon had to be undertaken before we could handle the precious volumes. Our family’s first purchase from the Folio Society came in 1971 when my mother bought herself The History of the Kings of Britain by Geoffrey of Monmouth. At the time she was a young newly wed, not long out of college, living and working as a schoolteacher in London. After reading the Merlin novels by Mary Stewart she was inspired to track down one of Stewart’s sources, Geoffrey’s text. In many ways, my mother was exactly the customer The Folio Society was created for. The societies founder, Charles Ede, stated with his visionary mission statement that the organization would produce “editions of the world’s great literature, in a format worthy of the contents, at a price within the reach of everyman.” It was a mission dreamt up in the early 1940s and one that the Society holds firm today, over 65 years later. Charles Ede (1921 – 2002) was introduced to the art of publishing at school when one of his teachers showed him the works of the Kelmscott Press, a private press based in Hammersmith that produced books between 1891 and 1898. When WWII began in 1939, Ede abandoned his original post-school plan to attend the University of Oxford and joined the Royal Army Service Corps as a driver. His wartime was spent in France and then Malta, where he was caught up in a siege and put in command of a troop of light tanks, only being evacuated by submarine in 1942. After being demobbed he enrolled at the London College of Printing as he’d became an avid collector of books produced by the first press he fell in love with, the Kelmscott Press, and two other contemporary private presses; the Golden Cockerel Press (1920 – 1961), and Nonesuch (1922 – mid 1960s). It was after he left the college that he joined forces with two gentlemen from the publishing world that had far more experience in running presses, Alan Bott and Christopher Sandford, to create the Folio Society. Captain Alan Bott (1893 – 1952) was a renowned pilot in WWI who previously had founded two presses before later became a published author under a pseudonym. Whereas, Christopher Sandford (1902 – 1983) was a book designer and proprietor of the Golden Cockerel Press from 1933 – 1959. The Golden Cockerel Press was known for its handmade limited editions 10
Morag Hastie of classical works of the highest standards with hand-set type, handmade paper, and original illustrations. The first volume that went on sale from the Folio Society in October 1947 was an edition of Tolstoy’s Tales - bound with a black spine and scarlet sides. The text sold for sixteen shillings, which equates to just over $10.00USD today. By the end of the year an edition of George du Maurier’s, Trilby, and then the medieval tale, Aucassin and Nicolette followed. In 1947 post-war rationing was still in force but as an ex-serviceman Ede was given a ‘generous’ allotment of 10 tons of paper. However, this was only enough for about five books. Ede reached out to small local printers with sufficient stocks of paper to overcome the shortages. In the beginning there was resistance within the publishing world to the idea of “a poor man’s fine edition” but by undertaking an independent advertising campaign to enroll ‘members’ the Society started to gain financial stability. From the outset the Folio Society has functioned as a ‘club’ in which the reader is enticed to pay for a membership by salacious introductory offers, such as five cloth-bound volumes of classic fairly tales with original illustrations, worth over $300 for merely $15. This strategy has paid dividends with current international membership of over 120,000 people. During his reign, Ede was intimately involved all aspects of production including; selecting the texts, supervising all design aspects, detailing the printing process, and working with artists for the original illustrations. Initially Ede concentrated on classic fiction, such as Gulliver’s Travels and Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde but came to understand that his members had an appetite for little-known historical documents like the trial of Joan of Arc. To this day the huge catalogue of texts available from the Society is wide reaching from Sun-tzu’s 2,500 year old The Art of War, to Thomas Jefferson’s An Expression of the American Mind, to The Royal Horticultural Society Dictionary of Gardening and so on. The Society continued to grow until in 1971 Ede realized that it was too large for him to remain as involved as he wished and so the company was incorporated and sold to John Letts and Halfdan Lynner, under whose ownership the collected novels of Dickens, Trollope, Hardy, Elizabeth Gaskell and Conrad were published. Since 1982 Lord Bob Gavron CBE has been the chairman of the Society. Born in 1930 Gavron is a printing millionaire, philanthropist and a Life Peer of the Labour party. After an education at the University of Oxford he first became a barrister before founding the St. Ives Publishing Group in 1964 and at then, age of 74, was elected the deputy Mayor of London. Gavron’s complete adoration for books influences the way he steers the Folio Society. Although the company turns over a small annual profit he insists that the money go back into the company to better production quality or, is donated to charity. The Societies purpose is to offer beautiful books at an affordable price tag, but cheap production is not part of the Folio’s vocabulary. Technological advances have allowed production to expand from a handful of titles a year in the early days to now over 100, including multi-volume sets. One major change that supports this increase is the 11
Morag Hastie move from strictly using letterpress printing to offset printing. Johannes Gutenberg invented letterpress printing around 1440 and it remained the primary technique for book printing until the 19 th century. The development of the offset press is credited to two people; Robert Barclay of England who printed on tin in 1875, and American Ira Washington Rubel who in 1903 printed on paper. Although most of the books produced today by the Folio Society are done so using the faster offset printing, a handful of very special editions are printed letterpress including the ‘ultimate’ edition of Shakespeare’s work. For a mere $595 you can own ‘All’s Well That Ends Well’, quarterbound in goatskin leather, blocked in gold with hand-marbled paper sides, gilded top edge and a ribbon marker. Or if ‘All’s Well That Ends Well’ isn’t quite your taste there is ‘Henry VIII’ or ‘Measure for Measure’ or indeed any of Shakespeare’s thirty-three plays all handmade into exquisite works of art. Regardless if the book is ‘limited edition’ or otherwise it’s binding is stitched using traditional materials, buckram, cotton, silk and leather, so that the books sit flat when they are being read and don’t crack over time. Additionally, unlike other publishing houses that have effectively abandoned slipcases, they are revered within the Society and are given as much attention to detail and production quality as the books they protect. Indeed the slipcase has become a defining feature of their books. As Gavron is now into his eighties it is likely that a new Captain will need to be found to steer the Folio Society, but it has always stayed true to its manifesto regardless of who is at the helm. Every book bought from the Folio Society is an investment for future generations to read and re-read and re-read, and so I look forward to continuing my affair with their books and filling my living-room shelves with these jewels standing proud in their slipcases. Perhaps I’ll even introduce new generations of family to the delights to be found inside the covers of a Folio Society book. As long as they wash their hands first!
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Brenda Castellani Dusk in West Toledo– Best Poetry Prize Winner Car exhaust drifts upward into the humid night air like lost balloons, from the hands of children. An over-weight woman unloads a pile of laundry, and two small children from her mini-van in an apartment complex parking lot. The children shrieking as they attempt to catch a white, stray cat hiding under an SUV. The city cries out with a wailing police siren, squealing brakes, the pounding bass of car speakers. Televisions glow behind curtained windows, like the candles that flicker behind the stained glass in the back corner of a church. Gasoline fills the spaces between the hunched houses, and 24 hour convenience stores. The stray cat under the truck, lost in the billboards and traffic cones of the city. Craving green grass, wild flowers and a night where only fire-flies and constellations are visible. 13
LaVelle Ridley The Scorpion in the Halfway House Walking down the dimly-lit hallway of the halfway house, I see Jimmy, the man the government calls my father. His face is full of charm and guile, His history is written there like calligraphy. He’s just as sweet as substitute sugar: It tastes the same, but leaves a bitter taste behind. He holds something behind his back, As if it were some great surprise, But we both know what it is. As he gets closer, he says, “C’mon Varre-tonni! Put out your hands.” I do as he says, though I don’t know why. “Close your eyes,” he says. So I do. I then hear the paper shift in his hands, And then I feel the smooth plastic-like paper Slide into my palms. “That’s for your mom. Tell her I’m sorry, And that I hope this helps.” Somewhat surprised, yet not looking at the bills In my hands, I muster a raspy, “Thanks Daddy.” As I exit the dim halfway house, I finally look down at my present, And all I can see is the Monopoly money Looking back at me in its rainbow of colors. With tears in my eyes, I remember what Aesop taught me: “The scorpion will always sting the frog That carries him across the river, Simply because it’s in his nature.” Of course, I already knew this: Jimmy is a Scorpio. So I take this gift home and play Monopoly With my mother and step-father, Thinking to myself: “Thanks Jimmy for making this moment happen. I hope you enjoy the bottom of the river.”
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Lavelle Ridley I See My Role Model When I think of my mother, I see the color green, her favorite. I see a rack full of washed dishes after a forgetful night. I see four different wigs sitting in the bathroom, each marked for a different occasion. I hear Erykah Badu and India Arie playing loudly in the living room. I hear pork chops and collard greens sizzling on the stove. I hear my full name yelled from across the street once the street lamps have come on. I smell the newest dish she has prepared for dinner. I smell cigarette smoke lingering in her bathroom while she plays Bejeweled on my iPad. I smell fresh incense floating in the living room air as she folds the laundry while watching The View. I taste bitter cough syrup as she grumpily puts me back to bed so she can sleep without having to hear me coughing all night. I taste the bitter grayness of the dark basement as I follow her in to help organize boxes and totes of clothes and books after moving to our new house. I taste the regret of not respecting her more when I was a headstrong sixteen year-old. I feel the sting of the heavy leather belt as it strikes my backside. I feel her soft, brown skin as she makes me rub her feet with cocoa butter. When I think of my mother, I feel the embrace of a powerful woman who has made many mistakes and yet has accomplished so much.
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Erynn Daum Fence I am a fence. People are filtered through The gate of my life. My "pretty" side faces the world. Only I can see the backside all the time: My "plain, ugly" side. I decorate it, my dark side. Fill the holes with marbles; They make colorful light. I decorate to distract visitors, But I still know. I still see. And I can only hold so many people at a time. After that I get strained and overwhelmed. Then people start leaving Because the decorations can no longer hide, What they are meant to hide. I am nothing special. I am just like all the other fences: I filter people through my gate.
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Erynn Daum Your Electricity Every time you take my hand in yours My breath catches and it's hard to breathe The nerves in my stomach dance in nervous energy And shivers travel down my spine My thoughts gravitate towards you Every bit of you follows me Your smile warms my heart And your laughter fills my soul Even though the heat of your hand Runs right up my arm It feels as if we will always Be hundreds of miles a part The tingle of your lips meeting mine The curve of your body around me Your hot breath against my ear They seem so far away now. Please stay with me. I know that you can't.
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Joe Heidenescher 1963 The Sun burns bright in Saigon as men and women watch. Christ’s immolation at Calvary dwarfed by one monk’s mission, To light his human on fire and disperse his protest In thick, black plumes of smoke. An idle gasoline can is evidence for intent, But the monk’s pacific pose became Undeniable proof of his motive, To free his people from the Steeple’s Son. The hood of a car stood ajar, And its driver appeared worried. But none stand with to the kindled man, Or effort to tame his wild flames. Each degree of heat emits silent pleas. People flew from the inferno tempest Into their humbled dwellings, Beneath the cold, frigid stone dome. Embers smolder on the unpaved street But miles away could one see, Ashes sailing across the sea blue sky Eclipsing the thousand degree Sun.
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Mazzer D’Orazio A Different Kind of Freedom It was a long, narrow room with a window. Soft-backed office chairs lined the long vinyl table. Tissues leered from the center of the table at Maria. She narrowed her eyes at them. Softened with aloe. What was that bullshit? Miss Rodriguez, the man said. She stopped him right there. It’s Mrs. Mrs. Rodriguez. I’m married. I’m so, so sorry, Mrs. Rodriguez, he said, gesturing full of kindness. Mrs. Rodriguez. Do you know why we’re here today? To talk about Stefany. She’s failing, I guess. This ain’t the first time. Now it’s not that she’s failing, Mrs. Rodriguez, his eyes wide, unblinking. And I find it surprising that Stefany has earned many F’s. She’s an extremely bright girl. Mrs. Rodriguez exhaled. It’s just that, he said in words covered in bubble wrap, it’s just that Stefany has been doing some things that are pretty concerning to us. Maria’s thin, perfectly manicured eyebrows didn’t budge. Oh yeah? Yes, Mrs. Rodriguez. Have you noticed the small cuts running up her arm? Maria shrugged. We got a cat, she said softly. We are all concerned that Stefany might be hurting herself. Maria shook her head quickly. Stefany wouldn’t do that, sir. How do you know that, Mrs. Rodriguez? Are you and Stefany close? Maria cleared her throat. Yeah, um...quite, close. Mrs. Rodriguez, what are your work hours like? Are you home when she gets home? Maria shifted in her seat. Yes. I stay at home. I do not have work, she said. She was confident that this was the right answer. That’s important, Mrs. Rodriguez. It’s important that parents spend time with their children. I am glad to know that you and Mr. Rodriguez understand this. As if we would not understand, Maria thought, securing a chapped piece of her lip between her teeth. As if not understanding English means you don’t understand life. Same old story. But let us get to the reason I called you in here, Mrs. Rodriguez. There’s this. He paused. There’s this poem. That she wrote for English class. Maria adjusted the silver chain around her wrist, examining the turquoise heart charm that dangled down from where it clasped together. He moved his bifocals down his white nose and began to read from a composition notebook: his brown eyes above me, the golden cross around his neck swaying back and forth, his penis like a knife inside me... Maria’s eyes widened. Puta! Como podía hacer esto a mí! Mrs. Rodriguez, he said gently. Please let me know if you need a translator and one will be assigned to your case. I don’t need no translator, Mr. Whitefield, she fumed. I understand every damn word you’re saying. I was born here, so you can go ahead and drop that tone you got like I’m fresh off the boat. That ain’t me. Maria hadn’t been born here. In fact, even Stefany hadn’t. They came on the run and Javi had helped them out like some kind of Mexican-American Jesus. Maria still prayed her rosary thanking god for him every night, because although being with him wasn’t the best, it was sure as hell a thousand times better than what she had back home. But the only way she knew to get the white man to drop the whole immigrant act was by saying she was born here. I am so sorry, Mrs. Rodriguez. I was confused. Never let them see your fear. She forced a smile. Is easy to misunderstand, she said. We misunderstand every day. We’re human. Mrs. Rodriguez, he said, shifting his bifocals again. I just need to know. I need to know if there is a male in your house who has access to Stefany. When you’re not home. Pardon me. Access? 21
.Mazzer
D’Orazio
I’m sorry, Mrs. Rodriguez. In no way did I intend to sound crass No, there is no one...I can’t believe you are asking me this. You mentioned your marriage. Is that to Stefany’s father? Step-father. I see. Mrs. Rodriguez. I’d like to bring a social worker to visit your home. With respect, sir. I worked hard to get to today. So has my husband. Your person not coming to my home like it’s some unclean place. His eyes narrowed. I understand that you and your husband are upstanding people. I am not questioning that. Unfortunately, when we see something like this, he said, flashing the notebook again, we have to investigate. It’s the law. Mrs. Rodriguez looked at those tissues again, with aloe in them because those white people’s noses probably couldn’t stand anything less. She would be careful with what she said to Javi. Try to catch him in a good mood, on his way to the bar. See if he can’t keep it in his pants for 15 minutes while some young white lady right out of social work school inspects the place like it’s goddamn CSI. Be frank with Stefany too. Tell her her life ain’t a Lifetime movie or whatever she thinks it is that it’s okay to write a rape poem in English class. She was sure that Stefany’d never forgive her for letting this happen. Just like she had never forgiven her mother for the way she was raised, just like her mother before her. She knew Stefany deserved better. But it was just one more year. One more year with Javi was certainly better than the shit they had back in El Salvador. She'd seen her little sister, only 8 years old, raped and left to die by the maras in the middle of the street. Calle 18, they'd carved with switchblades into her stomach like she was a goddamn tree. She told herself never, never would she have a kid in El Salvador. But just like everything else, she was wrong about that, too. It took her years, almost a decade to find her way up through Guatemala, Mexico, across the border. She had been naive to think that America was the goddamn promised land. Born in the shittiest town, pregnant and alone at 15? There was no promised land. There was only just a little bit better.
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Andrew Nale Switching Cells Unknowingly shackled by false liberation Enticed into unwilling servitude The offered carrot drifting further away Your reach always coming short Binding contract changing by the hour Impossible to read between the lines Trapped within its partial freedom Another day crushed in its grasp Freedom but two steps away If you consider the bars awaiting so It's always greener on the other side Until you look to what was and say the same There's a bright side through that tiny window To bask in dreams and false promises offered The small liberties that can't be taken At least you can pick your prison
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Andrew Nale The Piece is the Whole As I framed my thumbs and scanned the room I happened upon a vanity mirror I moved my hands closer for imagined zoom The returning picture crystal clear As I approached the frame with my own I happened upon my face reflected Not the whole, but a section shown Almost like the rest rejected As I looked upon this piece of myself I happened upon inconsistency My inquisitive expression in and of itself Contorted my face asymmetrically As I viewed my double within the veined frame I happened upon the reality Every observation's result was the same The less I saw, the more I could see As I stepped back and sat on the bed I happened upon the curious truth With squared-off hands bordering around my head Just who was reflecting who
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Chayla Adkins The 3rd Person Who am I In this revaluation Examination Surrounded by the temptation, of life Nowhere is where I am Somewhere to where I belong How do I get there? Only a heart can lead the way But all my heart knows is how to Stay Where you are In the normality of no man’s land Where you’re trapped under no man's hand At your own will and leisure She bows down as the future eats her Un-alive And yet she strives Until the devil spits his flames They don't get this is not a game There is no such thing as peaceful goodbyes All she can do is stay high and rise All the tears shed and misery That past you left is now history Let my words burn holes through your name Together we'll beat this everlasting game Of Life
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Anna Barnes The Pilot Episode From the other side of the screen I watch the main characters bloom: He is busy, always involved in something interesting, Her imagination runs wild in the darkness of her lonely room. A faded clip: they are dancing drunk in leaves on back streets And reach out to find they’ve lost the form of conversation, So she tangles through his fingers to show him how much he means. I don’t feel right viewing this, even from the safety of my bed, When this girl’s broken heart is aching and she’s asking The protagonist to make amends through silent questions in her head. Maybe I continued to follow the show because I found parallels Of raw emotion and extravagant dreams, Personality traits I shared with this newfound character. I lost my mind to music when a new episode wasn’t on, To a short playlist on repeat sending voltage through my wounds, To a lyrical prayer the girl wouldn’t wake up to find that boy gone. This series gave seasons a meaning I hadn’t understood before, But critics caught wind to question its quality and innovation, So it fell from the sky and crashed in an inevitable end. You and I are walking, so silent across apathetic pavement With fingers trembling in winds as strong as ocean current, Our minds lost and searching desperately for any conversation. Slowly, the realization comes that I am now one of your priorities, So I walk a little closer and pretend it’s from the cold, Too caught up in my thoughts to say how much you mean to me.
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Rebecca Haidet White Walls The white walls stare at me Like a vision of my soul No color to be seen Nothing at all Blank as a canvas Waiting for paint But I’m no artist So I sit and wait I need color to appear For the fear is setting in Will the walls be blank forever? Or will I let someone in Someone to paint what I want to see Someone to paint a vision Of who I want to be
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Katherine Davis Bathroom Etiquette Friday night dinner, insouciant shrugs, apologetic invasions. A symphony of the despondent, She- an ill tuned flute, Musing over the price of a particular sweater, or the appropriateness of red lipstick for various occasions. It’s the perfect red. Misplaced toilet paper in a tin box jutting tampons. The litany of a vodka induced break-up, told through half slurred words, and the chime of a cell phone alerting the caller of an incoming message. Confession time.
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Cotton and Bodies
Delaina Lane
Some said, “Follow the drinking gourd,” Oh, how, I wish it could all be so simple, but the echoes of footsteps, the barks of the dogs, roam my mind, anticipation high, self esteem low, feeling as if my heat plunges for the deepest depth of life, bellowing like the crack of the whip when it hits a human’s flesh, Professor Lash taught us well, Flesh discarded and replenished out of the stock, Realizing that the only thing my hands have touched was cotton and bodies, cotton and bodies, They told us we were worthless, but I wonder what was in the pigment of our skin that made us so valuable. Trying to find to comfort and peace in the exploration of my pelvis, a lust to visit during the night laid in the consciousness of his mind, but for me I say; There is no need for my heart because it’s not beating, but my reality is just and cannot escape it, My eyes are wide awake, Crying was absurd, but the tears perpetually flowed for dozens of years. We had a great relationship with the trees, Slaves and the trees spoke a language that the white man will never understand, Watching negros buckle like headless chickens when that thick rope cuts off the very air supply of their existence, “Take your last breath and say goodbye” the white man says. Labor, the root of our existence, On a plateau of minds bellowing so crudely, Every moment, every hour, can feel the rush, The rush of blood flowing through my body, Hemoglobin spreads throughout my bloodstream, Blood thick and in short supply, Like a flicker transformed into a flame,Sailing on a river of black blood that became intertwined with the Red Sea. Pick that cotton, Pick that marvelous cotton, but I guess that commercial expression was right because cotton was and always will be the fabric of our lives!
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Nebraska Avenue at 7:20 PM
Yousra Medhkour
I drive on an unfamiliar road where trees made into archways shelter me, their leaves reaching for each other like God and Adam in the Sistine Chapel, the sun splashing a blend of amber and coral red on the canvas of the sky. I want to frame this moment: stay a little longer on this road, bask in the pine needle scent of crisp autumn air where leaves don’t fall to the ground, but stay forever reaching for one another, flamboyant with their vermillion and golden yellow that mimic the sun’s finale of the day, never wrinkling into a dull brown or crunching beneath my shoes. But night comes after I arrive home, making my windows reflective surfaces, not frames for the outside-world’s movement. Only when I press my face against the glass can I see the night lights that clutter the sky, the moon a beacon of luminescent cream and straw yellow that lulls me to sleep, unlike the vibrant sun that intrudes upon the night silence and penetrates the thin layer of glass that separates me from the scent of morning dew. It reminds me of a new day, one reminiscent of yesterday when I woke up to go to class. I live a déjà vu life where different words might be exchanged, but with the same scheduled order of attending classes and tutoring afterwards. A life made colorless by lackluster organization. So I take the new road home again, marvel at its autumnal colors that still surprise my eyes, drive slower than the allotted fifty miles per hour, wishing that the road were longer, that arriving home didn’t signal the start of a new day before it began, vowing that I’ll take this road home every day until it becomes my routine. 34
Andrea Bruno Open Mouth What if I told you that I’m not really me? That I made a different version To see which is better to be? What if I told you that I’m not really strong But instead a frightened girl all along? What if I told you that I was broken beyond repair Thinkin’ things that I shouldn’t even dare? What if I told you of all the lonely nights Crying in my bed and huggin’ my blankets tight? Would you still love me? Would you still care? Knowin’ all of this That I never shared? Death is an often thought in mind. It’s not something I’m proud of But I think of it all the time. Should I feel bad for even writing this? Like I’m craving attention And nothing’s really amiss? I’ve been bullied in my past And many of my friends have shared my strife But I was the stupid one and let it last. I never saw that I was being used. Having friends made me think That I was loved but I was really on the brink. They never stepped in To help when I was in need Instead saying that I was the blame. That I caused all of this pain. The others just stayed quiet And avoided all the conflict. They weren’t getting hurt So why should they be involved in it? What if I told you of all the pain I hide? That instead of talking I take it all in stride? What if I told you of all my huge mistakes? Things that I wish Had never taken place? What if I told you that I regret being alive?
That I think I ruined my mother And her life the moment I arrived?
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Andrea Bruno My reasons are rational for me to be afraid For one day I fear that you all will go away. That you’ll see what a burden I am. What a problem. What a trouble. What a huge mess That deserves much, much less.
And what if I told you that everything is soon to break? For it’s hard for my heart not to ache. This depression is lasting Longer than I expected. For if there really is a God Then I am being tested. It doesn’t matter if you’re here. It doesn’t even matter if I’m there. For some odd reason I can’t seem to say All these things to the ones that care.
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Jill Jablonski Words on White Paper I’d do it Facing the barn, With a loud bang; I’ll fall Cushioned by wildflowers. My horse will go astray, Once my mount, now my messenger Angel will tell you of our last ride though the sunflowers I’ll look peaceful when you find me. In my best white dress, and favorite black boots. Blond curls splayed atop scarlet stained grass. Face serene in eternal sleep, While life retreats from blue eyes, And body begins to stiffen, Look inside my clutch purse, Absolve yourself with the delicate curves of words on white paper, Don’t shed one tear. You and I both know Nobody deserves To be surrounded by the sickly smell of plastic. And nobody wants— To taste the cheap scent of Jell-O As they wait, For Death.
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Jill Jablonski The Note Inside the Purse I’ll be fine, Long as you remember to feed the ducks And don’t waste money on a funeral, Instead, Burn me, Sprinkle my ash over moonflowers Or bury me in the field where our sheep graze Make me part of the farm. I’ll be okay. Just remember, Life’s not ending because I died, So don’t waste time missing me, And don’t go reading my diary, Diaries are private, And mine’s filled with nothing but words I’d thought forgotten. So just stow it away. You don’t need to hear, the stuff in there, Instead, just remember, Remember me, Remember us.
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Lanette Dukett Nursing Home The forgotten are vanishing Entombed in rooms cocooned Within a cavalcade of wires No more than hollow husks Weary faces loose gray grins Wait to be chaperoned to new heights Angelic apparitions faded like steam vapors Sinking spirits long to be lifted Like charred clouds gathering to burst On a sunless summer’s mourn.
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Lanette Dukett September Sickle The sunlight switched sides over highway 75 Ushers in night’s gray marble Revealing only its scythe A dangling ivory tusk Carved out a starved sky A silver scalpel guided by unknown fingers Traced sharp shadows of a September sickle Hovered above brownstones in Toledo Where redbrick mingles with broken panes Beneath barren earth like Lake Erie mussels A wandering woman feasts on fast food scraps Wading among the crumbs of building rubble Like a finless fish waiting to be swallowed.
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The Mill is Brought to you By: University of Toledo’s English Dept
and the Edward Shapiro Endowment
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