Esprit by The University of Scranton

Esprit Fall 2019

ESPRIT The University of Scranton Review of Arts and Letters

Fall 2019 Editor-in-Chief Catherine Johnson Production Manager Amanda Tolvaisa

Assistant Production Managers Giovanni Gunawan, Mary Purcell, Sarah Stec, Alexis Ward, St. John Whittaker General Editors Nick Brown Alex Sophabmixay Sarah Grosso Sarah Stec Giovanni Gunawan Amanda Tolvaisa Stefan Olsen Alexis Ward Mary Purcell St. John Whittaker Joshua Rudolph Brandon Zaffuto Check-In Melissa Eckenrode Faculty Moderator Stephen Whittaker

Esprit, a co-curricular activity of the English department, is published twice yearly by the students of The University of Scranton. The content is the responsibility of the editors and does not necessarily reflect the views of the administration or faculty. The University subscribes to the principle of responsible freedom of expression for its student editors. Copyright by The University of Scranton, Scranton, PA 18510.

Waterfall

Fall 2019 Awards The Berrier Poetry Award Mary Purcell “Portraits in Steam City”

The Berrier Prose Award Bodo “Mimi”

The Esprit Graphics Award Bodo “Concordia Domi Foris Pax”

Fall 2019 Award Judges Poetry: Scott Curran graduated from The University of Scranton in 2018 with a major in biology. He served as the Editor-in-Chief of Esprit for the 2017-2018 academic term. He is currently studying to obtain a master’s in physician assistant studies at Marywood University.

Contents Portraits in Steam City

Mary Purcell

A Third of the Waters

Katelyn O’Connor

Home

Eva Rine

Mimi

Bodo

The Most Powerful Thing in Nature

Sabrina Bounader

Underpass

Ethan Wasalinko

Nothing

Sam Marranca

Same as Always

Joshua Rudolph

All Dogs Go to Heaven

Alexis Ward

Questa Sera

Bodo

haruki murakami

Kody Fitzgerald

Jacked-up Pancakes

Stefan Olsen

Tight Five

Emily Bernard

Red Mass in Evening Light

St. John Whittaker

morDysphia

Anastasia McClendon

Sestina for my—

Tianna Trujillo

Prose:

Fire

Ethan Wasalinko

Joey Delmar graduated from The University of Scranton in 2019 with a double-major in biophysics and philosophy. He was a member of SJLA and the Honors Program. While at the University, he was a staff member for Esprit, the Editor-in-Chief of Discourse, a percussionist in the University concert band, and a physics tutor. He currently lives in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, where he is pursuing a Ph.D. in physics from Temple University and looking for things to read.

Final Girl

Grace Hudock

The Fifth Horseman

Catherine Johnson

Deliberation hour

Sarah Stec

My Place in Winter

Eva Rine

DAD

Karlie Ashcroft

Anastasia McClendon

Concordia Domi Foris Pax

Bodo

Basket Flowers in Morning Light

St. John Whittaker

Graphics: Darlene Miller-Lanning, Ph.D., teaches at The University of Scranton and is the Director of its Hope Horn Gallery. Her BFA from Wilkes University and her MFA from Marywood University are both in painting. Her doctorate from Binghamton University is in art history. She co-authored several books on American and local art history.

thing

Front Cover

Portraits in Steam City

the majority mosaic’s a butterfly— take a stroll in the economic rhythm

Mary Purcell

long arches pump democratic institutions, operational circumstances long in length—long for storage

02:19 clearance by a foot my responsible excavation “Last ferry!” accompany ample athlete tourists prescription conspiracy corner the climb hemisphere preoccupations a class dictionary debate: Disorder.

20:01 your unaware glimpse from outside the bar a decade in total floating. stunned. variety pitch: presentation of organized tumor wings building principle an acute job: overeat good idea, sow— 09:30 the castle’s columns present convenience of creation

Portraits in Steam City

A Third of the Waters Katelyn O’Connor

When the tide comes in it stirs up the blood red algae Sometimes it feels as though the water is cold mercury There isn’t anything that belongs to you that cannot be taken away Upon further inspection the dream leaks from the inside Sometimes it feels as though the water is cold mercury The camera flashes, and the moment is paralyzed Upon further inspection the dream leaks from the inside The whales, singing, beach themselves on the tarry sand

The camera flashes, and the moment is paralyzed With the world revolving, the hours spiral out The whales, singing, beach themselves on the tarry sand He offers images with a touch and a tilt of his head With the world revolving, the hours spiral out Suddenly the ocean floor drops and is gone He offers images with a touch and a tilt of his head An impression of seas and rivers upon the barren ground Suddenly the ocean floor drops and is gone When the tide comes in it stirs up the blood red algae An impression of seas and rivers upon the barren ground There isn’t anything that belongs to you that cannot be taken away A Third of the Waters

Home Eva Rine 4

Mimi Bodo

Mama dropped me when I was six weeks old, cracked my spine. She was so drunk she didn’t even notice. Waited three days to get me to a doctor. That’s what Mimi said. Mimi said it’s a miracle I’m even alive. She said, “quit your whining boy. You are lucky you can walk… You are lucky you can breathe... You are lucky you can even see… Of course you can not keep up with the other boys… You are lucky you are alive.” Mimi says a few twisted bones don’t matter as long as you’re alive. When I was eleven years old Mimi stopped breathing so good. When I was twelve she sold off all the cows but one. When I was thirteen, I found her, stiff limbed and wide eyed, rigid in her chair and staring off into some great unknowable place even proper legs could never take me. Two days later I woke up, three brown hens pecking around me in the yard, trying to avoid the house and the smell of Mimi. Two days later I woke up and realized nobody was coming. Nobody was coming for Mimi, and nobody was coming for me. I’d only been to three places in my whole entire memory. The first was down our road and to the south, Mr. Bell’s place. A couple years back Mimi and I drove down and stayed with them two weeks. Mrs. Bell had just passed and left a whole lot of kids behind. Mimi said Mr. Bell couldn’t cope on his own, probably tryna “feed that baby with cow’s milk” that’s what Mimi said. I could walk there, maybe, maybe in three days. I could carry enough food and water to survive the trek…but I couldn’t make it back. Two summers ago, just before Mimi got sick, it stopped raining. It was a long time coming, held off by spattering storms, but that summer it just stopped and didn’t rain again for months and months and months. Wells dried up, rivers dried up, hens stopped laying, almost everything growing outta the ground died. It was a summer of heavy Mimi

tongues and dust coated lungs and a lot of folks just up and left. Families packed their whole lives in a wagon or a car and made off just like that. We had a lot of strangers stopping by that first year, asking for water. A lot of hungry kids, scared looking women, and carts piled high with beds and crates filled with chickens. They all told us the same stories. Miles and miles of dead brown road, wind blowing grass right outta the dirt, dirt blowing right off the sides of mountains. “There’s nothing tween here and home ‘cept exposed rock and a couple empty farms,” they’d all said. I figured maybe they had all simply passed Mr. Bell’s farm seen the state of the place and moved on, or maybe Mr. Bell hadn’t had no water to spare what with all those kids and all, but also, maybe, Mr. Bell was just the first to leave, and hadn’t bothered to say nothin’. So maybe I could walk it, but if a dried up well drove out Mr. Bell, then no, I could not make it back. The second place I’d been was Meridian about fifty miles north. I lived there two years with Mama when I was born and then right after, with Alice and Billy. Mimi and I went back to Meridian two or maybe three times every year, depending on the apples. Folks used to say Mimi had the best apples in the whole county, maybe the whole state. Mimi had big apples, little apples, green apples, red apples, apples for eating and apples for cooking, canned apples, apples for spreading, every kind of apple anyone could want. We went in a wagon hitched to an old gray horse, driving four or five brown cows in front of us. In the fall we filled the wagon with fresh apples, big and smooth and crisp. In the spring we filled it up with cans and cans of applesauce and apple jam, and bottles and bottles of juice. We had our spot. People knew who we were. Mimi took the cows to the vet and the bulls to the slaughter and I sold the apples. When I was with Mimi I was the apple boy. Mimi told me too much rain was no good. Too much rain and the trees start shedding apples like baby teeth. Too wet apples sell for cheap and not for eating but they sell. When the rain stopped and Mimi got sick, the trees didn’t lose their leaves or drop mushy apples. Instead they dried up and twisted in on themselves, their roots buckled up out of Mimi

the dust and the only apples we got were small and pinched like an old woman. Small, pinched apples don’t sell. When people get desperate, it ain’t apples they’re after. The last time we went into Meridian we took our too hard apples and our skin and bone cows and brought them to the slaughter not the vet. On the ride back the old grey horse lost her footing and called it quits on the side of the road, five miles from home. I stayed with the wagon while Mimi carried everything back to the house. It took her almost two whole days and I slept out there. Mimi was worried about bandits or wild dogs eating up the only supplies we would get till the rain came back. I wasn’t worried, I’d never heard of no bandits in a desert, and the only dogs I’d seen in months were starved carcasses or bones, picked clean by vultures and bleached in the sun. I wasn’t worried but I stayed there two nights, sleeping on a sack of flour and watching the body of the old gray horse growing and growing and preparing to burst in the heat. I know what happens to bodies when you don’t put them in the ground.

that’s rotting. I remember one day long ago in Meridian. Me and Mimi passed by the undertaker with all his boxes lined out in the sun. I asked Mimi, “Mimi,” I’d asked, “how come people gotta pay so much to die in a box? Why don’t they just put people right in the ground?” I know now that it’s hard to throw dirt directly on the face of someone you’ve loved. It’s been just about two weeks since I buried Mimi. It rained more since she died than it has in almost two years. It started coming so hard and so fast I couldn’t hardly see from the kitchen window to the chicken coop, or from the porch down to the road. The yard turned into a small pond, little rivers spilling into it from the mountain, washing bones and wood and mud down and up against the house. I went out back three times and found the dirt washed clean off Mimi. But on the twelfth day the rain lessened, and on the fourteenth day the sun came out, and today when I woke up the hill out my window was covered in tiny green shoots. There were living things growing right out of Mimi’s grave.

Mimi always said it’s what you do next that counts. When the rain stopped coming, Mimi handled it. When the hens stopped laying, Mimi handled it. When the cows stopped milking, Mimi handled it. When the trees shriveled up, and the neighbors moved out, and the apples stopped selling, Mimi handled it. Two days after I found Mimi in her chair and realized nobody was coming, I handled it. When I was left on a dried out farm, no neighbors to the south and no old gray mare to bring me north, I handled it. The last place I’d been was Mimi’s farm and that’s where I picked a spot. Out back, about fifty feet from the house and down the hill, I made a hole as long as a cow and as deep as me. It’s slow work digging up hard, caked, sun baked dirt. It’s slow work working a shovel longer than your body. It’s slow work digging a grave when your legs go anywhere but where you want them to. It’s hard to pull yourself out of a hole you’ve been digging all day. It’s hard to go into a house that smells like death. It’s hard to drag a stiff and bloated body through a cloud of dust. It’s hard to be careful with something Mimi

Mimi

The Most Powerful Thing in Nature Sabrina Bounader

Sharp Limpet teeth Grasp onto The rock as A desire to Handle their hunger Drills into their Minuscule mollusk minds The rock couldn’t stand a chance Against the bulldozers or—

Underpass

Limpets take over the surface

Ethan Wasalinko

Like little maggots covering the carcass

Nothing

of the dead Human

Sam Marranca

The rock cries silently

As it shrivels into

Look here, see?

soapstone

I gave my heart

The Limpets are satisfied—

To you.

The rock left frail

Touch here, feel? No heartbeat. The Most Powerful Thing in Nature

Nothing 10

Same as Always

He picks me up and updates me on how she’s been. She’s doing okay this week, other than a brief run-in with what might have been a “microstroke.” It’s virtually undetectable after the fact, he says, so no point in going to see a doctor. I nod my head. He drives through the country roads and explains problems to me. Insulin has gone way up. She’s got an appointment coming up, and we’re not sure how to get her in the car. She forgets where she is sometimes. I nod my head periodically. He tells me a story about last week because I didn’t see her last week. I don’t know if I want to see her last week. I’m not sure if it’d be closure or just painful. I think I’m a bad person for it before I elect to stop thinking. He tells me that she fell last week and hit her head. Jesus, was someone going to tell me about this? She hit her head last week and his daughter had to come with her husband to pick her up and help her into their car, because his was too hard to get her in. She’s bleeding from her forehead. “Needless to say,” he says. What kind of introduction is that? She’s bleeding out—it’s needed to say. “She’s okay, no major damage.” I turn my head and silently sigh. My frustration with his storytelling keels to the fact that he might not have gotten out much this week, so I let him have this. We drive the rest of the way in silence. Even the brilliant strokes of chlorophyll breaking down in the mountaintop forests aren’t enough to move the grey fog that hangs between us. We pull in at their house to be greeted by sweet Rose, whom she still refers to as “he” as a hangover from their dead dog. He and I walk in the house. She greets me from her chair next to the bed with as wide a smile as the left side of her face has to offer and singsongs me a “Hello” which I return with no melody of my own.

I ask her how she is. She says good. I see a new plastic tube running out from under her pant leg chained to a bag that droops like a sandbag over the frame of the bed. It’s filled with gold, I tell myself. He grabs his things: a gun for his hip, a jacket, and a lollipop or two. He tells me he’ll be back in a few hours. I nod my head. He tells her not to cause any trouble; she rolls her eyes and asks if she ever does. They both smile and he walks out the door. I sit down on the couch a few feet from her chair as she stares at the TV. She tells me she’d be so scared to be arrested by the “Cops” cops, she’d just die if she had to. I nod my head. She tells me some stories about the dead family I was close to. I’ve heard them enough times that hearing just a few words allows me to respond properly. Wow that’s amazing. Huh, that’s so sad. Really? I didn’t know that. When she’s done with the deceased, she tells me about the places she’s been to this week. She tells me that he took her to two different houses identical to the one she lives in, except the other two didn’t have fish hanging on the walls. I tell her to look around. There’s fish on these walls. She stares at a trout. “Oh yeah, I guess there is.” I fall back into the couch and breathe in the air of averted crisis. I ask her if I can get her anything, she tells me no, sweetheart, thank you. The news plays some story about governors or senators or council representatives until I notice that she is trying to get up out of her chair. I ask her what she’s doing. She tells me she’s going to have a smoke. “You know you can’t walk.” She looks around. Up, down, and then she stares at the dead fish on the wall. “Oh yeah, I guess you’re right.” I head to the bathroom for a few minutes of solace. The light switch takes some maneuvering. You can’t click it all the way on at first. You have to coerce it. Pull it to about three-fourths of the way, then pull it back until

Same as Always 11

Same as Always 12

Joshua Rudolph

you hear it snap into place. Let it go. Force won’t do it, I’ve tried. I play with the switch for a minute until fluorescent lights illuminate my body in the wide set vanity mirror with no framing. I fix my hair. I retuck my shirt. I sigh. I sit back down on the couch and she smiles at me, silently, until I look away. I take out the book I’ve been reading and start to turn pages. My interest fades quickly. The compulsion to stare at the television overwhelms me until I give in to it. She coughs. Phlegmy. I ask her if she’s okay, and she says yes. She looks disappointedly at her mug. I ask her if she needs a drink. She says no. She coughs again. I ask her if she needs a drink. She says no, she’s okay. She coughs again. I grab the drink from the table and run into the kitchen with it. I press it to the dispenser on the fridge and I press my forehead to the arm I’ve placed high on the fridge. The water trickles out from the well underneath his house. I bring her the mug, she smiles and thanks me. I think about running back to the bathroom, but the guilt overwhelms me. Mindless hours pass as we stare at the television screen. At eight I have to put on Gilligan’s Island. But it’s not eight, it’s seven thirty. An advertisement comes on about Medicare, then one of those “Truth” anti-smoking commercials. The last one is about a local sightseeing company. In the sightseeing commercial is one of those dreadful corporate soft rock songs fit with twinkly bells and guitars and fake enthusiasm. Her foot starts to rock back and forth. She sings along sweetly to the song, half humming the words she’s forgotten, half muffled by a mouth that won’t open all the way. I stare at her. My heart sinks. I fake like seven forty-five is eight o’clock to switch the channel and get the commercial off the screen. I sit in his recliner now and throw my head back. I pretend I barely exist for a while. I’m woken from my little trance when he walks in the door. He says he had a good time. He asks me how she was. I say good. He grabs her mug. I stand up and walk into the kitchen with him, pretending to help while he gets pills ready. He starts by refilling the mug. I rest on the side of a

countertop with my head down. He counts pills. I stay in the kitchen, running my fingers through my hair, while he goes to meet her. He puts pills and then some water into her mouth. He does it again. Then one more time. “Let me see, did you get it down?” “Yeah.” “No, you didn’t, I can see it in the corner of your mouth, swallow it.” “Okay, I did.” “No, you didn’t; it’s still there.” He puts the mug to her mouth and she takes another drink. “It’s still there! Swallow! Stop swishing it around in your mouth and swallow!” She sips from the mug again. “Swallow. Swallow. Swallow. Stop swishing the water around, it puts the pill in the back of your mouth. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow! Swallow. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow! Stop swishing and swallow! Swallow. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow!” The word becomes satiated while no one in the house does. I stand on the side of the bed as he walks by. “At least it wasn’t an important one.” He shuffles around in the kitchen, putting things down and picking them up. I stand at the side of the bed looking at her, just out of her eyeline. He walks back in and stands between the chair and the bed. He tilts the recliner so it faces the bed. He pulls her up by the back of the pants, rotates her, and dumps her onto the bed. Gravity and a lack of muscle mass lay her down. “You hurt me, my arm hurts so bad.” “No it doesn’t.” He motions me to grab her under the arm. He does as well. We slide her up to the pillows. “My arm hurts so bad, get me a Tylenol.” “You don’t need it, it doesn’t hurt.” “Yes it does, please.” She moans and groans and gives a cry that sounds fake to him, but not to me. “Please, I need something. I’m so sore. It must be broken.”

Same as Always 13

Same as Always 14

“No you don’t. You just took all those pills. They won’t mix.” “It hurts. My arm is broken.” He puts his head in his palm as she groans. She’s nearly screaming now. “It hurts so bad, please, I need something.” “You can’t have anything.” “Please, I’m broken, my arm is broken.” “No, you’re not! You’re fine!” He screams at her as if the liberatory power of truth was found only in the loudest frequencies of the human voice. I shake my head as the shouting breaks my heart. We tuck her in. I gather my things. I wave goodbye to her. She tells me she loves me and can’t wait to see me next week. I return the gesture at least. I walk outside, my head reeling. I manage to make their suffering about me. I tell myself I can’t deal with the mental stress of this, even once a week. It’s too much on top of everything else. I spiral into an audible cacophony of negative thoughts that slam themselves against the walls of my head. I was never ready for this. I just do it for the money. I’m not stable enough. I’m ingenuine. I can’t save her if something goes wrong. Why did they have to die? I don’t go far enough to help. I’m too stressed. I’m scared. He walks out of the house and smiles at me. “Ready to go?” I nod my head. The trip to my house is shorter than the one we took here. I suspect he takes the scenic roads to his house, but time-saving ones on the way back. He smiles through our silence. We stop at my house. “See you next week bud.” I nod my head. My hand unlocks the door to my house and my body walks in. Another him asks me, “How was it?” “Same as always.”

Same as Always 15

All Dogs Go to Heaven Alexis Ward

And he came down with dogs and stood on a level place, with a great crowd of his disciples and a great multitude of people and a great pack of dogs from all Judea and Jerusalem and the seacoast of Tyre and Sidon. There were big dogs and small dogs, red dogs and brown dogs, flea-bitten, tick-ridden dogs with mange, that slobbered, with half a tail. And none of the crowd sought to touch him, for the dog that sat at his feet snapped at flies. One dog coughed foamy vomit and began to lick it from the grass. Another sneezed. He lifted up his eyes on his disciples, and said: Blessed are you.

All Dogs Go to Heaven 16

haruki murakami Shigesato Itoi, from Yume de Aimashou Translated by Kody Fitzgerald

Usually, in a fine model railroad, an old couple on a bench waiting for a train or a porter carrying heavy-looking bags are more interesting than a train or a railway. Haruki Murakami, as a traveler, can be felt going somewhere in this kind of model. Perhaps that traveler—whose figure recolored the zinc of a pinky nail, and who’s on his way holding a pinkysized business briefcase—must be there waiting for a train. The contents of his case: things too small to understand. What business he has: maybe he's going on a little trip. The inside of this panorama doesn’t disclose enough to know. In my imagination, that figure, since he plans to go see this whole model many times over, only answers with “I guess you could call it that.” “This model—you—you’re not just imaginary. I feel that way, too. My pastimes are similar. When I take a train, it seems like I won’t know when I’ll be back either. After I get on, I never get bored.” When he starts losing interest in the massive models of one panorama, before he knows it, he's waiting for a train on another model’s platform. “Really, you’re not imaginary. It’s unpleasant; I moved somewhere else because that place was so perpetual.” Gently, I uncapped the mouth of a zinc bottle.

Questa Sera Bodo

haruki murakami 18

Jacked-up Pancakes

Tight Five

Stefan Olsen

Emily Bernard

The sous-chef slapped a hotcake on the griddle And spritzed the air with non-stick. He tossed Hershey chocolate Over the popping frisbees. My heel clicked the hewn tile And my fingertips beat the table. He slid his spatula across the griddle and Smacked me in the jaw with a flaky butter blanket.

AT RISE: LUTHER, a 32-year-old wearing an old blue hoodie, Converse, a faded pair of jeans, and a New York Mets hat. He is pacing back and forth in the living room of the 9th Street Apt he lives in with his mom. He is biting his nails and talking into his phone while holding a packet. Sirens are outside, of course, it’s New York. It is 11:12 a.m. LUTHER “How are we doin’, New York?” No, no. “How’s it goin’, New York?” (Beat.) “New York, how we doin’?” (Beat.) “New YORK!”

MOM (Yelling from the kitchen) I have a pot of sauce on! There is some left over pasta in the fridge from the other day, well ya know what, I can—Oh that is definitely not enough for the both of us. Plus, Jerry might come by and you know he can eat. Remember that night you came back at three in the morning and you walked in with half a pizza and then put it in the fridge and then by noon the next day, it was gone? Classic Jerry, cold pizza for breakfast. He is such a hoot. (Beat.) Luther, you’re home right? Or did you leave for work? LUTHER I’m here! I’m just, I’m rehearsing, Mom. Remember, it’s a week from Friday. MOM enters. She is wearing a sauce stained apron and holding a ladle. Jacked-up Pancakes 19

Tight Five 20

MOM Oh, I know! Trust me, my entire Stitch and Bitch group has it on their calendar. We are going to have a viewing—what’s that called, a screening party? I’m not sure who is hosting it ye—OH! SHOOT!!! (She exits.) I forgot to put the lid on the sauce, so half of it is on the counter. Are you coming to eat, hun?

on at a few clubs. (Beat.) Alright, maybe if there is any leftovers from the other night…

LUTHER I—I’m really not sure yet, Ma. I might not be able to eat. I’m just, nervous, right now, and I really don’t think I can eat your—any—cooking right now. I might just skip lunch.

LUTHER Ma! I’m not just “saying jokes.” I’m perfecting my act. I can’t screw this up. It’s not everyday that you get to craft your tight five for late night.

MOM I understand. I understand. I was an understudy in seventh grade for Annie McMurphy—Oh she was everyone’s crush, such a leading lady. I got to be her understudy after the original understudy quit the play—and I remember I was a WRECK! But, come to think of it, I also had gotten my first period the day before so I was a hormonal mess. You should be fine, though, you’ve done this set, what, forty, fifty times?

LUTHER North of seventy-five. MOM Oh, well, there you go! (Beat.) I don’t mean to be a pest but the sauce is getting cold.

MOM Oh honey…isn’t that exhausting? Going from work to saying jokes to a half-crowded room at midnight?

MOM Tight five? LUTHER The five minutes the show helped me with for my taping. MOM Oh, well, five minutes? You have like a half hour worth of material, you shouldn’t be worried. Jerry should be here any minute, I don’t know where he is. Have you heard from him? LUTHER Yeah, he’s not coming today. He’s sending Davis over to review my set, which is great because I know he won’t eat my lunch. The doorbell rings. MOM runs to the door and DAVIS enters. He is wearing a plaid button-down shirt, dark jeans, and his hair is perfectly gelled and combed. He is upbeat and chatty as usual. He is 42.

LUTHER I thought it was on the counter? MOM Well, the remaining sauce is getting cold. You sure you don’t want me to pack you a little lock and lock for work? LUTHER No, Mom. (Laughing) That’s—not. I’m good. Work isn’t until three o’clock, I’ll just pick at popcorn if I am hungry, then I’m gonna try to get Tight Five 21

DAVIS Well, HELLO Georgette! You look as beautiful as ever! Did—did you lose weight? MOM Oh, well, I might’ve, I...I have been cutting back on sweets! (Beat.) Tight Five 22

Come in, come in!

MOM enters sealing up a little container of sauce.

LUTHER Hey, thanks for coming by. I’m surprised Jerry was so adamant about you coming today. I mean, I still have a week.

MOM Well, there certainly isn’t a shortage of white male thirty-something comedians.

DAVIS Uh, well, ya know, there’s a method to his madness because, you have to record your set tomorrow.

LUTHER MA! MOM You didn’t let me finish. You have something no one else has.

LUTHER Wait. Wha—wha? No, no, no, that can’t…HOW? DAVIS So, apparently, one of the Hadid sisters dropped out. They were gonna do a cooking segment for their new cookbook, but, ironically, they got food poisoning.

LUTHER Patience? Determination? The name “Luther”? MOM I was gonna say cute dimples.

MOM Oh my God…I have to reschedule my Stitch and Bitch meeting!

DAVIS Yeah, I do agree on the dimples, man.

LUTHER I didn’t even know Hadids could cook.

LUTHER I guess I can relax a little, they wouldn’t have hired me if they didn’t think I was talented.

DAVIS Yeah, I guess not very well. (Beat.) Let’s see what ya got? Feelin’ good? I’ve done this show and everyone is super sweet, don’t be intimidated. MOM I love that host. So cute. He does all those games. And he always laughs. He’s like a little boy. Oh I bet he’d love my sauce. I’m gonna pack some sauce to give to him. (Exits.) LUTHER I’m so nervous, man. Tomorrow at this time I will probably be throwing up. I just—my material. (Beat.) Tight Five 23

MOM And you know Jerry. LUTHER Do you think that’s the only reason I got this gig? MOM Well, it’s a reason. One of many reasons. Many reasons. (Beat.) So many— MOM darts her eyes to DAVIS for some help. Tight Five 24

DAVIS Well, I mean, it certainly helps that you met Jerry at a comedy club and he’s been helping you out. (To MOM) And are you and him still—? LUTHER Ugh, I’m gonna throw up tomorrow, I’d rather not do it two days in a row. DAVIS Ok, let’s see. (Beat.) Mind if I make some notes? LUTHER Yeah, I’d love that. (Beat.) Whoa. That’s—that’s a lot of notes. MOM Honey, Davis has been a stand-up much longer than you, let him give you some advice!

MOM I’m—I’m sorry! That’s my favorite joke! (MOM exits.) LUTHER “I’m actually 65% Italian, 20% Polish, and 15% unsure…or is it 17%?” DAVIS When you say that, make sure you really commit to the bit and sell that you are genuinely unsure. Look down to the left.

MOM (Entering) Oh Davis, honey, you are GOOD. You know your stuff! DAVIS Thanks, just a measly fifteen years of failure. Now, Luth, how do you grip the mic? And, no, that’s not a euphemism… LUTHER grabs the sauce-covered ladle on the table.

LUTHER THERE’S MORE RED INK ON THE PAGE THAN MY MATERIAL! DAVIS I’ve recorded two late night sets. I know what they are looking for. You need to hook the audience IMMEDIATELY or else they will change the channel. (Beat.) And your material is playful, so you want to convey that to the audience as quickly as possible. So, walk out upbeat and smiley. Yeah, I would start with “New York, how we doin’?” (Beat.) Say this line to me here. LUTHER “People ask me, ‘How Italian are you? Your last name is Fanelli, but your first name is Luther.’ I say, ‘I’m a little Italian…like Joe Pesci.’” DAVIS (Smiling) Good, good. Be more casual when you deliver that— DAVIS and LUTHER are distracted by MOM laughing uncontrollably. Tight Five 25

Good, relax your elbow a bit. You don’t want to seem too uptight; it doesn’t match your material. LUTHER relaxes. YES! Just like that. (Beat.) Say this here. LUTHER “I’m not a dirty comic. (Beat.) I shower in the morning and at night.” DAVIS Okay, I’d abbreviate that a bit. It’s really a joke to maneuver you to the next part of your set. Like, “I’m a clean comic. Shower twice a day.” That gets the audience to the punchline a few seconds quicker, which is crucial for the ti— MOM TIGHT FIVE! Tight Five 26

LUTHER (Sighs.) I just, I should have another week.

MOM Everything happens for a reason. Just like when I shined in seventh grade! End

Tight Five 27

St. John Whittaker

DAVIS I honestly think you are gonna crush. Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re very likeable, just craft that on-stage persona.

Red Mass in Evening Light

Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s proud of herself for remembering.

morDysphia

((

body)) ((body)) ((body))

between haphazardly connected joints.

Anastasia McClendon

iii.

Oh, do I wonder what could have been should he have just been given love instead of prophecies of sin?

â&#x20AC;&#x153;A body not fit for the world Nor the world fit for thee Of beasts fathered by chaos A sister in the underworld A brother slithering in the sea

Oh, I need not wonder how he felt in his black skin among those gods whose affection was, like the first few chains, paper thin.

Gleipnir ripping the skin of his body, Not one god dared step near And to see only what they wanted he who paid the highest price was not Tyrâ&#x20AC;?

Oh, do I wonder what the world will come to be when the dwarf silk pops, and we, siblings of chaos, are set free.

ii. This does not belong here nor does this or that below this here I (do not belong here) (inside this world) (or these lines of words) (or this (body)) None of this has a place yet it still is here existing large large growing continuously

uncomfortable chained confinement chasing after chasing after place place place morDysphia 29

morDysphia 30

Sestina for my— Tianna Trujillo In response to “The Obsession” by Wesli Court

What does it mean for someone to Die. The little girl cannot see her Father In the same way ever Again. It was dark that Night And the Last Time, I Dreamed. How can someone say they Dreamed If to live is to Die And every moment could be our Last For me to let go of you, my Father In the darkness of Night. I see your face Again

I saw your face Again It was not just something that I Dreamed. Although, it was only the other Night I remembered how you Died. You are, or were my Father I want the memories to Last.

Last night I dreamed that I would my father’s face again.

I didn’t think it was going to Last, But I am reminded Again That my Father The one who taught me how to Dream Was pulled out of this world, they said that you “died”. I look forward to the Night When I wake up and it isn’t Night But the Last Morning before you, Died. I am reminded of your face Again When I was allowed to Dream. You are my Father The strongest relationship for a girl is the one she shares with her Father. But every Night When I Dream The world hits me over the head with the Last, The last words you said, and Again I remember how you Died.

Sestina for my— 31

Sestina for my— 32

Ethan Wasalinko

Fire

Final Girl Grace Hudock

final girl, noun. (plural: final girls) chiefly, in film, a female character in a horror or thriller film who is the last person alive to confront the killer/monster, and who is often the sole survivor, (or) a term coined by Carol Clover in her book Men, Women, and Chainsaws after extensive review of horror films and the tropes they contain, (or) Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween, (or) that bloody girl screaming on the back of the truck in Texas Chainsaw Massacre—yeah, you know the one, (or) the only one who refuses sex or drugs, (or) being a “good girl” will not save you, (or) what was she wearing?, (or) shouldn’t she know better? she practically was asking for it, (or) who would ask for this, (or) no one asks for these horrors, (or) that bitch in I Spit on Your Grave who cut off that dude’s dick and was worse than her rapists, in Jason’s humble opinion, as a faceless commentator on YouTube, (or) more than 1,800 women were murdered in domestic violence incidents in 2016, and 85% knew their attacker, (or) women usually know the monster before he attacks, (or) the final girl must find all her dead friends’ bodies before vanquishing the villain, (or) even the police cannot find all the bodies still, (or) the murderer is usually someone with whom she had romantic relations, such as an exboyfriend or husband, (or) that’s not Ghostface calling to check in, is it?, (or) forget about Leatherface and Michael Myers, men have been monsters for hundreds of years and never needed masks, (or) Erin in You’re Next, (or) YOU’RE NEXT, (or) women have had enough, (or) women are sick of dying with screams in their throats, (or) Carol Clover studied horror and was still horrified at what she found, (or) women are refusing to die, (or) women are fighting back, (or) that is to say, thank God women are fighting back.

Final Girl 34

The Fifth Horseman Catherine Johnson

Tami stared at the brick wall ahead of her and exhaled a cloud of smoke into the cool evening. As she watched the fumes ascend, the back door swung open, and Nancy walked out to stand beside her. “You got something on your apron,” Tami said, handing her the cigarette. “Jerry still doesn’t know how to carry a tray.” “Still quiet in there?” “Yeah, just the two families and an old guy, but you should get back in; you’ve been nearly twenty minutes. David’s getting tired of it.” “I only come out when things are slow.” Nancy took a second drag. “You tell him that,” she said, still holding the smoke in her lungs as she handed the cigarette back to Tami. “He wouldn’t care if I were wasting time out here sucking him off,” Tami responded, throwing the butt to the ground. “Oh Tami,” Nancy sighed, shaking her head, “what would your mother say?” “Mamma doesn’t notice a damn thing.” “Maybe she would try if you weren’t so set on acting like this.” “You know that’s not true.” “Get back in there,” Nancy said, slapping Tami’s ass and opening the door. “I’ll be in in a minute.”

stone and the high-pitched whining sound that nobody else could hear. Tami had learned to drown out the sound of sobbing by focusing on this sound in her head. Staring at the tombstone, she summoned it, drowning out the cantor’s voice. The sound grew until she felt more than heard it, an electric heat between her ears. And then, as Tami was about to cry out in pain, it stopped. For a moment she heard nothing, the priest’s final blessing little more than a buzz behind her. Then she heard, as if from the stone, a chorus of voices that hummed, You’re a very brave little girl, Tami. Her mother’s wail tried to pierce through the shield, but the voices continued, warm as honey. You’re going to be very strong for your mamma, right? The little girl nodded, and the casket descended. She stayed kneeling in the dirt until strong arms scooped her up and carried her away.

A little girl stood in a crowd on the side of an open hill. Her light blue calico dress did little to protect her bony body from the wind, so she left her mother’s side and huddled behind the image of an angel carved on the surface of flat stone. As the marines folded the American flag, the child traced marble feathers with her finger. Men and women in black looked down at her with pity, but she kept her attention on the

As her shift dragged on, Tami felt the familiar tingle in her bones and ache in her chest. The clock moved at half speed. About an hour before closing, David came up behind her as she wiped a table. “Let me drive you home tonight,” he whispered. “Nancy is gonna drive me.” “So?” Tami turned to him, rag in hand. “Your breath stinks.” He put a hand on her hip. “Come on, you know you want to.” Tami darted her eyes from his to the ground and back, confessing the hint of a smile. She knew she was supposed to go with him, the timing was perfect, but she hadn’t been able to get out into the woods this morning and had felt wrong all day. Looking at the balding head that he tried to cover with a comb over and the moustache that turned every expression into a sneer, she knew she couldn’t go through it without support. “Do you have anything in your car?” “Bottle of Jack.” His breath really did reek. Tami turned her head to the right, looking at an old photo on the wall and filling her nostrils as she scratched behind her head with her free hand. She needed a few seconds to process the situation and she knew the angle accented her jaw and collarbone. “Sounds tempting,” she said, still looking away. “I know.”

The Fifth Horseman 35

The Fifth Horseman 36

“You know Nancy doesn’t approve of this,” she said, turning back to him. Nancy was clearly uncomfortable with Tami and David’s recent behavior. It must have been a shock to see her quiet, secluded school friend encouraging a known creep. Nancy had always tried to be a big sister to Tami, and Tami had let her. This time, however, the caring attentiveness was a nuisance. If she was going to do this tonight, Tami needed to find a way to keep Nancy unsuspicious. “You’re a big girl, Tami,” David said, breaking her thoughts. “Yes I am.” “You’re not scared are you?” “No. No I’m not.” In the months following her brother’s funeral, Tami had tried to figure out exactly who or what the voices were. Were they sent by her brother? Or did everyone hear them? Maybe they were from the father she’d never met. She even asked the voices once, but, when she never got an answer, she soon stopped caring and focused more on what she could learn from them. Like how they would not come while she was indoors or in a city. Because she had to be outside, somewhere open, as she grew she found herself spending more time out in the woods by her old house, hearing the comforting words that seemed to come from the ground and the trees and the distant, twisting clouds. They taught her how to work hard when her mother couldn’t handle the day. Big girls don’t cry, they’d tell her, and promise that if she just stayed strong, everything would be okay. They told her she was special because she was strong and because she was a girl. They promised her an important future if she did what she was told, something she learned to do unquestioningly. One afternoon, after the initial electric pain had stopped, Tami was greeted by the words, You are not alone. “I know,” she whispered, smiling. No. Someone else is here. Tami froze, unwilling to answer out loud. Now, you are going to stay right there, and be our brave little girl, right? Tami nodded, silent. Good. Now just do as you’re told. Say, “Come on out.”

“Come on out.” Although Tami’s legs urged her to run from the rustling sound in the trees behind her, she told herself that angels were watching her, and her thighs relaxed slightly. Turn around and smile. She did. A man in his forties was standing about ten yards behind her. Stay where you are and say hello. “What’s a little girl like you doing out here by yourself?” “I live nearby.” “So do I.” You’re doing wonderfully. Tell him your name is Meg. “My name’s Meg. What’s yours?” “Can I sit with you?” Tami nodded and moved over to make room on the stone. The man came over and sat beside her. “What are you doing out here? It’s getting cold.” “I don’t mind the cold.” “How old are you, Meg?” “Eleven and a half.” You’re doing so well. Tami looked ahead through the trees. She felt the man looking at her, felt his arm pressed against her. “You’re very pretty.” “Thank you.” Smile at him. Tami did. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “Oh nothing really. I get bored.” “I never get bored.” Keep looking at him. He likes it. “You must be very clever.” Tami shrugged. The man looked at her face very hard; Tami stared back harder. “I need to go.” “Oh.” “Can I have a kiss?” Don’t say anything. And don’t be scared. You’re being so strong. The man’s hand was strong, and his beard scratched Tami’s face.

The Fifth Horseman 37

The Fifth Horseman 38

His breath stank of cigarettes. Just don’t pay attention. Listen to our voice. When he’s done, tell him he’s a very bad man and that you’re going to tell on him. Everything will be fine. Tami smiled as she delivered her line. The man froze. Now go. Tami stood up. The man grabbed her hand, but she slipped from his grasp and started running toward home. The man called after her. She didn’t stop. Almost done. Twigs snapped behind her as she struggled to keep her footing on the steep slope. When we say jump, jump. The man was still calling for her to wait. Jump. The little girl jumped. The man did not. A moment later, Tami heard a crash behind her as a two-hundred pound body stumbled, hit the ground, and tumbled past her down the hill, where it was stopped by the trunk of a tree. Tami held her breath. The body didn’t move. The fear left Tami’s body in an instant. She approached the fallen man slowly. The voices did not object. He was lying on his stomach, but his neck was twisted ‘round, and two blank eyes stared, unblinking ahead. Now go home Tami, and don’t say anything. You were incredible. On her walk home, Tami offered thanks to her guardians in the sky, but in bed that night she woke in a panic after dreams of plastic dolls, mutilated by cruel brothers and left out in the rain. Nancy took her jacket off the pin and looked at Tami, who pretended not to understand. “Well?” “What?” “You coming or not?” Tami groaned. “Didn’t I tell you?” “Tell me what?” “My cousin Grant is coming to pick me up and take me to his house for the weekend. His wife had a baby last week, and I still haven’t The Fifth Horseman 39

seen her.” Nancy didn’t look very convinced. “It’s after eleven.” Tami knew she needed to be careful, but she was a good liar. “I told him it would be late and he just laughed and said something about crying infants. He’ll be here soon.” Nancy nodded but glanced back to the kitchen where David had disappeared. “Should I wait?” “Nah, I’m fine; Jerry’s still around and you look tired. You should go home.” “Okay. I’ll see you...” “Monday.” “Right. G’night.” Before the bell over the door had stopped ringing, David was behind Tami, breath and all. He put his hand on her waist, but she slapped him away. “Not here.” She knew she should be more submissive and cheerful, but she had been indoors too long and her bones ached. “Where then?” “I know a place. Get that bottle and I’ll drive.” Tami’s heart pounded as she sped along the back roads in a pickup that smelt of booze and gas. She opened the window and played with the radio dial. A low, rough female voice accompanied by a simple banjo stopped Tami’s fingers. The devil had a hold of me I turned my head and I could see The devil had a hold of me She focused on the song, trying to ignore the pain building in her bones: the price of not making it out this morning. The sight of the man’s body on the ground haunted Tami’s adolescence, and, even though she believed the voices when they told her that he deserved what he got, she felt the weight of her debt each day. The pressure mounted as the voices reminded her that, if she was going to survive in a world full of such men, she would have to be strong and The Fifth Horseman 40

not look back. When she was fourteen, she decided that she didn’t need their protection or instruction anymore and resolved to spend less time with them. That’s when she got sick. It began as a headache, but steadily spread through her body until she was vomiting from the pain. After three days, she made her way on unsteady feet out in the open and listened. After a whine that she thought would split her skull, the fever left, and relief spread through her bones like wine through unnourished blood. She thanked the sky for healing and the warm chorus reminded her that they would always protect her. The radio continued, There was something wrong with the butcher’s boy Was something wrong with the butcher’s boy He trembled in his hand and voice “What is this shit?” David sputtered. He’d already made excellent progress with the bottle of Jack Daniels, and his free hand kept grabbing for Tami’s thigh. That made Tami’s job somewhat easier. “Leave it on.” She thought back to a night about three months ago, when, lying on her back in a grassy field, the chorus had told her to get a job at the diner Nancy worked at. When asked why, they’d told her she’d find out later. About a week into the job, the voices had told her how to make herself attractive to David. She was flat-chested and youthful, which was good. She began to wear floral patterns and smile when she felt him looking at her; she played shy but ultimately did as she was told with assurance. As the weeks passed, a sick, nervous feeling had grown in Tami’s body, beginning in her stomach and spreading to her lungs and limbs. Now, here she was, driving a drunk man out into the night. The radio continued. The devil had a hold of me The others knew to let him be But the devil had a hold of me Before David had even realized that the truck had stopped, Tami was outside staring up at the sky. The initial pain hit behind her eardrums like a knife, but, as always, it passed, giving way to a numb buzzing and a

honeyed, Are you ready? Tami had learned long ago that she did not need to answer out loud. Tami fiddled with the clasp of her purse as she heard David climb out of the car. She turned to him with a half smile that she wasn’t sure he could see. He stumbled toward her and pulled her in for a kiss. She grabbed the bottle from his other hand, and, pulling away, brought the bottle to her lips. After taking a gulp that sent shivers through her chest, she spluttered and gagged as if she’d never tasted anything like it before. David laughed at her reaction, and she giggled along before leading him through the grass, away from the road. Just a little farther. “Isn’t it beautiful out tonight?” “You for sure are.” “I mean it.” She stopped and gazed upward. “The stars get so clear when you go out of the town. Look at them.” David grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him. At least now he just smelled of whiskey. “Is that why you brought me here?” “I love to look at the stars.” She kissed him, then lay down on the damp grass. “They remind me of my brother.” Nicely done. He lay down on his side next to her in the grass and began stroking her thigh under her skirt. “He watching you like an angel?” She sighed pitifully as way of response. You’re doing wonderfully. Look how happy you’re making him. “Poor baby. No father, no big brother. You got nobody to protect you, but me.” As he said this, David rolled over onto her, his hand playing with the buttons on her jacket. We’re right here with you. Tami’s hand reached for her purse, as his fingers pried at her clothing and his mouth sucked her neck. Ready? “Baby?” He lifted himself a few inches with his arms before grunting, “What?” As Tami slid the knife into his chest, her mouth still wore the flirting smile it had all day, even though David couldn’t possibly see in the darkness. She held the twitching body at bay as warm blood washed down her arms and onto her own chest.

The Fifth Horseman 41

The Fifth Horseman 42

“There are no angels,” she whispered then pushed the gargling body over to the ground at her side. Just lie there, dear. Catch your breath. Let the blood on you dry. We’re here. The damp grass on her back and neck was cold, but the blood that covered her warmed her, sending calm through her bones. Tami filled her lungs with sharp autumn air and exhaled with her whole frame. A star shot across the sky as her breath flew from her bloodied body up to watching, waiting night.

The Fifth Horseman 43

Deliberation hour Sarah Stec

My Place in Winter

DAD

Eva Rine

Karlie Ashcroft

is on Silver Lake. The six-hour drive with a gas stop in Glen’s Falls is nothing compared to the quiet joy of my place is a day trip from my grandparents’ house to a camp not built for the frigid temperatures of the Adirondack winter. The woodstove struggles to heat the room with its high ceilings and many windows, and I shiver next to it, nervous that I’ll melt my ski pants, but too cold to back away. My father checks the temperature indoors and out, remarking on how warm we’ve gotten it, though still not enough to take off coats. My grandfather’s snow mobile sits on the lake. We rode it from their house a few miles away, the back way over Taylor Pond and over the far side of the lake. The ice on the lake is thick enough to drive a car over and has enough snow drifts to make for an ideal snow mobile trip. The surrounding mountains are painted with skeletal deciduous trees and dark pines, brushed with streaks of snow. Sweeping snow off the ice-covered lake reveals patterns of bubbles and preserved cedar leaves and the pitch-dark underneath, a several foot layer of frozen water keeping our bodies out of the depths beneath it. My brother and I peer into the ice, its beauty and ominous darkness. We gather up snowballs and hurl them at each other. We go inside the camp hoping for some warmth and hot cocoa. My father unpacks sandwiches and chips, and we enjoy our winter picnic, ravenous from the cold and the play, and the excitement of being in

“Footsteps clicked like typewriter keys,” she said, as they danced down the stairs in the Utica Cutlery Company. Her father’s office was above the “P,” written in chipped, faded paint on the building’s exterior. click clack click We drive past the dead building a dead company office window just one of many in a row. Its inhabitant experienced a similar fate, set apart from his neighbors only by words engraved in stone one could type on that forgotten typewriter that forgotten building. click clack click

my place where I have been before I was born and every year since My Place in Winter 45

D A D 46

nobodything body is a body Anastasia McClendon

just a body body searching for body body scrubbing off body body after body

she is a body

the after body wishing

just a body

to return back

blinds barely closed

body missing

black hue blending blue

colors fade to black

bodies under blankets

body body body

body brushing body

body bounding after

body touching body

body after

body body body body bursting body bursting body bursting

nothing.

bursting bursting bursting nothing. she is still a body just a body blinking

blinded body in the bed body in the bed sun rising over head body body body body in the bed nobodything 47

nobodything 48

Concordia Domi Foris Pax Bodo

Contributors

Karlie Ashcroft is a senior occupational therapy major. Emily Bernard is a junior business administration major. Sabrina Bounader is a senior psychology major. Kody Fitzgerald is a junior English and philosophy double-major.

Grace Hudock is a senior women and gender studies major. Bodo (Elisabeth Johnson) is a freshman political science and philosophy double-major in the SJLA program. Catherine Johnson is a senior English and philosophy double-major in the SJLA program. Sam Marranca is a sophomore history major. Anastasia McClendon is a senior English and JREM double-major. Katelyn Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Connor is a sophomore psychology and philosophy doublemajor in the SJLA program. Stefan Olsen is a senior biochemistry and biomathematics double-major. Mary Purcell is a junior English and philosophy double-major in the SJLA program. Eva Rine is a senior biology major. Joshua Rudolph is a junior JREM and philosophy double-major in the SJLA program.

Sarah Stec is a junior biology major. Tianna Trujillo is a senior English major. Alexis Ward is a senior English, philosophy, and Asian studies triple-major in the SJLA and Honors programs. Ethan Wasalinko is a senior philosophy and history double-major. St. John Whittaker is a senior environmental science, biochemistry, and philosophy triple-major in the SJLA program.

Editorial Staff Fall 2019

Esprit Submission Information Deadline for Spring 2020: March 27 at 11:59 p.m. Esprit, a review of arts and letters, features work by students of The University of Scranton and is published each fall and spring as a co-curricular activity of the English department. All submissions are reviewed anonymously. All accepted submissions to Esprit that are the work of currently enrolled full-time undergraduates at The University of Scranton will be considered, according to genre, for The Berrier Prose Award ($100), The Berrier Poetry Award ($100), and The Esprit Graphics Award ($100). We will consider a maximum of five visual art submissions and five literary submissions (poetry and/or prose) per author/artist. Esprit does not accept resubmissions, works currently under consideration elsewhere, or previously published works. Manuscripts (Electronic Submission) Original stories, poems, essays, translations, features, sketches, humor, satire, interviews, reviews, and short plays must be typed and saved in Microsoft Word file format (.docx). All manuscripts, except poetry and short plays, must be double-spaced. Every page of the manuscript must list the title and page number in the upper right corner. It is recommended that all manuscripts be submitted in 12 -point Times New Roman font. The author’s name must NOT appear at any point in the manuscript to ensure that all submissions are judged anonymously. Each submission is to be saved as a separate Word file, and all submissions are to be attached to a single email and sent to espritsubmissions@scranton.edu from the author’s University email account. The text of the email itself must contain the following information: Writer’s name Royal ID number Year in school and enrollment status (full-time or part-time) Major(s) and honors program(s) (Business Leadership, Honors, SJLA, or Magis) Genre(s) of submissions emailed (poetry or prose) Title of each work submitted in the listed genre(s) Submissions received late, mislabeled, or emailed without all of the above information completed will NOT be considered.

Graphics (Physical Submission) Black and white/color photographs and pen and ink drawings work best in this format, but pencil drawings, collages and paintings will be considered. Do NOT submit the original copy of physical artwork. Instead, submit a printed photograph of the original copy. Photographs of all original works must be submitted in a plain manila envelope. The artist’s name must NOT appear on either the work or on the envelope. All visual art submissions must include, on the backside, the title of the piece, description of the medium, and an arrow indicating the orientation of the work. A CD-R or disposable flash drive with digital copies of the submitted works must also be included; the CD-R or flash drive must also be labeled with the name of the artist and the titles of the works contained. Please note that only physical copies of the submitted works will be reviewed by the staff during the selection process; quality of the print may thus affect the consideration of submissions. When the work submitted is a study of, or is otherwise dependent upon, another artist’s work, please supply the other artist’s name and that work’s title. All visual art submissions must include an index card containing the following information: Artist’s name Royal ID number Year in school and enrollment status (full-time or part-time) Major(s) and honors program(s) (Business Leadership, Honors, SJLA, or Magis) Title of each work submitted Medium of each work submitted (photography, painting, charcoal, etc.) Submissions received late, mislabeled, faintly printed, damaged or submitted without a hard copy print, soft copy or completed index card containing the above information will NOT be considered. Visual art submissions can be deposited at the following address: Esprit, Room 221, McDade Center for Literary and Performing Arts Scranton, PA 18510. Please do NOT address questions regarding submission policy to espritsubmissions@scranton.edu; this email address is expressly for receiving prose and poetry submissions and will not be accessed until the Esprit submission deadline has passed. Questions should instead be addressed to the Editor-in-Chief for the Spring 2020 semester, Catherine Johnson (catherine.johnson2@scranton.edu).

Acknowledgments

Esprit appreciates the kind support of: Valarie Clark Scott “Scooter” Curran Melissa Eckenrode

Joey Delmar Jody DeRitter Mary Engel Michael Friedman Joseph Kitcho Joe Kraus Darlene Miller-Lanning Janice Tellier Rich Larsen Glen Pace Frank Rutkowski Hamish Whittaker 

Stephen Whittaker Jenny Whittaker Hank Willenbrink Grandma Zaffuto CLP Physical Plant Staff

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