The Trident - Spring 2020

the

trident

the literary magazine of SUNY Fredonia Spring 2020 Marketing Team

Fiction Editors

Poetry Edtiors

Nonfiction Editor Art Editor

The Trident

Designers

2

Managing Editors

Web Ediitor Faculty Advisor

Dany Dillon Kaitlin Huffman Madiha Packer Zaire Portier Cameron Ransom Sophie Wojciechowski Emily Broderick Emmanuelle Knappenberger Victoria Wraight Areania Ashley Liz Monk Melissa Trotter Kelly Tyrpak Aidan Pollard Michael Belliard Alyssa Blaszak Queenasia Grandison Felder Heather Stein Jacob Toy Dan Dudzic Bryttany Ewers Giovanina Vancheri Hope Winter Liz Suski Michael Sheehan

Spring 2020

3

fiction

Jay Darling

Ice Cream Showers 22 Katelyn Davis

Vienna 36 Robin Eassa

Disparition 8 Carly Grimm

Forgive and Try to Forget 26 Jordyn Lee

Inner Demons 7 A Choice 39 Dylan Murowski Into the Snow 10 Alex Simmons

The Initiation 31 Mark Speranza

Mama, I’m Home 14

nonfiction

Emma Marino

Dominoes 42 Robbie Wolfe Labyrinth 41

art

Nicole Barlow

Glasses 68-9 Fish 73 Graham Paxbro Vent 13 Pomegranate 21 Elizabeth Knasick 81 Lochlainn O’Connell

Jellyfish King

35 Savannah Pollum 75

photo portfolio

Jules Hoepting

Sunset on Capitalism

Dunkirk Light

Shadow of Life

Reflection of Connection

50-1 52-3 54-5 56

poetry

Milo Arnone The Terrace 74 Bri Benvenuti Lost Souls 46 Beyond 47

Little Forest Pathway 48 Olivia Berne

Connection 78 Love 79 Change 79 Adrianna Burgos

Haiku 71 Mary Conover

Leaving Syracuse 62 Robin Eassa

Symbiosis 65 Kailyn Gatto

Selections from

Now and Forever 72 Julia Gero

October 13 76 My Boy 77 Neil Goldsmith

October

45 Jules Hoepting

Stunted Minds,

Stunted Space 57 Casey Huber

Weekend 80 Alexa Kartschoke

Moments in Our Time 58

Closed

59 Sarah Lopes

Haiku 71 Anthony Miller

Text Box 64 Dom Magistro

Cycle B 63 Alexander Moore

Dreaming 60 Morgan Trapper

I yearn for my summer youth 61 Sarah Weynard

Vocal 66

fiction

Jordyn Lee

We don’t remember the beginning, the start of the world around us. We do not know who is trustworthy and who will betray us next. We are scattered among civilization; in the abandoned houses, hospitals, and habitats. We contemplate and wonder as we watch others going about their days: do they know those days are limited? Are they able to sense the purest of dangers surrounding their every step? Life must be dreary, being guided by ignorance while the Reaper keeps track.

We are what is right with this place, in this time period. They are the test subjects and we are the nurturers. But we have our limits, the limits of temptation to revel in the simplicities of modern life. Our time will come and we will break free from this prison we have been pushed towards. Our hearts race with blood rushing vigorously; the adrenaline fueling our displeasure. It is as simple as comparing outsiders to insects; they stand no chance against us.

Can you feel it? Your heart is racing, Blood vessels are popping and expanding. Your idea of reality is quickly fading. You wake up each morning and there is a piece that is always the same. The piece may move around yet it is always there. The other pieces morph, altering the memories you carry and changing your perception of the life before your eyes. What is this piece, you ask? Your dream, of course. Your mind is what is changing in this padded white room.

Spring 2020

Inner Demons

7

The Trident

Disparition

8

Robin Eassa

She was holy, alone.

Clean, exposed skin flashed in the light, crooked teeth accentuated in the brightness. Nimble fingers traced designs in the soft sand. Bruises speckled her knees like constellations shining under her skin, and wild hair surrounded her, flickering in the turbulent air. She was full, healthy, alive.

Her limbs twitched slightly as her hands pushed under the ground, sinking into the grains. Her eyes weren’t shielded against the rising storm, and the sharp particles in the air left grazes on her arms and legs.

Her movements were erratic and curious, sweeping around her and connecting the lines and arcs she had created. These were her own, her possessions, in the empty landscape. Sometimes, she would cease and simply shove her limbs into the sand and flex her fingers underground. They grasped for some invisible treasure, a thought that kept slipping out of her sparking mind. The muscles on her back rippled, and her spine could be seen faintly under the skin.

I know my task, she thought. I know my task and I will finish it. It will be good for me, and I will be so much better after. Oh, how glorious it will be! Doubt flashed briefly, a rumble of thunder in the distance, but it was too quick, too small, too far away. She would deal with it later.

She knows who she is.

So she continued. *** He was holy, alone.

Dried blood was caked on his frail body. Scratches were carved deep into his skin, though the scratches seemed slightly too deep to be human. Scars of the same variety lined his legs, wrists, torso. Sunken, watery eyes were cast down towards his thin hands, half-submerged in the shifting sand. His limbs shuddered slightly as his back arched, trying to pull his hands from the ground.

Each vertebra strained, bulging out of the papery skin of his back. Spikes, a self-defense mechanism many desert animals have obtained. The desert changed everything, of course. He knew that.

The same designs were present, yet not around him, but on him. Swirls and lines and dots made up his frame, his skin a composition. It was subtle, but they pulsed under his skin, disguised as veins and bruises. Dusty air filled his lungs with the same spirals and he sunk deeper down. He couldn’t tell the difference between the pins and needles in his fingers and the scratching of sand against skin.

Why was I put here? He lamented silently, the wind tearing the thoughts from his head. I used to know. I can feel it behind my eyes and in every nerve of my body. But I cannot place it. He tried to take a breath, but his ribs cracked as thunder reverberated through the scenery. Is this truly worth it?

No, he thought. Stop. The ground rumbled and he sunk further into the sands, more than ever before. The grains danced around his forearms in the winds, and those damned spirals and patterns could be seen as they slithered around him. I must finish. I must know my reward I must know why. I must be better. The low, dark sky was briefly illuminated by lightning.

Struggling, he ripped his hands out of the ground, rivulets of sand running down his arms and connecting his fingers to the ground with shimmering strings. He tried to lift them to the sky, trying to feel cool wind on his injured skin, but he found them only returning to his scarred body, blood beading on his skin and collecting beneath his fingernails.

He is trying to remember who he once was.

So he continued.

***

Spring 2020

It was holy, alone.

There was so much sound. So much sound that the other senses were muted, a secondary reaction to the deafening roar of the tempest. Its thick skin was impervious to the jagged sand whipping in the air, and Its squinted eyes were streaming with tears. Long limbs struggled under the sand, trembling, swimming forward in its lifeless sea. Ears were tight against Its skull, weathered and torn. Bony spines raised from Its back as it tensed, ceasing to paddle as lightning ripped the sky in jagged arcs. The tendrils curled and danced in the turbulent sky, spiraling.

The surface of the ground constantly shifted, sand being blown into the sky and lifted back down in rapid succession. Despite the waves of sand, It moved with a senseless, almost mechanical rhythm, eerily in time with the howling wind. It was one with the vast desert, It knew this storm. All It knew was the churning of sand, the feeling of wind ripping air out of its lungs and replacing it with grime.

How long have I been here? Barely coherent, It thought, for the first time in a long time.

Maybe It used to think. I want to stop. If I stop, I will drown. I can’t remember it being any other way. I am strong, but I am not strong enough to get through this. I am going to die in this storm, and I will have nothing.

Unease and pain forced a cry out of It under the dull scream of the weather, a piercing, inhuman sound. It moved powerfully, desperately as the sand smothered the noise. Choking, It swam harder. Maybe I am nearly finished. I am getting stronger, but I need to finish. This is all it ever knew. I must be better.

It does not remember who It was.

So it continued. *** You were holy, alone.

There was nothing. The sky burned black, and your body lay completely surrounded by the ever bountiful sand. You could barely feel anything. Did you even have eyes, fingers, skin? It had been so long since you knew what you looked like. You attempted to move, and there was slight response in your muscles. Your back twisted slightly, and the horns running down your body creaked in response. Your spines were all you could ever feel, constantly growing out of your back.

They vibrated ever so slightly with your acknowledgement, causing sand to trickle down your body and fill in the spaces it hadn’t reached before. The taste of the dry earth was everything, everything, everything. The scratch of your breath, marred by the sand swirling in your lungs, was almost a welcome sensation. At least you felt something.

There was no wind, no thunder, no lightning. You were shrouded in silence, thick and viscous. It oozed into your head, making your long-dead thoughts stir in response. I am safe, you drawl. There is nothing that can hurt me. I made it.

The darkness around you is complete, and undiscovered colors dance at the corner of your vision. I am strong. I am capable. These words sluggishly run through your head. I did this. You had no memory of how, or why, but you know. You know there was something that you had to do, and you did it. The dancing lights started to engulf your vision, in spiraling movements.

Beautiful, you remark. It’s like artwork. Nostalgia shot through you, the first true feeling you have felt in a long time. They are familiar, terrifying yet comforting. You knew them. You chased them long ago, yearning to engulf and consume them. Now they are you. With every beat of your hidden heart, the swirls and patterns run through you. What you are is still a mystery. But it does not matter to you. You allow these visions to swallow you, and you sink into the strange rhythm of the endless spiraling of the shapes, knowing only two things.

You know who you are.

You are better now.

9

Into the Snow

Dylan Murawski

The Trident

WELL MAYBE I’LL JUST LEAVE THEN! GO AHEAD! SEE IF I CARE! FINE! GOOD!

10

You stomp to the door, grabbing your blue green and purple patchwork jacket and a pack of parliaments, and storm out. Michael, your boyfriend, scowls as you slam the door behind you. When you’re gone, he lets out a long, exasperated sigh. He doesn’t notice for another few seconds that the smoke alarm is going off. “Oh shit,” he suddenly blurts out, and he sprints for the kitchen. Steam flows out of the pot you had been making spaghetti in, and boiling water scorches the cheap tiled floor beneath him. He looks to the door for a long moment, before finally turning the oven off.

You reach the first floor of your apartment complex, and rush for the door. The lady behind the desk, oblivious as always, exclaims, “Have a great night” as you pace by. Tonight, you decide not to acknowledge her. You open the door, step down the brick stairs ahead, and take a right, starting for who-knows-where.

It is freezing outside, and your jacket doesn’t help much. Snow litters the ground and the air and the sky and everything in between. You’ve always hated the snow. “It’s not aesthetic, it’s pathetic,” you once said to a friend, Ryan, the rhyme unintentional (or so you claimed). “It’s cold and it’s wet and it doesn’t go away for fucking months!” Ryan doesn’t talk to you about the weather anymore.

You stop for a smoke break, hoping to heat your body up a little bit. You lean up against the glass window of an old antique store and light a cigarette. The tobacco has a bland, almost stale taste to it, but you continue smoking anyway. Across the street, you see a neon sign with “DAWN’S CAFE” in big bold letters; and in much smaller, less bold letters, you see “OPEN.” And it instantly makes you think of Michael.

You were just minding your own business. You and Mark had been over for three weeks, and you decided to finally stop sulking in your apartment. Instead, you were ready to take the world by the balls, to finally start putting all of your energy into what really mattered: writing. You woke up at eight in the morning every day for a month to get an early start on the day. Every now and then, you’d go to Dawn’s Cafe for a cup of coffee (‘the best coffee in the world,’ you thought). You’d take a seat on the second floor, where the cushioned seats were. Once you were nice and comfortable, you’d take out your laptop and type for hours. Then one day, he saw you.

“Hey,” he said. And you said, “Hi.” “Whatcha up to?” He spoke very fast, so it sounded more like “Wuchuptoo?” He was sweating pinballs. You smiled.

“At this coffee shop? I’m drinking coffee.” He let out a timid laugh, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Right, sorry. Uh... You come here often?” You laughed.

“Look, you seem like a good guy,” you started, and he could tell where this was going. “But I’m still getting over an ex right now. Sorry.”

“Oh, right, uh- sorry. I’ll leave you alone” He turned around and started rushing back to his table. As you watched this lost puppy scutter away, however, you felt something strange; a wave of warmth started to flush over you. You thought about Mark, then about your writing, and then about this innocent stranger.

“Hey, wait.”

It has been a long time since you’ve been in Dawn’s Cafe. You consider paying it another visit. As soon as the thought appears, however, it is gone. ‘The coffee there sucks.’ You start walking again, a little faster now.

Spring 2020

As you start to pick up pace, your mind scatters to a million different places at once. You wonder why Michael always has to start shit. You wonder why he always scrunches his nose and furrows his eyebrows when you tell a story, and why his most recent catchphrase seems to be, “You know I love you, but...” You wonder what you ever saw in him in the first place.

On a (debatably) more pressing note, however, you wonder where you’re going to sleep tonight. ‘Mom’s? No, she’ll ask too many questions. Ryan’s? No, he won’t ask enough.’ You decide to pick the most neutral option, and give Natalie a call.

After three rings, you hear a click, an indistinct moan and then a soft, slurred “Hullo?”

“Nat? It’s me, Katie.” “Katie, you know it’s ten, right?” “You’re twenty-seven. What are you doing sleeping at ten?” “Well since I had a baby, sleep isn’t really an-” Natalie lets out a long yawn, and you suddenly feel like the biggest dick in the world. “I don’t gotta explain myself. What do you want?”

You try to say ‘Sorry. You’re right,’ but instead say “Anyway, I, uh, I need to stay at your place for the night. Me and Michael, we had a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah. A fight, or whatever. It’s not important. I just don’t want to go back there tonight.” You hear some shuffling. When Natalie speaks next, her voice is a bit clearer. “Are- you okay?”

“No, I’m cold and I’m mad and I’m stuck out here in this fucking sn-” “I don’t need to hear the snow lecture again.” There’s a pause, followed by a long sigh, and then, “Okay. Where are you?”

You tell her to meet you at the laundromat (the only place not too far that you know will be open), and she tells you she’ll be there in an hour. You hang up, and start making your way to the building.

You’re practically running at this point, and you make it to the laundromat in record time.

Just as expected, in neon on the window, you see “OPEN 24-7!” (well actually, the light on the E and 4 must’ve died out, so you instead see “OP N 2 -7!”). Through the window, aside from washing machines upon washing machines and a few dryers, the place is vacant. You jaywalk to the other side of the street and step in.

When you open the door, you’re immediately hit with a wave of heat. You let out a sigh of relief, and take off your jacket, hanging it up to dry. The place smells like a high school locker room (‘Mark must’ve been here,’ you laugh to yourself), but you stick it out and take a seat on one of the bright yellow chairs.

It doesn’t hit you until now just how tired you are. Your thighs and feet are numb from the cold, and your head feels like it’s made of bricks. A heavyset middle-aged lady enters the laundromat, and you smile at her as she strolls past you. You decide to spread out, and stretch onto four of the seats. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and finally let all of your weight go. You drift to sleep to the sound of water swishing round and round, round and round.

You are back at your apartment. It is much cleaner than it was, and all of Michael’s things are gone. You stand in your bathroom, looking in the mirror as you apply makeup. You look much younger (early twenties?) and your hair just barely touches your shoulders, a look you haven’t sported in years. Your phone buzzes: “Hey! I’m here. No rush.” You rush.

A few minutes later, you leave your apartment. “Have a great night!” says the lady behind the desk. “Thanks! You too!” You smile at her, and open the door.

Michael stands in front of his car, a rusty old Toyota he got rid of a few months ago. “Hey, beautiful.” His voice is calm and clear. You smile as he opens the passenger door for you.

Once you’re moving, you ask, “So, where did you plan on taking me tonight?” “It’s a surprise,” he answers. “Trust me, you’ll love it.” You smile all the way there. You look out the window, watching as buildings blurr by. Every now and then, you and Michael share eye contact for a moment, before sharing a quiet laugh and returning your gaze to where it was. Your smile doesn’t even falter until he pulls into the parking lot of an outdoor skating rink.

Looking out the window, you suddenly notice just how heavy the snow is falling today. It seems as though everything you had been looking at has suddenly been coated in a veil of infinite

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and unrelenting white dots. Trying as hard as you can not to sound like an ass, you say, “Oh. We’re going ice skating?”

“Surprise!” he says. “This is my absolute favorite place this time of year.” “Oh, good,” you say.

“I can’t wait.” You are almost certain you sound like an ass. He doesn’t catch on, though; he gets out of the car and opens your door. You thank him, and step out into the snow. ‘Fuck fuckity fuck fucking fuck.’ You smile at him, and hold his hand as you get closer and closer to the rink.

Michael seems to gain more and more confidence as the two of you approach. “Hey Matt! Hey Nathan!” The two guys give him bro hugs, and they all talk for a few minutes. You just stand there.

Your cheeks are becoming numb, as little white specks of dust fill your vision, and you want to leave Michael with his friends to find a warm place; ‘maybe a heated lounge somewhere... or Hawaii.’

After a few minutes, the three guys bro hug each other again, and Matt and Nathan head onto the ice. “I know those guys,” he says.

“Oh? I couldn’t tell,” you say. You try to sound cute and playful, but it comes out standoffish.

Michael furrows his brow.

“Hey, sorry, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just cold.”

“Oh, shit, sorry. Here, take my coat.” He takes off his heavy Penguin’s coat and puts it around you. It doesn’t help much, but you thank him anyway.

Michael leads you to a counter and gets you a pair of ice skates. They’re a bit big for your feet, but you decide not to complain. You sit on a bench and he ties them for you.

And just like that, you are on the edge of the rink; just one step more and you’ll be on top of a big slippery sheet of ice, “walking” for “fun.” You take a look inside the rink. You see a few kids stumbling about with little ice walkers, as an older couple follows closely behind, smiling and laughing. A teenage couple holds hands, the girl clutching onto the boards next to her. Matt and Nathan stand in a corner, wearing bright red jackets with whistles around their necks, talking to each other, completely oblivious as a fat kid zooms past them at a speed you didn’t think was possible on foot.

‘Okay, Katie. Calm down,’ you think. ‘Maybe it isn’t so bad. All these other people seem to be having fun. Just give it a chance.’ You take one long, exaggerated breath, and step forward.

You slip, and fall flat on your face. And Michael blurts, “Oh shit!”

Next thing you know, you’re on a couch in a small, secluded room, in front of a fireplace, next to Michael. You hold an ice pack up to your swollen forehead.

“I don’t really like snow,” you admit, and he laughs. “Understandable.” He puts his arm around you, and you rest your head on his chest. You are quiet for a long, long time, just staring into the fire. You stay silent for hours, months, years even. You feel your skin begin to crinkle, Michael’s arm become fragile and thin, your vision blur. The warmth of the fire fades slowly away, as the flame shrinks smaller and smaller, until it is but a fragment of burning coal.

“Will we be like this forever?” you ask. And Michael says, “I don’t know.” And you squeeze him a little tighter.

Eventually, Natalie shakes you awake. She puts her arm around you, and you bury your head in her neck. And together, you step back out into the snow.

Spring 2020

13

Mama, I’m Home

The Trident

Mark Speranza

14

Things have been going alright. No, Mama couldn’t afford to send me away to some prestigious dance school, but I didn’t need that. To be honest, getting my Bachelor’s felt more or less like an obligation. But Mama insisted, even though it wasn’t exactly the best choice financially.

She said it will help in getting the new dance studio I’ve been dreaming of. We’ve been looking at this one place a few blocks down that just went up for lease. It’s a dingy little hole in the wall but I’ve been saving up for a bit now and I know we can turn it into something our own. I haven’t made the purchase yet but we’re close. I’m excited to finally give the rest of the family a proper place to learn dance. They get so excited to come down and practice with me at home. I’m just glad to provide the same kind of sanctuary Mama gave me when she took me in. It’s a debt I know I can never repay but at the very least I can share my passion for dancing with them. As of right now, I’ve been teaching them in the living room. It’s a big room, but considering all the children we’ve had to take in over the past few years, it’s stood no chance against a horde of 4-10 year olds. The wooden floor in there has no doubt lost the luster it once had back because of it. It’s a shame, since Mama’s usually good with keeping the house in the best shape possible.

That’s no big deal, though. Mama’s always been adamant about keeping myself and my dreams a priority anyway. She’s never once let anyone help her with bills or the house as far as I know and I know for a fact she isn’t gonna let anyone help her now.

“You’ll start to lose yourself if you spread yourself too thin.” Mama says. She always told me to remember those words. * * * * * I’m on my way home from work. My waitressing job is a pretty far walk and I’m not great with directions, but that house I can spot from a mile away. It’s the biggest on the block and the only one with chipped white panelling. It’s really starting to show its age.

I walk up the old wooden porch, clinging to the railing. It’s been an unusually rainy September so far, so I’ve gotta watch my step when I walk up, ‘less I wanna slip and fall flat on my face.

“Mama, I’m home!” I shout. I see Mama scrubbing the dishes from dinner. I forgot I promised I would make it home for dinner this time.

“Hey, honey.” She takes a deep breath. “I have your supper in the fridge.”

That shaky, breathy voice is something I hear very rarely from her. I know I’ve been late coming home the past few days but she doesn’t usually sound this shaken up over those kinds of things. Maybe she’s just exhausted.

“Thanks, Mama. I’m gonna eat real quick and then go to Marcel’s again for the night. I’ll see you in the morning!”

“Hmmmm...” Mama groans.

“Make sure you actually eat before you leave this time. You ain’t gonna let this food go to waste like you did with that half eaten chicken marsala you left me last week!” she says as she walks out of the kitchen.

“Yes, Mama. You don’t need to lecture me on good eating habits for the tenth time in a row.” I joke at her, trying to lighten the mood. I don’t think she likes it when I stay over my boyfriend’s. She’s met him a few times, but it takes a lot to gain her trust. At least he got along with the children, playing tag and hide and seek with them during the few opportunities he was able to take the day off. I just hope Mama forgives me for breaking my promise on staying home for the night again. It’s

Spring 2020

for a good reason this time. Marcel is gonna become the manager at his uncle’s club. From what he said, he’s going to make double what he does now. I know Mama says clubs are dirty and no good, but this is something we just can’t ignore. It just seems like too good of an opportunity to pass up.

We’ll be able to buy the studio space in time. He says he’ll be starting tomorrow.

After last night, I felt bad for coming and going, so I thought I’d surprise Mama with the uplifting news that I got the new job. Mama’s an early bird, so I made sure to come home at around six. That’s when she usually makes breakfast.

“Mama? You home?” My eagerness quickly turns to curiosity when I find Mama’s not home. She probably went grocery shopping. But this early? As my footsteps creek throughout the empty house, I couldn’t help but notice Mama left her bedroom door open. I see a folded letter sitting atop her dresser when looking across the hallway. I can’t help myself.

“Forgive me, Lord.” I mutter as I unfold the piece of paper. The letter is from the bank.

Mama missed her fourth mortgage payment. They’re going to foreclose the house.

All of a sudden, I notice my shortness of breath. Stumbling to keep my balance, I step away from the letter. I had no idea. Mama was never one to talk finances, but she always told me she had it under control. She always said she’d handle it and that it’s nothing to worry about. Why wouldn’t she tell me this?

Before I could gather myself together, the front door unlocks, making a very audible creak.

That must be Mama. I can’t let her see me like this. She’ll flip if she finds out I’ve been looking through her things. I hastily make my way out of the bedroom and into the living room.

“Oh, Felicia, you’re home.” she says in surprise.

“I….I, um…” I stutter, trying to compose myself.

Mama inches closer to me, her thick eyebrows furrowing. “Are you alright? Honey, you look so pale.” she says, concerned.

“Hey, I—I just came home to check the mail. I’m about to leave though. Love you.”

I rush out of the house before Mama could even ask me why I was acting so strange. I can’t remember the last time I lied to Mama straight to her face like that. In that moment, it was as if I was talking to a stranger. Rushing out the door, I leave without saying another word.

I end up walking to Marcel’s place. I didn’t know where else to go, I just needed some familiarity. He lives in a small apartment downtown, in the thick, dense concrete maze that is the city. It’s a little messy, but I’ve warmed up to it within the past year we’ve been together. I told him everything.

“It’s ok, we’re gonna make it work. I know you’re nervous.” Marcel assures me, stroking the waves in my red hair as he proposes an offer I never thought I’d consider. “At least you’ll be one step ahead of the other girls. From what I’ve seen, they definitely didn’t take dancing lessons.” I nod in agreement, letting out a half hearted chuckle. We both sit on his messy bed, still like the vivid orange and purple sunset outside. Marcel locks eyes with me.

“You haven’t told her yet that you know, haven’t you?”

“I’m going to tell her tomorrow. I just… she was busy and I didn’t want to stress her out.” I say, trying to come up with an excuse to end the conversation.

“You’re sure about doing this, right?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.” I say in a hushed tone. Marcel glances out the window.

“Then we should probably get going. We’re not gonna wanna be late.” He checks the time and quickly starts getting ready. I follow suit and we hastily leave the apartment.

Upon arriving, I’m greeted to a bright purple and blue flickering sign adorning a red brick wall.

“Sleeping Sunset”. It says. But the “p” is completely dead, unlike the other spastically flashing letters. Walking inside, the club was smaller than I had imagined, with the air in the condensed space being thickened with smoke and fog coming from what seems out of nowhere.

Small black tables scatter the vaguely translucent floor. There are bright neon purples and reds and

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blues adorning what looks to be a stage, well worn and in need of a new coat of paint.

“I thought this place would look a bit… cleaner.” I hesitate when stepping inside. Marcel puts his arm around me.

“It’s a bit rough, but we’re getting it fixed up. Just think about your dancing, that’s all. Think about when you dance for the children and Mama.” Marcel tries to give a heartwarming smirk. I grin back. “I’ll be in the office right over there. If you need anything, you’ll know where to find me.” He darts off without another word.

All of a sudden, I’m alone in this blindingly bright cave. And soon after, I see several faces, some friendly, some not. Some people glance at me in my outfit, which I didn’t even realize until how uncomfortably itchy it was to wear. I see some other girls pouring out from the side door by the stage, some dancing, others mingling with the guests. I head for the stage. The steps creek loudly walking up them, almost loud enough to gain the attention of every single person here. I notice I’m the only one on stage, and for the first time in a while, my body freezes. It’s the same feeling I had felt when Mama took me to my first ballet class; the feeling of performing in front of strangers that I had no ties with, who were all there just to be entertained. I tried to force myself to think about Mama, and the house and the studio, but I couldn’t move. Maybe it’s because of these stupid heels I’m forced to wear. I can barely walk, let alone dance freely in them. All these thoughts rush to my head and before long, I’m snapped out of my daze. In the brief moment the lights are dimmed, I can see several people, customers and employees just staring at me, waiting for something to happen.

Out of the corner of my right eye, I see one of the girls come over and pull me aside. She grabs me by the arm.

“You don’t have to dance right now, but you need to do something. You can’t just stand there.” she says, teeth almost clenched together. “Try mingling with the customers. Take some orders. Start waitressing, you know?”

“I-I’m sorry.” I look down at my feet. The girl starts walking away. She turns her head towards me.

“Don’t apologize to me. Just don’t stick out.”

Heeding her advice, I step off the stage and walk into the crowd. I’m used to being friendly at my old job, but this place is so much different. Obviously there aren’t any families, or teenagers out on their first dates, or anything cute like. But even with those expectations in mind, these guests are different. I’ve never felt so awkward in my life. My eyes drift to an older man sitting alone at a table in the corner by the back. I don’t know why, but he caught my attention immediately. His weathered face sagged, but it was still actively aware of everything around him. He has sharp eyes, observing everyone in the club.

“How are you doing this evening, sir?” I bend over to put a glass of water on the inexcusably short table.

No response. I try breaking the silence.

“Can I get you anything to drink, perhaps?” The man turns his head slowly toward me.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” The man says, squinting his eyes.

“Y-yes, I am.” I reply, not knowing how to react.

“I’ve been here many times before, but I’ve never seen anyone like you before. You’re not desensitized like the rest of them.” He goes, referring to the other girls.

“If you don’t mind me asking, but what’s someone like you doing in a place like this? Don’t you have a family?” I say, nosily. My face immediately turns red after realizing I just tried prying into some stranger’s business. I’m resisting every urge not to bury my face away from the flashing neon lights. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to‒‒”

“I do, or I did.” the man lowers his head. “In fact, I had a daughter who would’ve been right around your age. You remind me of her.”

“I do?”

“These other girls, they’re hardened. Used to the work. But all I know is that if I saw my girl on that stage, I’d be heartbroken.”

Spring 2020

Before I could even determine if this old man was being genuine or senile, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. Turning around, I see Marcel greeting me with a nervous smile. His face is somehow a noticeably bright red, despite all the colors beaming throughout the room.

“Hey, you alright?” He pulls me aside. Before I even answer, he leads me to the side, away from everyone else. “Maybe just observe the other girls tonight, you know? Get a feel for how they go about things.” I’ve never seen him this jittery before. I do what he says and stick close to him for the rest of the night. * * * * *

After a long night, all I wanted was sleep. But my hazy eyes are woken by a calm, familiar voice. I had been staying at Marcel’s place after work for the past couple weeks. He kept insisting I talk to Mama about the house, and I always promised I would. But tonight, he had enough and dropped me off at home. I’m not ready for this, not yet. Not this early. Every night now I just want to sleep. Why can’t I just sleep, Mama? Why won’t you let me just sleep?

“Felicia? Felicia baby, I need you to wake up.”

I scramble together and rub my eyes. The bright morning sunlight beaming through my bedroom window is so blinding, I have to squint in order to make out Mama’s ruffled expression clearly.

“Honey, it’s 12:40.” she says in a more stern voice.

“It... is?” I guess it is the afternoon. I can’t remember the last time I overslept this much, let alone past noon. Mama makes no effort getting into what she wants to talk about. She’s always been direct about her feelings, for better or for worse.

What happened? I spent all night trying to contact you, and then at 4 am I hear the door rustle open!”

“What were you doing awake at 4 am, Mama? You should’ve been asleep.” I ask.

“What were you doing at 4 am?”

“I was with Marcel. We just lost track of time, that’s all.”

“Listen, my love, I know you’re an adult now, but you’ve been galavanting with this Marcel for all hours of the night. I was worried sick! What happened to working toward the studio?” Mama folds her arms in disapproval. She looks down on me like I’ve committed the worst crime on the planet.

“Marcel’s been helping me with the studio, you really need to give him a chance.”

“Not with that job he has. And at 4 am?”

“He’s been supportive, Mama.”

“He makes money off of women flaunting their bodies. I don’t approve.”

Mama begins to walk out of my room. Blood is intensely rushing to my face.

“His life isn’t any of your business.” I mutter. She stops and turns her head.

“It is when my daughter’s involved.” She continues walking out the door, but shuts it softly.

It’s silent. The only audible noise is my breathing. I notice myself blankly staring out the window, watching the freshly fallen leaves on the dilapidated porch. The tree on our front yard has almost completely shed itself.

Throwing my sheets to the side, I decide to get up and go into the kitchen. My head is spinning a million miles an hour. I almost trip over myself immediately upon standing up. I hadn’t eaten anything at all last night. Must’ve worked for 8 or 9 hours straight. I’ve never heard such a visceral sound gargle from inside my stomach. It almost hurts.

Stumbling my way into the kitchen, my eyes lock with Mama on the other side of the room, turned away while she works on the dishes. Silence, except for the running water coming from the sink and the squeaky rubbing sound coming from Mama scraping the scum off of every dish.

Despite, the house’s condition, she’s always done her best to make it look spotless, even if it doesn’t most of the time. My daze is interrupted by a familiar homemade aroma. Looking down I find a plate of scrambled eggs, peppered with salt and, well, pepper, accompanied by two slices of buttered toast.

“Go on, eat up.” Mama says, all without turning herself around. “I ain’t gonna say it twice.”

17

The Trident 18

“Thank you.” I can’t help myself. Without hesitation, I find myself ripping into the scrambled eggs and toast. Mama takes a deep breath.

“When was the last time you had a home cooked meal?”she asks. I stop chewing for a moment, not even realizing the last time I had eaten an actual meal was. For the past month now, I’d been snacking on whatever Marcel had in his apartment.

“Yesterday.”

“Tell me the truth, Felicia.”

“I am, Mama.” I reply. Mama pauses for a second before taking a deep breath. My teeth clench.

“Honey, I know you haven’t been completely honest with me‒” “Why didn’t you tell me about the house?” My heart starts beating rapidly. I look away from Mama.

“Excuse me?” Mama steps back.

“I know we’re losing the house. I’ve known for a while.”

“There’s nothing we can do about that.”

“I want to know why you never told me.”

“That’s not something I wanted you to worry about.”

“And why not? This affects me just as much as it does you..”

“You’re not the one paying the bills, sweetheart.”

“I could’ve helped pay the bills.”

“That’s not your responsibility. Because‒” “Because you still think I’m a child. Because you don’t agree with my lifestyle. ” “What?”

“Every single time you look at me, I see the disappointment. Every time I bring up Marcel or the studio you never so much as even crack a smile anymore. Just a cold, dead gaze. It feels so hollow.”

“I know you’re not happy about it. That’s why I act this way, because he’s poisoning your mind, child!”

“And now you’re treating me exactly how you’re treating him.”

I get up and start walking toward the front door. It’s pouring outside, but I don’t care right now. I can’t care. It’s too late for me to realize I’m wearing just a t-shirt and shorts. I’ll freshen up when I get to Marcel’s. I’ve made my decision. * * * * *

I’ve been on stage for what feels like an eternity. Probably four hours at least. For some stupid reason, they decided to have four of us dancing on stage at the same time. The stage is too small for even two of us and I feel like I’m being thrown back and forth like a ping pong ball. I’ve already twisted my ankle twice now because of things like that and I’m not ready for a third. And those god forsaken heels don’t help either with them digging into my feet like knives. I can’t take it anymore. I’m done for the night. I start walking down the steps when I see Marcel hustle over to me.

“What is it?” I say as I keep walking. He follows closely behind.

“I just saw you get off stage. Is everything alright?”

“I need a break, Marcel.”

“Listen, I know you’re tired, but we’re bleeding money here. We need all the girls to be energetic. Or else‒”

“Or else what?” I interrupt him.

“Or else we’re gonna be out of a job, and out of a home.

“I’m already gonna be out of a home.”

“This isn’t just your Mama’s house we’re talking about.” Marcel stops for a moment. “We’re three months late on the rent.”

“Yeah, well, then you should’ve come up with a better business strategy than to just swipe the keys to the club from your uncle.”

“Old bastard knew exactly what he was doing, giving up ownership.” Marcel whispers under

Spring 2020

his breath. He scratches his head and closes his eyes. “But that doesn’t matter right now. I need you to get back on stage.”

“You already have three others on there, I’m not going back up there.”

“You’re our best dancer, I just need you to do it for tonight. Tonight’s the most people we’ve had in three weeks. After that, I’ll give you the week off, I promise.” Without saying another word, he caresses my hair and kisses me on the cheek. I’ve lost count as to how many times he’s said that to me now. And yet, reluctantly, I hop back on stage, in the hopes that maybe tonight, he’ll fulfill that promise. Everytime I go back on stage, I can hear the chants and cat calls shouted my way.

It’s almost become my curtain call. The other girls leave the stage and start serving drinks to the customers.

“Give it up for Fiery Felicia!” the DJ echoes throughout the space.

Marcel came up with that name. I hate it. It’s cheesy and couldn’t be a farther cry from my personality. He probably gave it to me because of how much of a bitch he thinks I’ve been. Or because of my hair. Couldn’t have taken much thought to think of either way. Despite the glaring lights, the disgusting whistling of the thirsty old men, and Marcel’s complete dismissiveness, I begin dancing. I’ve always been different on stage than the other girls. They stay too close to the pole the whole time, and never really deviate from their usual routine. I’ve always used the pole as a tool in my arsenal, and not as the main event. Right now, I’m the main event, at least that’s what I was taught in ballerina school. It was always drilled deep into my head to use every single bit of the stage to my advantage. It’s my playground, and I shouldn’t let any of it go to waste. I remember being so excited to show Mama all the new fancy moves I had learned at my first class. I ended up breaking a lamp or two in the living room with the elephant- trampled carpet, before it was too trampled. I kept twirling and twirling, just like I am now. Twirling around the pole and spinning in place, gesturing toward the few lucky guests near the front of the stage. They’re not people, they’re the audience. Customers. My dancing is commodified.

I’m not a dancer, and this isn’t dancing.

It’s expectation. It’s money. That’s all it is. I leap farther and spin faster, arms flowing freely from my body. At this point, what was supposed to be a slow, sensual routine is turning into something else.

Something not appropriate for a place like this. I take to the pole and lift myself up, twirling around it before reaching the floor again. This is it. I stand back up on my toes and twirl one last time.

Faster. Faster. Faster. Faster, until: Snap.

I fall to the ground, banging my head on the dirty wooden floor and wailing harder than I ever thought I could imagine. The stiletto snapped right off the heel on my right foot, bending my foot in a direction not intended by our Maker. Immediately, people start rushing over to me, like a flock of scavengers, waiting to see if I’m still alive or not. One of them is Marcel, who extends his arm out to me.

“Jesus Christ, babe, let me help you up.” He shouts. Seething with pain, I can only manage to let just a few words slip through my lips.

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me.” Gasping with all my breath, I cling to the pole, and slowly bring myself back on my feet. Well, my one working foot. Inch by inch, breath by breath and pull by pull, I manage to somehow stand on my own without any help. Sweaty hands firmly clenched to my one area of support, I gaze intensely at Marcel before being ready enough to start walking. Limping off the stage, everyone tries rushing to me, but I throw my hands at them to stay back. Marcel blocks my path.

“Felicia, let me help you, please. Let me get you to a hospital.”

“I’m fine, get out of my way... I need to go home.” I say, teeth clenched. “I need to go home.”

With whatever strength I have in my upper body I move him out of my way as I grab my jacket and leave the club. The snow on the ground and what feels like sub zero temperatures biting at my exposed legs are nothing compared to the devastation of my right ankle. Walking down the street, I realize my phone is dead, so I wave down a nearby cab. Sliding into the much warmer car, I

19

The Trident

tell the driver to bring me back home. Away from all this.

“You sure you’re alright on your own, ma’am?” the cab driver asks, as I approach the withering porch in front of me.

“I’ll be fine, thank you. I’m exactly where I need to be.” I reassure him. The cab driver nods and then promptly drives away. I nod off here and there along the way before we come to a familiar house sitting along the side of the road. The tree to the right of the house is sprinkled white by the snow, and to the left I see the inevitable “For Sale” sign buried deep within the ground. I’m not sure what poor soul would buy a house in this kind of condition, but at the very least they would know the value it had on us. It’s beaten down, the wooden porch is withered and slippery, and the paint is chipping. And yet, it’s a sight I’ve felt the most relieved to see in a long time. I make sure not to slip up the icy steps on the porch, ‘less I wanna break my other foot. Slowly but surely, I make my way up. It’s been forever since I’ve been home. Mama used to call me all the time when I was out and about, but it became less and less frequent when I moved out. I never called her on my own; she was always the one to contact me. But after the constant voicemails and unanswered text messages, her attempts dwindled. She never cut me off completely though. She always ended her messages with: “You’ll always have a home with me. No matter where we end up.”

Taking a deep breath, I notice just how cold the weather is. My foggy breath dissipates in the air and my legs wobble. I carefully open the door to the house. From the corner of my eye, a familiar night owl comes into view, shocked at the sight of me.

“Felicia?” Mama gasps.

“I’m home, Mama.” I say softly, expelling some of the last remaining energy I have left.

“Jesus, what have you been doing to yourself, baby?” Mama scans her eyes up and down my body. The warm lighting of the house reveals everything in full. I look down and see bruises running up and down my leg, small cuts across my knees, likely from kneeling on the splintered stage at the club, and of course, my bent foot all showing their ugly faces to both Mama’s and my own surprise. I lock eyes with Mama, as tears start streaming down my face. Keeping my composure as best I can, I let out the most honest words I’ve spoken to her in a long time. No more lies, no more blaming, no more denial.

“Mama, there’s… there’s something I need to tell you…”

20

Spring 2020

21

Ice Cream Showers

The Trident

Jay Darling

22

“One hour and no one has come,” I said.

The rain came down in sheets: lines of white streaked down from the gray, lumpy clouds overhead and pinged off the cement road in a cacophony. Ping, ping, ping— that’s the sound the rain would make, had there been cars in the parking lot. All that occupied the parking lot were the potholes, quickly being drowned out by the water filling them up. I propped my chin on my hand and watched the ‘Open’ sign— red and neon-lit— flash against the window. It flashed out at the occasional passing car. Yet, no takers. No one wanted ice cream on a rainy day.

A rough, grating sound drew me back inside. Nori was hunched over the hard ice cream case, scraping at the inside of the ice cream buckets. And of course, Tim, the suck-up, was right alongside her doing the same. One of our few tasks for today.

“Dudes, chill out. We can get to that later.”

The double helping of scraping stopped, limited now to Tim’s continued efforts. Nori peeked out, her gray-blue eyes like the murky gray sky narrowed right at me. I sent daggers right back.

“Oh, yeah, let’s do that. Wait near the end, have the sun come out, and the people come in.”

“Have you taken a look outside? This shit is not letting up.”

“That shit will let up, and we will be screwed.” Her contribution to the scraping resumed.

“Screwed over, again, let me add.”

One day. One day you convince her to let it go all to the end, and one day was all it took to convince her you’re a terrible influence. I hadn’t known we would get that many tourists. We usually don’t, but we had and ran out of time to do anything. The boss had been understanding, said stuff happens.

“You make our boss sound like a madman.”

“And you make it sound like you don’t want this job.”

“Don’t assume anything. I just know where and when to put any effort in. During a shitstorm? Not it.” Tim raised his long, stretched head on his equally stretched, ostrich-like neck.

His Adam’s apple bobbed, dipping down and disappearing back into his weak chin. He stared at me, frowning and squinting.

“You could do the chocolate dip waffle cones,” he said and pointed ‘helpfully’-—to me, someone who has worked here longer than his one summer— over to the walk-in fridge as if I didn’t know where we kept the chocolate.

“Sure, and how many do I make?”

“Six? I think. Double-check the list. I might be confusing that number with something else.”

“Yeah, of course, I’ll get right on that.” I turned back towards the window.

I heard Nori huff and was tempted to swing around when I heard her and Tim whisper, but all else fell quiet when I heard it.

Crackling stones. A tan, old folk’s car pulled in, engine whining and huffing once they settled. Through the streaks of droplets glazing my view beyond the overhang, a darkened silhouette unfurled from the passenger seat. A round bald head fell below the stooped horizon of the figure’s shoulders. The figure stood there a moment, then slowly ambled their way over to the window. A stick tapped out of sync with the pounding rain. Coming under the overhang, embraced in the yellow light glinting above, the silhouette irradiated into the wrinkled, kind features of an older gentleman. His steps were slow, his eyes careful and watchful of his dragging feet. The rain trailed him onto the dry cement through his shoes, leaving streaks of dark gray blotches across the powdergray patio.

Spring 2020

I slid open the window, but he beat me to my greeting.

“Hello, there!” He had to yell to be heard.

“Hello, sir!” I poked my head out the window and saw through the driver window the faint white glow of a phone screen stretched over smooth features.

Nori came up to my right, Tim on my left, and both sported smiles the gentleman returned once he spotted them.

“Are you surviving the rain as well as I am?” he asked, wiping his palm over his brown -speckled, wet pate. Under the light, his papery white skin took on a yellowish hue, his age spots like water stains on an aged roof. As he scrubbed his head, I saw bruises and raised, green serpentlike veins slithering down his hand, lapping over the raised white lines of his fingerbones, and disappearing beneath the sleeve of his red plaid button-up.

“We’re trying,” I said. The face in the driver window still had not shifted or looked. I spotted light gathering on curls in the fringes of a round face.

The man’s head turned, and I snapped back to meet his watery blue gaze. A smile cinched his eyes and folded his crow’s feet over one another. “That’s my daughter in there,” he said, and from his pocket, he took out a list, slightly waterlogged and trailing ink down smeared blue lines.

“Can I please get a small sundae with hard vanilla ice cream, no whip, a lid, and a spoon, and an upside-down banana split with chocolate mint, cotton candy, and cookie dough hard ice cream, everything on it?”

I took up my pen and notepad and noted each item down, nodding as he listed everything off. “Of course. For the second-order, is there any particular order you want it in?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. His tone, soft and halting, drew my eye up from my notepad. Yet, the accordion of wrinkles around his upturned mouth endured. He winked. “When I would come here on Sundays, you guys always got it right.” In my peripherals, Tim craned his neck back, staring at something above the wooden window pane.

“Okay, sir… Well, let me ring this up, and I’ll have those right out to you.” I did so and felt my face heat up, hearing Nori and Tim whispering to each other again, right behind me too. I jabbed every number into the register and listened to their exchange.

“She is the....”

“She must be...”

I only heard the beginnings, the subject and verb the most I made out, before everything drifted out the window, lost to the pounding rain. After the old man and I exchanged cash, and I shut the window, I glared at them.

“What?” I snapped.

“That’s the old guy. The one with the able-bodied, snotty daughter.”

“Snotty?”

Nori pointed up, and I followed her finger to a small piece of notebook paper taped above the window frame. ‘This is How Hannah ACTUALLY wants her Banana Split ordered:.’ Beneath it, I saw the hard ice creams. ‘Cookie dough on the BOTTOM, Mint in the MIDDLE, and Cotton Candy on TOP. Just do it. She’ll send her dad back to complain.’

“What a snot,” I said.

Tim shook his head and muttered, “I can’t believe she would send her dad out in this rain.

He can barely walk...At least come with him...If I had done that to my dad, I would be grounded....”

Nori caught my eye.

“I can do his order,” she said. “I can dig out the fresher ice cream. The one with fewer ice crystals.”

Tim broke out of his mutterings of groundings to gesture towards the back room. He hunched his shoulders and grinned crookedly. “Fresh nuts and double cherries as well?”

“Yes, and yes,” I said. “Nori, help me with her order. Cut up one of the spottiest bananas, please.”

23

The Trident 24

We sent the older gentleman back to his car after I promised to bring the ice creams out.

With a slowness that betrayed terrible knees, he walked back to the car. I paused and watched him, making sure he got back safely. His daughter wasn’t doing it, after all. Her head was still drawn to her smartphone. I resumed building Hannah’s sundae once I saw the passenger door shut.

Between the three of us, it didn’t take a long time before I breached the rain in a jog, two ice creams in tow, heading to the passenger side of the car. He rolled down the window halfway for them and shouted to be heard. “Thank you, dear!”

“It was no problem,” I said. I took my chance and looked at Hannah, who finally looked

up from her phone to snatch the banana split from her dad. She had curly hair and was puffy

cheeked, probably two years my senior. She glared at her dad and said nothing to me.

“Shut the damn window,” she snapped. “You’re letting rainwater in.”

“Sorry, dear,” he said, looking at me as he said it. He winked. “I hope you have a good day,” he said, and the window rolled up. I darted back to the ice cream stand, drenched and immediately cold once the cold, crisp air from the air condition hit me.

Nori and Tim were on me quickly.

“So, snotty?” Nori asked.

“Snotty said nothing to me. She just wanted that ice cream.”

“Of course,” Tim said. He had gotten a towel from the bathroom and passed it to me to dry up with.

At last, in the last hour of our shift together, the rain ebbed. The clouds took on the appearance of a wrung-out washcloth, thin and wrinkled, a light gray against the light, diluted blue.

Residual dabs of rain streamed down the corrugated roof and dribbled off in white streaks against the road’s black pavement. The cement outside dried under the sudden appearance of the sun.

In the three hours since the older gentleman left, the business had slowed to a crawl. Here and there, a flustered person would drop by and risk the shower. Under the shelter of the overhang, they were dripping wet and shaking in the faint bursts of cold wind crossing the open fields. I had thought once or twice someone would quit and return to their car, the idea of holding ice cream and shivering enough to banish their sugary craving. I was wrong.

Nori lifted the tip jar easily. The rocks inside rattled around, ringing against the interior. A full jar was a silent jar. It would seem for their sacrifice of dry clothes, each customer took their change.

“Seriously, can’t even spare a quarter,” I said.

“Wait, hold on,” Nori said and tilted the jar towards her, and through the small holes puncturing the surface, I spotted green. Nori’s eyebrows furrowed. “We did get something.”

She reached her hand in, and I crept closer, trying to peer over her shoulder to see what we got. Tim hung back but stayed close enough to peek and see.

When her hand came out, in her grasp was a twenty-dollar bill and a smeared piece of paper.

“Dude, nice,” I said. It was nice. Ten each. Since we round up to the nearest tenth, that meant another ten for my spending jar.

Nori passed me the twenty and unfolded the paper.

“It’s a note from that old guy.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah, look, here’s his and his daughter’s orders.” She held the paper out to me, and I saw several lines crossed out in black ink with penciled-in words peeking out from underneath. Beneath the scribbles though, squeezed in at the bottom, was a tidy, neat script.

Tim crept closer and read it aloud: “Thank you, guys, for making my day. You made this old man happy. I don’t have much in pocket change, but I hope these twenty dollars will suffice. You will definitely be seeing me again after this! Remember: hard vanilla hot fudge sundae, no whip, but nuts and cherry. I always get it! (I won’t be belligerent either if you add extra hot fudge. Just

Spring 2020

something to keep in mind!)

Keep on smiling!

-Mike Taylor”

“What a nice guy,” I said, taking the note from Nori to look at it closer. Below ‘Mike Taylor,’ he added a smiley face, not unlike the Happy Landing Gas Station logo.

“Our first fan!” Tim said and clapped his hands once.

Nori crossed her arms and smirked at him. “It seems we do.”

I grinned, leaning my hip against the tower. In the hand not on my hip, I waved the note around like a flag. “Well, you know what Mike returning, most likely with his daughter, means, right?”

“What does it mean?” Nori asked.

I grinned. “Shit ice cream for her, the best for Mike.”

Nori elapsed into silence and shared a look with Tim. Nothing like telepathic communication.

Tim appeared to be waiting for ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ so he could parrot her; Nori didn’t even seem to be staring at him, but in his direction, deep in thought.

A long moment passed. Nothing but the hum of the soft ice cream machine filled the silence.

Her thinly pressed lips quirked up at the corner. Tim did her the favor of smiling the rest of the way, toothy and seditious-looking, matching the look she sent me.

“What the heck, I’ll do it,” she said.

“Me too,” Tim said. “Anything to get back at Snotty.”

“So, we all agree then.” I held out my hand to her. She clapped her hand into mine and

gave a firm shake, her eyes like steel as she stared. I did the same to Tim next. He met my gaze evenly.

We broke after that and finished up our duties. The time was ticking, and Josh and Skyler, our replacements, were due to come in soon.

25

Forgive and Try to Forget

The Trident

Carly Grimm

26

You need to come pick up Josh from Adam’s.

He drank too much and needs a ride home.

Disappointment and sadness festered in Caroline as she set down her phone. Her

boyfriend had promised not to drink anymore after the incident at Adam’s last party. It was only two months ago that she had found out that he had locked himself in the bathroom with another girl. Josh had promised nothing had happened and it had been alcohol driving it all.

Caroline had decided to forgive him but it was always in the back of her mind, especially when the girl started to accuse Josh of assaulting her that night. The rumors that followed that incident about what Josh had done with that girl were still circling around town.

Caroline sat for a few minutes, but finally came to the conclusion that she wanted to confront him. She grabbed her jacket and her keys, and started towards the front door.

As she speedily drove to the party, Caroline tried to not think the worst about the situation. She tried to think about the good times between Josh and her. She was thankful he had come into her life, giving her friends and a social life. Before Josh, she had been an outcast and he was the first boy to ever notice her. Josh gave her a way out of her hell and a sense of belonging. She couldn’t lose her savior.

As Caroline pulled up to the party, she immediately felt something was off. The usual bass of the party music was not present and she felt as though she was an intruder. She tentatively walked up the front steps and opened the door to the house.

The first thing she saw was Evan standing next to the stairwell in front of the door. His face showed worry as he looked up the stairs. Caroline then looked to the left, to see the rest of the partygoers in the living room. Some were passed out on the various couches and chairs, others were still standing with red solo cups in their hands. The rest of Josh and Caroline’s friends were standing in a circle also shooting looks to the upstairs.

“Where’s Josh? Are we going to need to carry him to the car?” Caroline asked Evan. He jumped at her voice.

Caroline’s voice had caught the attention of the group standing in the living room as well and they all stared at her. Some with pity but, to Caroline’s surprise, some with a judging look.

They gave the impression that they all hadn’t been friends for the past eight months, since the beginning of Josh and Caroline’s relationship. They looked at her like she was, again that outcast no one wanted to be friends with. Caroline began to feel an anxious feeling in her stomach. What has changed? She felt as though they disregarded her now like she was no longer a part of the group.

“I didn’t expect you to be here so quickly. Sorry Caroline,” Evan said still with the worried look on his face. Caroline wondered why he would be worried for her.

Caroline eyed the top of the stairs and said, “It’s okay. Where’s Josh?”

“He’s busy upstairs with Mary Sweeney. The second door on the right,” Melissa said.

She had been friends with Josh since the first grade and had never truly accepted Caroline.

“I never imagined Mary Sweeney of all people, but I guess Josh has a type. Right, Caroline?” Melissa continued.

Spring 2020

The rest of the group looked at Melissa with shock, some even laughed. Melissa’s words made Caroline’s heart felt as though an anchor was pulling down on it.

Mary was an intelligent girl three years younger than Caroline. Caroline had been her student mentor at the beginning of the year, but only talked to her in passing at school. Mary was a nice girl and reminded Caroline of how she used to be. Caroline wondered what had even driven a girl like Mary to be at Adam’s party.

“Why would you tell her that? It’s just Mary,” Jane, another friend that was a part of the group, said with disbelief. As she scolded Melissa, Jane looked at Caroline. Almost as though she was testing Caroline’s reaction.

Caroline ignored their laughter and brought her eyes up to the daunting staircase. She felt scared but knew she had to walk up those stairs and discover the truth for herself. Just what was behind the second door on the right?

“How long have they been up there?” Caroline asked as she turned towards Evan.

“Not that long. He spilled a drink on her earlier and he’s just helping her wash it off,” Evan responded.

“In the bedroom?” Melissa asked with a laugh.

She took a deep breath, ignoring Melissa’s words, and decided to begin the long journey up the stairs. Everyone downstairs watched her make the journey, even some of the remaining teenagers passed out around the room had woken up to spectate. Nevertheless, Caroline kept going.

As she made it to the top of the stairs and then to the entrance of the bedroom, Caroline wondered what she would do.Should she make a scene? Should she leave them be?

Caroline rested her hand on the knob of the door and twisted it, but stopped herself from pushing the door open. She could only hear a cold silence inside the room. She had hoped there was at least a little bit of noise so that she could be prepared to react to what was happening in the bedroom. She lightly rested her forehead against the wooden door and closed her eyes shut, as she begged herself to keep breathing. What if she saw something worse than what she imagined? Her curiosity got the best of her and she quickly pushed open the door, stumbling over her own feet. The sight before her tightened her chest, but she didn’t allow tears to form.

The first person Caroline made eye contact with was Mary laying on the bed in the middle of the room. Her tear-filled blue eyes were wide and were barely visible behind her thick red hair covering her face. At first, Caroline thought Mary was scared of Caroline’s wrath. But as she began to examine the room more she realized that was not Mary’s reaction at all.

Josh was laying on top of Mary with his legs interlooped with hers, pinning her to the bed. His hands were formed around her wrist, like shackles. Mary’s jeans were wrinkled around her ankles, but, to Caroline’s relief, her underwear was still sitting around her hips. Josh was fast asleep using Mary’s chest as a pillow. Contrastingly, his face looked like one of a sleeping baby.

It was calm and had no care in the world.

Caroline brought her eyes back to Mary and it registered that Mary wasn’t crying because she was remorseful, but because she was afraid.

Caroline rushed over to the bed, using all her strength to shove Josh off Mary and onto the side of the bed. Not looking to see Josh’s reaction, she grabbed both of Mary’s hands and pulled her up into a standing position. She grabbed the jeans still settled around Mary’s ankles and calmly brought the jeans up to her hips. Her fingers struggled to pull up the zipper, as they were starting to shake. After she had fastened Mary’s jeans, she glanced up at the red flannel shirt Mary was wearing and saw the dark stain that rested right below her left shoulder. Caroline lifted her hands and frantically began to wipe at the stain like a dog digging a hole, trying to erase its evidence. When that didn’t work, she moved onto her red hair. She rubbed it out of Mary’s face and created a neat picture of what Mary would have looked like when she had first arrived at the party.

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The Trident 28

When she was done putting Mary back together, she used Mary’s shoulders to push her back onto the bed. Caroline stooped down to Mary’s level and looked into her eyes, wondering if she should ask what happened.

Before she could form the right words, Mary quietly whispered, “Thank you”.

“For what? What happened Mary?” Caroline responded, but Mary never answered. She had brought her eyes to the ground.

Not wanting to wait for her answer, Caroline turned to Josh and stopped for a moment to stare at his sleeping face. She felt wetness on her cheeks and reached up a hand to feel the moisture. Why had he done this? Why did he ruin everything?

Without thinking, Caroline began to violently shake Josh awake until he eventually opened his eyes and gave her a smile. A flash of lightning echoed throughout the room that illuminated the smile and Caroline shivered. Instead of giving Caroline that comforting feeling in her heart, his smile created a rock in her stomach. She wondered why something that usually melted her was now giving her chills. She started to examine his face and saw that his usual blue eyes were now a void darkness of a black hole.

“What are you doing there?” Josh slurred at Caroline as he opened up his arms to her.

Caroline snapped her eyes away from his face and grabbed his arms, pulling him up from the bed. She didn’t even attempt to fix his wrinkled clothes. Caroline did not say a word to him, but instead half carried, half dragged him to the door. As she brought her hand back to reach for the knob, she looked back to see Mary still sitting on the bed now with her hands sitting in her lap. Caroline dragged her eyes back to Josh, and closed the door behind them.

As she guided Josh downstairs and outside to her car, she stared straight ahead and avoided all the gazes.

“Wow, you’re so gorgeous,” Josh kept repeating as they made their journey to Caroline’s car. Evan and some of the other partygoers had formed at the front porch and were watching Caroline and Josh.

“What happened Caroline?” Evan asked worriedly. Caroline stayed quiet as she understood the worry was not directed towards her, but towards Josh.

The ongoing rain was a challenge for Caroline, who was trying to shove an intoxicated Josh into the passenger seat, but she somehow managed. She quickly made her way to the driver side, turned on the engine and speedily made her way onto the road. She didn’t know where they were headed but she kept driving.

As she drove, she kept looking at Josh. He was still awake with his half lidded eyes staring out the window. Everytime she would come to a stop light, she would take a moment to look at him. She would look at his hair, his nose, his chin, his eyes. Trying to figure out this new Josh she had never seen before.

Between her looking and driving, she would watch the rain. And each time the lightning would burst through the clouds she would remember the fear she felt in that bedroom. The look on Josh’s face that brought out her disgust. But what bothered her the most was the look of lustic control that took over his face. She continued to think of his small amount of words. How he had asked “Why are you there?” instead of “Why are you here?”. He had thought she was Mary and that was the only reason she was even able to see what was behind the mask. The real Josh. The monster. This thought is what drove Caroline to pull over to the side of the road, turn her car around. She hoped she would get to Adam’s in time and that Mary was safe upstairs in that bedroom two doors to the right.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” Josh asked, now a little more sober than before.

Caroline ignored him and stepped on the gas a little harder, as she began to think more about Mary Sweeney. Did she feel the same as Caroline did the first time Josh had noticed her?

She imagined Mary being mesmerized by Josh’s charisma. She imagined Mary feeling special

Spring 2020

for the first time in her life. Josh had probably lured Mary into his grip with an “accidental” spill on her shirt. Caroline could only imagine how many times he had used that move on a girl, how many girls had been telling the truth this whole time. She felt outrage towards Josh because of the disappointment and shame Mary must have felt when she found out her prince charming was a fake.

Caroline was just reaching the end of Adam’s driveway when she realized she never asked Mary if she was okay, if she was hurt. This regret hit the hardest. She hoped Mary would understand and accept her apology.

“What is going on? Why are we back here?” Josh looked around embarrassed hoping none of his friends saw what was happening.

Caroline kept her silence as she led Josh up the front porch and through the front door.

The group of friends were in the same place they were in when Caroline had made her first entrance. Evan had now joined them with his own red solo cup. They were all laughing when Caroline marched Josh over and shoved him into the group. He hit Melissa first and then tumbled into the middle of the group.

“What the fuck Caroline? You made me spill my drink” Melissa spat at Caroline.

Evan moved next to Caroline and asked, “What are you doing here? Weren’t you taking Josh home?”

“Taking him home.” Caroline’s voice came out as a croak and she hated that she didn’t sound as strong as she wanted to. “Why would I take that thing home?”

“Woah, did you guys get into it again? Caroline, he’s drunk. He doesn’t completely know what he’s doing,” Evan responded.

“We didn’t fight Evan. She kept staring at me like a weirdo and then next thing I know, she’s turning the car around like a crazy person and we end up here,” Josh said. Caroline was amazed at how fast he had sobered up and shocked that he had seen her examining him.

Everyone turned to Caroline, looking for an explanation from her. She opened her mouth to speak, but then she remembered why she was here in the first place.

“Is Mary still here?” Caroline asked, staring at the wall behind the group.

“We don’t know, nor care, where that slut is,” Melissa said, which caused a response of laughter from the rest of the group.

“You got that right,” One of the guys said.

“Are you going to swing on her? I’m pretty sure she’s still upstairs. I haven’t seen her come down,” Jane said with her eyes wide.

“Fight? Guys there’s about to be a cat fight,” Someone yelled across the room.

Everybody’s head turned and they began to get up, ready to follow the action. Josh shrugged his shoulders and sat down on one of the now empty couches. Caroline wondered if Mary could hear their voices from the bedroom.

Caroline crossed the room and began her second journey up the stairs. This time was much easier than the last, but she was still curious about what was happening behind the second door on the right.

The crowd formed at the bottom of the stairs and Caroline felt disgust creep up her throat again. When she reached the door, she didn’t hesitate like before. She swiftly opened the door and quickly scanned the room for Mary. Mary had changed her position and was now standing near one of the windows facing the backyard.

Caroline slowly walked up to Mary with her hand stretched out with the palm facing upwards. She hoped the noise of the door was enough for Mary to turn around. But Mary still continued to stare out the window. Caroline knew she had heard the door open by the way she had instantly tensed her shoulders.

“Mary?” Caroline whispered.

Mary swung her body around at Caroline’s voice and Caroline saw her eyes widen in

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shock.

“Mary,” Caroline said again. “Are you okay?”

Mary didn’t answer at first but eventually said,” You hate me. Why are you asking that?”

“I don’t hate you Mary. Come here,” Caroline said smoothly.

When Mary didn’t move towards her, Caroline walked towards her with her arms open wide and hugged her. Mary was shocked but brought her own thin arms around Caroline’s waist.

Caroline raised her right hand and rested it on top of Mary’s head, rubbing it back and forth.

Caroline decided she would be the person Mary was waiting for.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Caroline asked. Mary paused for a second, wondering if she should trust Caroline, but eventually nodded her head.

Caroline led Mary down the stairs, with her still in her arms and her head tucked against Caroline’s shoulder. The crowd watched with frowns on their faces and Caroline could hear them mumble unintelligent things, but she just covered Mary’s ears and kept walking.

After they had made it into the car, Caroline asked Mary where she wanted to go, but Mary just shrugged her shoulders. Caroline began to drive as the rain was starting to clear up.

They drove for what seemed like hours, stopping once for gas, before Caroline gathered up the courage to speak the first words between them in awhile.

“I’m sorry Mary,” She said clearly but softly.

“It’s okay,” Mary replied.

“No it’s not. It will never be okay.”

Caroline kept her eyes on the road and reached out her hand to Mary. She was relieved to feel Mary take her hand and squeeze it tight. For the first time that night she felt free, and she hoped Mary did too.

30

Alex Simmons

“The Man in White chosen as Master Priest at the beginning of each period must possess the qualities truest to the Order. He must be a man with a kind face yet authoritative; gentle, though he may be stern.

He is to lead the Prospective Brothers through all aspects of processing, until they reach the final Initiation Ceremony. Following completion of the Initiation Ceremony, Prospective Brothers join the Men in White as more Righteous, more Worldly, and more Manly.” ______________________________________________________________________________

“You all have done well to come this far. You’ve nearly completed your journey to becoming a full member of the Order, a Man in White. A brother. All that you have learned and practiced through processing will come to a head tonight. To start, I will be taking you one by one into this room here for the first Obstacle,” says the Master Priest. Clutched between his hands is The Official Guide to the Order, serving as the official guide to The Order.

Two Men in White usher the first of five Prospective Brothers into the interrogation room to complete the first Obstacle.

The first Obstacle of the Initiation Ceremony is the Test of Truth. The Master Priest is to take each Prospective Brother one by one into the interrogation room where he will then ask a series of questions in order to determine Truthfulness.

Two Men in White guard the door as the Prospective Brother and the Master Priest sit across from one another. Between them is a white candle and an empty vile.

“Nice to see you again.” “Yeah, man, its---” “No, not ‘man.’ Here I am the Master Priest. Let’s get started.” “...Okay.” “What’s your favorite color?” “Blue.” “That’s a good color. What’s your favorite kind of music?” “Rap.” “I agree. You clearly have great taste.” “Thank you.” “Have you ever hurt anyone?” “... Listen, I don’t feel comfortable---” “Have you ever hurt anyone?” “C’mon, I---” “Have you ever hurt anyone?”

“...Yes.” “Do you wish to not hurt any more people.” “Yes.” “Say it.” “I do not want to hurt anybody.” “You want to be kind. Say it.” “I want to be kind.” “That is the First Sacred Secret.

Kindness.” The Prospective Brother smiles back at the Master Priest. The Master Priest extends his hand, clasping the potential initiate’s hand in his. Their hands are warm and the handshake feels like it will last forever.

Upon reaching the First Sacred Secret, the Master Priest is to prick the finger of the Prospective Brother into the Sacred Vile. This is to be repeated on each Prospective Brother for each correct answer. Have the Prospective Brother exit the room. Bring in the next Prospective Brother.

“Have you ever hurt anyone?” “I don’t want to talk about it.” “Have you ever hurt anyone?” “I do not want to talk about it.” “Have you---” “Fucking stop! Chill, bruh, damn!”

If a Prospective Brother is to not find the first Sacred Secret, he is to be dismissed. He is not to be spoken to, engaged in Jovial Activity with, or discussed any further under any capacity, with or without regard to The Order. He is now Expelled. No force is to be used unless extreme circumstances call for it.

“I’m afraid our time has come to an end,” the Master Priest speaks frankly, yet softly. “What?”

“You are no longer permitted to speak to, engage in Jovial Activity with, or discuss the secrets imparted upon you by the Order any further.”

“But you guys are my only friends... I was just at your house, bro---” “Will this be a problem?”

“Yeah it will be! What the fuck---” Two Men in White approach the Expelled. They grab him by the

Spring 2020

The Initiation

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arms, bending them behind his back.

“Dude, what are you doing? I thought we were friends! Stop!”

They escort him, kicking and screaming, outside of the room. The next Prospective Brother comes in and finds Kindness. As does the next Prospective Brother, and the Prospective Brother after him. They who are worthy may move on, ever closer to becoming full Brothers of The Order; Men in White.

Following the first Obstacle, the Master Priest is to gather the Prospective Brothers into the designated Room of Ceremonies.

“Here we stand on the Ceremonial Albert Johnson Gymnasium floor. By day, it may be filled with athletes, coaches, and cheerleaders, but only we in The Order know what this floor truly symbolizes. Prospective Brothers, you are well to come this far. Your journey to officially joining the Order is moving along. May we now honor the Fallen Brothers,” says the Master Priest.

The Order is to present a slideshow of the Fallen Brothers. These are the Men in White that have been wronged by various societal restraints and cast aside to a life of excommunication and humiliation: these restraints the Order wishes to eradicate.

“I can’t get the projector to work...” a Man in White says. “What the fuck, seriously? Fuckin’ stupid thing...” the Master Priest responds. “I told you guys we shouldn’t use a projector,” a different Man in White says. “Dude, shut up you have like one decent idea for every thousand stupid ideas you have. It’s tradition to use a projector, anyway,” says the Master Priest.

“We should have just done, like, a Powerpoint or something. But nobody wants to listen to me, apparently!” says the same Man in White.

“Seriously, I’ll smack the shit out of you. Whining like a bitch in front of Prospective Brothers,” the Master Priest begins, “I’ll just read off their names, damn.” He adjusts himself and stands tall, now speaking with authority.

“First, we honor Brother Jake Smalls, wrongfully accused of a heinous act, that he would never do, by the Wench Sarah Cardinale...”

And they honor the Fallen.

After honoring the Fallen, the Brothers are to chant the Object of the Dead and Dying:

“Brothers Do Not Die in the Order, For They Live in Our Hearts. Though Society Can Be Cruel and Unforgiving, We Always Care for Our Own and Never Scorn The Name of One Of Us, Lest We Be Expelled in a Most Cruel and Unforgiving Manner,”

They all chant in unison, including the Prospective Brothers, who have learned this in their extensive studies prior to the Initiation ceremony. Following, the Men in White all stomp on the ground four times.

“Guys, take it easy on the floor. We’re not technically supposed to be here---” the Master Priest begins.

“You didn’t sign out the room, again? Are you kidding me?” A Man in White responds.

There’s a volatile murmur between the seventeen Men in White as the Prospective Brothers watch in anticipatory silence.

It is now time for the Order to take the Prospective Brothers through Obstacle 2. This Obstacle is the Test of Strength. It is meant to test the Resolve and, therefore, the Integrity of the Prospective Brothers: Two values held in highest regard within The Order.

“Alright, you sad sack of dildoes, time for a spanking. Cheeks out, ass up!”

Upon successful completion of Obstacle 2, the Prospective Brothers are to learn the second of the Sacred Secrets.

“I’d be careful using the toilet for a few days, guys,” the Master Priest begins, chucking, “but you took that beating well. The Test of Strength proves you are worthy to learn the second secret of the Order. Men in White!”

The Men in White order themselves in two rows; the Master Priest standing at the front and center.

Spring 2020

“Men in White, what is the Second of our Sacred Secrets?” The Men in White link arms.

“The Second of our Sacred Secrets is Unity!” They chant. “Unity... to Unify. To Unite! Thus is the education imparted upon you by the Order. We must now move on to-- “Wait, seriously?” interrupts a Prospective Brother. “Is there a problem?” says the Master Priest. “How the fuck is the word “unity” a secret?” Two Men in White grab the Prospective Brother by the arms and escort him out of the gymnasium. He is not to be spoken to or engaged in Jovial Activity with ever again. Three Prospective Brothers remain.

Unity, the second Sacred Secret, means to join together as Brothers in Arms, no matter the cost. Men in White are to be loyal to each other with little regard to the Outside Forces which seek to arrest our growth and progress. Following the reveal of the Second Sacred Secret is the Time For Rest. During this time, the Men in White, Master Priest, and Prospective Brothers may shed their Ceremonial Skins and Attitudes and act as they would in everyday affairs. This is useful for maintaining Trust and Friendship.

Various men engage in various casual conversations concerning their everyday affairs. “She was acting crazy, accusing me of cheating and shit. Like, I won’t say I wasn’t cheating, per se, but she didn’t have any proof.”

“Dude, we had to bring Sam to the hospital the other night. Yeah, alcohol poisoning or something. None of us should have been driving, ha ha, but whatever.”

“I don’t understand why he cared so much. Dudes grab each other’s asses all the time, it’s natural.” “I average twice a day, three times on weekends.”

“I swear to God if this fucking guy keeps talking shit, it’s on sight. I’ll kick his ass.” “Yeah, so now I have to retake three classes. Fucking sucks.”

Limit the Time for Rest to a half an hour to Recharge and Reflect. Then, begin arrangements for the third and final Obstacle: The Test of Loyalty. Completing the Test of Loyalty will lead the Prospective Brothers to the third and final sacred secret; which is also Loyalty.

“Prospective Brothers, your journey is nearing its end, but it’s not over yet,” begins the Master Priest, “we have one more obstacle to get through and it may be the most important, the most sacred, and the greatest value we can impart on you upon joining our Order. So begins the Test of Loyalty.”

The Test of Loyalty is the most important test for Prospective Brothers. True Men In White value Loyalty above all other worldly values. Loyalty IS Brotherhood, Loyalty IS Family. As Men in White and Brothers of The Order, we must stick together under Three Sacred Secrets and let no rumors pertaining to a Man in White, false or true, break us apart. Only then can we be at our strongest. The Prospective Brothers are escorted to a large music hall. There, on the stage, sit the Men in White in an open circle, with the Master Priest standing directly in the middle. In his hands, he holds a giant white candle. Though his face is sober and serious, his gaze is warm and welcoming. The malice in the eyes of the Men in White left, leaving a softness not seen since before the ceremony. For the remaining Prospective Brothers, there is open space in the circle to be filled by them. They are told to sit, so they sit. They are told to close their eyes, so they close their eyes.

They are told to picture themselves in the past, present, and future, so they do. All of this is without question, as all matters of the Order should be.

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” “As an active Brother of the Order,” answers one Prospective Brother.

“As an active Man in White,” answers the next. “I was kind of thinking this would just be a college thing, so I really see myself---” He is immediately escorted out by two Men in White before the thought could be finished. He is not to be spoken to or engaged in jovial activity by a Brother of the Order for the rest of their lives. To be a Brother of the Order, to be a Man in White, is a lifelong commitment. Two Prospective Brothers remain.

The final test is meant to bring Prospective Brothers and full Men in White together in serious and revealing discussion. To not fully put one’s own flaws on the table is unacceptable.

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To not fully accept a Prospective Brother or a Man in White due to their flaws in egregious and unacceptable. For these frivolous things must be cast aside in the Order so that we may fulfill our greater purpose in life.

The Men in White and the Prospective Brothers discuss their flaws as they pass the candle to the left..

“This one time, I---” “There was this girl and, well, I---” “So even though my knuckles were bleeding, I kept going because---” “I know it wasn’t my money, but---” “Do I feel bad? That’s a hard question, because---”

The candor of such discussion binds us together. The compatibility of the personalities of our Men in White is secondary. The individuality of each Man in White is secondary. We join together through secrets; an unbreakable bond. Such conversation serves to connect us in a way that no other average social interaction could. Now that we know the deepest, darkest aspects of each other, we can then learn to be Loyal. The Personal Leanings of each Man in White means nothing compared to the Collective Leanings of the Order.

“It is important to understand that you are to be at the same level of friendship with each Man in White in this room as any other. We are now bound by each other’s pain under the Three Sacred Secrets: Kindness, Unity, and Loyalty. These Secrets are specific to The Order and key to achieving our goals,” begins the Master Priest.

“What are the goals?” asks a Prospective Brother. “Aren’t they obvious?” The Master Priest lowers his candle as he speaks. “Uh... yes?” “Was that a question?” “... no?” “We do not ask questions here. You know this.” “Of course, Master.”

Questions are discouraged in the order. They signal a lack of trust, an essential component of Loyalty.

Following the Test of Loyalty, it is finally time to initiate the Prospective Brothers into the Order as full Men in White. These Prospective Brothers must have proven their worth to The Order by displaying Kindness, Unity, and Loyalty. Men in White are to let them know the higher echelon on which the Prospective Brothers have ascended. For, to be a Brother of The Order, a Man in White, is a high honor only afforded to a few of the most worthy.

The two Prospective Brothers fall to their knees as the Master Priest reads Secret Words from the Sacred Text of The Order. The Men in White are circled around the trio, also on their knees as they hum a hymn.

The Master Priest begins reciting the Oath of Obligation. “Repeat after me. ‘I, state your name,’” “I, state your name,” the Prospective Brothers repeat. The Master Priest shakes his head and continues.

“Do solemnly swear,” “Do solemnly swear,” “That I will cherish the word, ‘Kindness,” and will act as a Moral and Upright man.” The Oath continues on as such until its completion, when the Prospective Brothers finally become Brothers of the Order, or Men in White.

“Remember, our new Brothers, you took an oath. This is a lifetime commitment. You signed up for this. We cannot let petty things such as schooling, social relationships, or an occupation get in the way of our duties, including attending a General Body Meeting each week and going to all of our mixers. You now have Sacred Secrets, completely unique to us, to guard. These Secrets: Kindness, Unity, and Loyalty, which we have entrusted upon you, distinguish you from the rest of the common man. Remember, it is both an honor and a privilege to be a Man in White. A Brother of the Order.”

Be sure to congratulate your new Brothers on their successful completion of the Prospective Process. It is a true honor and a privilege to be a Man in White; a Brother of the Order. Now it is time to remind them of their Financial Obligations to the High Order of a Semesterly $300. This Financial Obligation, if not to be fulfilled, is grounds for Expulsion of the Highest Degree. Again, be sure to congratulate the New Men in White and accept them with open arms!

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Vienna

36

Katelyn Davis

As the light fades there is a faint glow cast on Leysha’s legs as it reflects through the glass table on which her feet are propped up. The high ceiling allows so much space for light but as the night approaches it just feels like a heavy mass pressing down on her. She had never wanted a large house. Especially not a large, neat house. Something about the sharp, geometric surfaces was just so unnatural to Leysha. She had always wanted a small, one story house with warm lighting and a cozy fireplace. But Jay had insisted this would be a better environment for “their family”. Apparently it would foster a more “intuitive atmosphere”. Leysha wasn’t even sure she wanted children. It was just another one of those things that made her wonder if she had been right in going through with this. Was this really worth it? She would wait it out tonight, she supposed, and with that thought she went back to letting her mind occupy a larger space.

She is being stared at. The blue eyes look unnatural against the pale skin, a sort of contrast of similarity. Leysha knows that she too is staring, but that didn’t make it any less unnerving. It is quiet in the bathroom. The moonlight illuminates small patches of baby powder on the cold tile floor. Leysha’s elbow is resting in a glob of toothpaste on the counter but she can’t move it just yet.

She stares back at the figure and it seems to challenge her as its eyes narrow and it’s brows descend.

And then suddenly Leysha is smiling because she knows she has won. Her reflection smiles back and she moves away from the mirror into the connecting bathroom. Like everything else in this house, the surfaces are white and shining. Leysha walks over to the small couch and reclines on it knowing this will be the most peaceful she feels all night. She looks out the large window. She has always found it odd that someone would want a window taking up most of the wall in a bathroom.

Nevertheless, Leysha found herself surveying the moon-washed landscape. In the dark, everything looks so still and so untouched. Her neighbor’s porch light flicks on as a rabbit darts across their back lawn. She breathes in the powdered air and is reminded of the hornets nest that was in this window two years ago. She remembers the way it smelled.

“But did it burn?”

Leysha blinks. Had she said that out loud? Of course it hadn’t burned; had what burned? A smile forces its way to her lips for the second time tonight. Leysha blows a harsh burst of air from her nose, twists her head a little and stands from the couch. He will be here soon. Leysha taps the doorframe twice on her way out and makes her way downstairs. For the first time this evening she flicks on each light as she arrives at its switch and the moonlight glow is overtaken by artificial fluorescence. Leysha hears the buzz of the garage door beginning to open. When Jay opens the door, Leysha is half-sitting on a stool by the counter. She stands as if she had been sitting there for hours, waiting for him. Jay looks at Leysha with some hesitance and eases himself into the kitchen almost as if he feels unfamiliar with their house. And, in a sense, it made sense. He had been gone for three and a half weeks.

“How was Venice?” Leysha continues to stare at Jay as she speaks.

“Vienna.”

Leysha blinks and Jay blinks back.

“It was Vienna, not Venice.” Jay’s eyes narrow slightly as he looks her up and down.

The humming of the fridge captures Lesyha’s attention, such a steady note. Jay is still looking at her and she can see him assessing her.

“Well then. How was Vienna?” Lesyha is looking at him blankly. Her hands are drawn together tightly and her left thumb nail digs into the palm of her right hand. There’s too much light

Spring 2020

in the room. They would have to get rid of a few of the mounted ceiling lights in the summer.

“I got a lot of work done.”

Jay is a Design Architect and this trip to Vienna was just a part of his latest research on Baroque style architecture. This had been his second trip to Vienna in the past six months.

Leysha nods, “That’s good.”

Another pause.

“I bought new sheets,” Leysha looks at Jay as he stares out the window, “while you were gone”.

Jay nods absentmindedly, “Alright, well I’m going to bed.”

As the morning light begins shining, Leysha opens her eyes. The golden bedspread is such a contrast to the pure white sheets. It feels so much better than gold on red. Jay is still sleeping, she can hear his breathing, barely snoring. She had always hated this about him. He was between a silent sleeper and a snorer and she had always wished his respiratory system would just make up its mind. Leysha pounds her fists against the bed twice in frustration and finally buries her head under her pillow. She feels Jay stirring and then the pop of each of his fingers, his wrists, and his back as he cracks himself awake. Leysha unburies her head and looks over to find Jay looking down in visible confusion.

“The sheets are white”.

Leysha looks at him for a second.

“I told you I got new sheets.”

“Well where are the old ones?”

“I donated them.”

Jay looks at Leysha with a face that seems as if it’s been carved out of stone. His mouth hangs slightly open and he looks into Leysha’s eyes with an expression she can’t quite read.

“Leysha we’ve had those sheets for our entire marriage.”

Leysha had, of course, considered this reaction. However, how else was she supposed to tell him that the red sheets seemed to be mocking her, that they made her nauseous. Jay just wouldn’t understand what Leysha knew. That color scheme was a toxin to their relationship.

“We’ll have these ones for the rest of it then.”

With a quick jerking motion of his head that might have been a nod or a muscle spasm, Jay stands from the bed and walks downstairs. Now alone, Leysha bunches up the white sheet around her so that it drapes over her head and around her body in an embrace. She sees a huddled form reflected on the surface of the television across from their bed. The form twists and grows, leaning left, leaning right. Leysha falls back onto the excessively soft mattress before finally giving in to the day’s beckoning. On the bathroom mirror Leysha takes a tube of Dusty Rose lipstick and examines it. She had received it as a gift from her sister-in-law for Christmas or perhaps her birthday. Leysha cannot stand lipstick. It made her lips dry and untouchable and she hated the way it left a little stain on drinking glasses as if it was some sort of identity mark. Leysha now removes the cap and, avoiding the figure in the mirror, spells out ‘VIENNA’ on the surface.

Leysha walks down the stairs and steps around a chunk of ceiling laying on the landing. She would worry about that later. Jay is at the kitchen table with a bowl of oatmeal. Since when had Jay liked oatmeal? The light above the table was off but so much light flooded through the skylight that it wouldn’t have made a difference anyways. Jay looks like an unmade bed in his baggy black pants and his stained white t-shirt. There was a yellow stain on the left shoulder that Leysha remembered him getting at BBQ Burgers. He had put too much mustard on his burger despite Leysha’s warnings and it had dripped onto his shirt and all over the plastic tablecloth.

“Jay.”

Jay nods and grunts an invitation to continue, his mouth full of oatmeal.

“I’m going to Vienna.”

“What?”

37

The Trident

“I said I’m going to Vienna. I said this yesterday, I thought you would have remembered.”

Jay takes a breath and levels his gaze. In a calm voice he says, “No, I just returned from Vienna. You are not going to Vienna.”

“Oh.”

A pause.

“Jay am I dead?”

“What?”

“Is any of this real?”

“Have you been drinking coffee again?” Jay approached Leysha his hands already reaching for her forehead. Leysha steps backwards, out of Jay’s reach.

“No, Jay, really is there something wrong with me?”

“Ley, I don’t know what you’re doing; stop this.”

Behind Jay, the light above the kitchen table comes crashing down onto the table. Leysha recoils from the sound and shields her face from the shattered shards of the light. Jay focuses on Leysha, his eyes never leaving her face. Leysha backs up more and hits a wall which crumbles behind her. Jay is looking at her with confusion. Leysha has so much fear in her eyes.

“Jay! Watch out!”

As she says this, the skylight breaks in and millions of pieces of glass shower down around them both. The shards roll off of Jay’s tan skin like water droplets and Leysha watches in amazement as he stands there unharmed and unconcerned.

“Ley, listen to me, you’re scaring me. What’s going on in there?”

Jay had finally gotten close enough to Leysha that he could reach out and put his hand on the back of her neck. Leysha had sank to the floor against the wall and Jay now slides down in front of her.

“Jay, how much longer can we do this?”

And with that, Jay feels a rumbling on the floor and the wood planks crack and twist away from each other. Jay struggles to find a place, any place, to hold onto.

Leysha sinks back into the crumbled wall. The bits and pieces arrange themselves around her until she is protected by a sort of sheel. A concrete, chipped paint, wood splintery shell. The wall is as smooth as it’s ever been and with a slight bump, the floor reverts back to its leveled state.

Jay stands staring at the stripes on the wall, shocked. He hears the mechanical rumble of the garage door lifting and the low vibration of a car pulling in.

There is a muffled jingle of keys and the twisting of the knob.

The door squeaks open.

“Hey honey, how was Vienna?”

38

Jordyn Lee

She was my guilt trip. A force to be absorbed by, rather than approached by. A love, a foe, a reason to plead guilty.

I was never one for truth, or love, or fighting. I was the stealthy one, the one who convinced the poor bastard that my idea was worth the risk.

It never was. Vengeance isn’t worth it. Neither is financial gain. One half-assed scheme cropped up in the middle of the night was not worth the risk. Was love? Could I scheme love? Could someone plot a bank robbery in the name of guilty, self-serving love?

If I gave up the shame, maybe. I could don the tacky stripes or orange jumpsuit. But for her? She who falls to fragile naivety? Yes. Because she’ll learn. I would have taught her the valuable lesson of criticism. I could only hope she would hate my guts or plot my death when she’s sipping coffee tomorrow morning.

I’ll accept the constricting chains. I’ll shout and call blasphemy. I’ll exchange her time for mine. We will swap seats separated by glass by picking up the phone. She’ll spit in disgust at the sight of me. And I will accept her hatred. When they ask why I did it, I will say for perspective. The figures in blue will scoff and call me selfish. I will laugh in return. I will cross paths with her while she is released and I will etch her expression into my memory.

To see this future through, time will need to pass. Twenty-four hours should allow her time to think past the wallowing and find the burrowing hatred. It would be better for her to hate me. I wouldn’t want her to see me in the clinking chains, or the orange jumpsuit. Nor to cost her precious time speaking to me through glass. Love is self-serving and this is the price I must pay.

Spring 2020

A Choice

39

The Trident 40

nonfiction

Robbie Wolfe

Am I good enough? Will I ever be good enough, or was I just never enough to be good in the first place? Sometimes I can’t tell what’s real and what’s fake. On one hand, I’m breathing and I have blood flowing through my body to my brain and my heart, but on the other, I’m not living.

I’m coasting through in an ethereal fog that molds itself into looking like my life. In a room full of people, I am the most alone. My thoughts weigh me down into the deep blue ocean I call my mind and I start finding myself screaming unable to make a sound. My mind races as I struggle to breathe. Through all of the gasping and searching for answers, my mind finally goes blank and leaves me with the faintest amount of relief. The demons that follow me, haunt me in my sleep, grab ahold of my unconscious body as they drag me lower and deeper into my watery prison. I tried to be okay. I want to get better but it feels like there’s nothing to look forward to when everything goes black and my mind gets hazy.

Spring 2020

Labyrinth

The fog clears and my mind is light. I’m trying to live my truth but people are blind. The sun is shining on my face as I wake up from the nightmare I call my mind.

41

The Trident

Dominoes

42

Emma Marino

Pouring out the dominoes, I mix them around as I wait for my grandmother to come from the kitchen to join me. At 19, I am just as eager to play as I was at 5. I placed the divider in the center -it has more places for multiple people, but this time we’ll only be using 3 -mine, Nanny’s, and the Mexican train which we can both put tiles down on. I sit at the dining room table, which I have no memory every eating on, but have years upon years of memories playing dominoes on. By the time my Grandma enters, I already have my tiles picked and lined up. Eager.

My train of dominoes is nearly perfect. I can play most of them, with only a few not fitting -yet. I guess I owe this skill to my grandfather. When I was little, he’d always look over my shoulder and rearrange my tiles. I recall seeing his wide, round glasses reflected in the window as he quickly moved around, trying to show me the best way he thought to play the game. His comments were full of “What are you doing!” and “No, not that way!” or “Here, try this!” which was extremely frustrating to my young stubbornly-independent self. “Poppy, I got it!” I remember protesting, but still not completely refusing his help. “Don, just let her do it” Nanny would pipe in, backing me in on our non-serious debate. It was always like this, every time we played, whenever I visited, since I was five— Poppy with his suggestions and Nanny trying to stop in. Back then, Nanny had a chance at winning, but now I always win. What can I say? Poppy taught me well. I watch narrowly as Nanny chooses her tiles, trying to make them all line up until she finally waves her hand and says “Oh, fuck it,” in a casual way. She puts down the highest double and starts her train. Thankfully, the train I had already planned started with the same color, so I’m quick to follow her. With only the two of us, we work quick, chatting and clattering, we fall into our rhythm. Grandma and granddaughter.

We’re both going steady along our paths when she runs out of moves. She turns to pick up a tile,

“So, got a boyfriend yet?” She says cheerily, hoping the answer is yes.

“No, not yet” I reply. She gawks at me, as if to say “C’mon, really?” So exaggerated. It is clear she is joking, to an extent. I know it really isn’t a joke. I put down my next tile, still moving along my train. I begin to explain how I just haven’t met the right person yet. “I’m sure it’ll happen soon, I respond. And so on and so forth. It’s not like what I’m saying isn’t true -because it is. It isn’t like I didn’t expect this to come up, of course I did, that’s what grandparents are for. The question is annoying in the same way it would annoy many single 19 year olds. Plus, my grandmother, married by this age grew up in a different time. I can recall the stories she shared with me, sitting cross legged on my bed at 2 a.m. as she talked about her past. Her abusive father. How, at age 16, my Grandpa was her safe escape. A way out. My Grandmother never got above a 6th grade education.

But at 17, she was out of her house. And at 18 she had married Poppy and was now the mother of his two daughters, age 12 and 6. She has survived… her childhood, the loss of multiple siblings, her parents, cancer, the loss of my grandfather. We’ve taken different paths, but I have always respected her. Respect her even when she greets everyone as “hey, bitch” as she cooks a family meal, as if that’s a normal greeting. We continue playing, our rhythm beats steadily like a drum.

It comes clattering to a stop when my Grandma’s boyfriend enters. Joe. Joe has a mustache, he continuously talks about how quiet he is, and despite the fact that he claims to be a calm, peaceful guy, I can’t help feeling off about it. I’m still anxious to continue playing, but upon his entrance all of my Grandma’s attention turns to him. Side by side he appears a little older than her, if I’d have to guess I’d say he’s in his 70’s, but I’m not very good with age.

“So. No boyfriend yet,” he says as a statement, with a huff, having clearly heard my conversation with my Grandma. The words are similar to what my grandmother had said, yet feel

Spring 2020

completely different coming from a man, this man, not my family.

“You gotta learn to start cooking. Then the men will want ya.”

Joe is clearly not very good with time either because his statement is so cliche. I feel like I must be in the 50s or 60s, a time warp. If not, he has to be joking, and yet he’s not. I resume my game. Place another tile down on my track.

“College isn’t really made for cooking. It’s kinda the perfect place for Mac & cheese and junk food,” I joke. My lack of cooking and the Mac & Cheese - junk food diet have nothing to do with college, but I take the opportunity to bring up something else...change the subject, hoping to steer the conversation to another, more appropriate topic. I place another tile down. The clatter slowly resuming.

My Grandma makes a joke as she puts down her tile, but it does nothing to help the conversation as Joe continues to pester me. The clatter of mine and Nanny’s dominoes continues, but slower now.

College. My mother. My sister. Working to be a teacher. The book I just mentioned. The TV show we all just watched together. My friends. My trip to Africa. All easy things to talk about. Yet no other topic is as compelling as my non-existent boyfriend and my inability to obtain one.

I go on the Mexican train.

“I can always date a cook or just order delivery or something. No need for me to cook.” I don’t know why I’m focusing on the cooking or really focusing on Joe or the boyfriend thing at all, but I can’t seem to let it go.

“You go!” I say to my Grandma, returning my attention to the game.

“Hey, that’s your name!” She quips with a smile, as she puts her tile down.

At this point, I’m notorious for beating family members at dominoes. As I should, I’ve been playing the game for as long as I can remember. At five though, I often struggled with when to go. At first we’d all be sitting there -me, Nanny, Poppy, maybe my mom- until finally, my grandfather would turn to me and say “Hey! You go!” So much so that You-Go became my name. That is until I then got over zealous and kept going too early, than, for a little bit I was You-Don’t-Go. Timing has never been my strong suit. But earning the names, that was family.

I put down my next tile. I’m running out of moves, but I’m pretty confident in my ability to make good picks. With Dominoes, I’ve always had the perfect balance of strategy and luck.

Joe still continues to interrupt, though I try to block him out by the dominoes once again clattering down quick and fast as Nanny and I move swiftly after one another. It’s funny; for a quiet guy, Joe sure has a lot to say. He claims to be quiet as a mouse, yet he yaps like a Chihuahua, although that’s a bit of an insult to the dog. Poppy would be more a pitbull or a German Shepherd, fierce, but loving. He always had a lot to say. Never a secret to anybody. You could always hear him yelling about anything with his favorite expletive “Fuck” sprinkling in an out of his every word.

Wiping his glasses clean as he talked. He was rough, but you knew he cared like ice cream dipped in hard chocolate, he’d especially melt for me. And even with his loudness, my grandmother was always able to stand beside him, standing with him. Her voice as loud as his, she standing up to him or she standing up for him. Now, as Joe drones on her voice gets lost in his. At this point, the game is almost over. Her train is up. She has no more moves, she just keeps picking and picking and picking. I put down tile after tile. She’s happy with how her train has gone so far, yet still, she sits stuck picking, trying to find a way to connect her remaining tiles to the rest of her track, instead only adding more and more weight. I have one more tile, doesn’t play. I place my hand, searching for a tile that feels lucky. I don’t quite know what I’m looking for, but I know the feeling when I get it. Without looking, I pick up the tile.

43

poetry

October

Spring 2020

I mapped out all the veins in your arms under the crescent moon in October.

I followed the flow of the ore to a chest cavity of rose quartz.

That had been stolen and smuggled out of Old Rye. September leaves lay heavy on my throat.

Despite my inclination for speaking, I’m struggling to formulate a phrase to articulate your radiance.

A candle burning in the face of a dying star.

I lost myself in the wild of your eyes.

The same way I get lost in oncoming high beams driving home alone on Route 19.

Neil Goldsmith

45

Lost Souls An empty rib cage Blooms with pastel guts Infected Dissected Filled with unwanted parasites Happy little murderers.

The reason I don’t sleep at night The reason I am still blind I love the way you want me to die.

A fallen angel trapped behind a screen Left behind, she screams My memories are tainted.

Where have all the good times gone?

Where am I to go next?

The door is open But she cannot leave.

Feathers and blood stain the cracked cement floor.

Is it quite possible For flowers to bloom late?

April May June July August September October October October November December-Yes! Let us bloom in December It is always so cold.

The Trident

The wind screams.

For not even It is truly free Trapped within a seed of the Earth The voices of the lost still left unheard.

46

Let me help you.

Pleads the fallen beast.

She has fallen from graceBut that does not mean she is doomed to this fate.

Once the day breaks through the safety of the dark night.

We will rise.

We will fight.

Brianna Benvenuti

Little Forest Pathway

Spring 2020

A secret pathway That may just lead to another world.

Where dragonflies swarm in the summer heat Lazily Floating In a dimension where the passing of time Ceases to exist.

Brianna Benvenuti

Where the whispers of the wind become audible Singing melodies of seasons long ago Lullabies of pasts forsaken Love let go.

Echoing Echoing Echo.

Pine trees and sweet dirt A lively aroma.

Leafy giants gently sway in perfect harmony.

They wave to newcomers approaching the bridge Into their little humble abode Yes, everyone is welcome.

Everyone belongs.

We all sit in the rippling field Beyond the bridge We are brought to a wondrous forest A land where reality isn’t so real.

The last light of the evening- that golden-orange hue- is upon us.

Everything appears as a memory, fuzzy and warm.

If we could stay like this for a little longer, Laughing together in the safe arms of the field, Perhaps we could stay in such a summer haze forever.

Perhaps time would stop just for us The little forest, the world better than our own, Our true home.

Our True Home.

47

Beyond Tell me, Where are you going Today?

Tomorrow?

10 years from now?

Well thanks for ruining my day.

Have a nice one, see ya in Hell.

We rendezvous Around the crummiest allies in the Avenue This is not our home Only a place in which we reside.

Our tired bodies have become rubbles of dirt and garbage We ache We bleed We wander We cry ourselves to sleep.

Trapped inside of screens We are all alone together.

The Trident

We dance dance dance around the giant hourglass.

Fingers barely touching But we never dare get too close For what if we had hearts?

What if we had souls?

Such a warmth only exists in childhood.

48

We stumble around flickering street lights Late at night, when only the dead: the broken are alive.

Where are we going?

Stumbling along the twisted train tracks of tradition.

Following the lines, coloring inside of them Playing it safe, following the rules Just as they always told us to.

Watch me.

I’ll make a fucking rainbow All over this empty book.

I’ll tear out these train tracks

Brianna Benvenuti

Where am I going, you ask?

I’m not sure yet.

And that is Okay.

Deep down, we all know the truth: Just do what makes you happy You are already on the path to your dreams.

You are already lovely; Lost floating in the vast space, a new star ready to be reborn.

You are enough.

You are worth every speck of the universe

Spring 2020

I’ll eat them for breakfast.

I’ll carve a new path with my bare hands; My True path.

You are the universe.

49

50

The Trident

52

The Trident

54

The Trident

Spring 2020

55

56

The Trident

Stunted Minds, Stunted Space

Hardly noticing the crickets’ chirping, a nightly gig yet, content cycling mundane content, deeming it drama Free to drift in any direction and cleanse their souls in the mud of irrigated fields Able to talk to themselves without interruption, listening to their own lecturing until it is considered common knowledge, figuring they’ve got the ecosystem figured out without ever leaving their niche.

Jules Hoepting

Spring 2020

Stunted minds in wide-open spaces; that is the precocious pathogen of small towns People purposely predictable, As samplings, their roots anchor in spacious soil They are afraid of being transplanted, comfortable with what they know What they want to know.

“All ‘em city folk’s radical ideas” come from never being in, breathing in, country air comes from being enveloped by envisions different aBstrAaCT changing Rearranging They grew in concrete cylinders, their roots would suffocate if they couldn’t undergo transplantation To make the best of what they have, they question everything they know, figuring they can figure out the entire ecosystem by crawling up to an upper branch and peering around Stunted minds, suffocating space Same contrast No matter how, no matter where we grow We will never know Never will figure the functioning of The ecosystem

57

moments in our time i count the pulses in my knuckles a heartbeat lost to me now sweaty palms, certainty running through the gap between life lines rounded creases under the eyes turned up at the corners soft skin between the nose and the lips, finding cupids bow appled cheeks swelling sweetly symmetrically matched in another parting gifts on pretty lips butterfly lashes anointed in the dark

The Trident

impulsivity threading interconnectedness closing the door and waiting to turn back

58

Alexa Kartschoke

closed

brace yourself baby. placing a hand in the cavern of their lower back.

Spring 2020

the kids with the golden skin, pinky promising parents stares away. a door frame frozen in still life,

Alexa Kartschoke

her thorned kisses, just dainty enough to snap the tendons in their hands. his tooth hanging over the curve of the lips. a swollen strawberry mark— just precious kids. precious fragile kids. kissing in their broom closets.

59

Dreaming

The Trident

As I wake, Morning looks down at me, As if to say “Let’s Go!” Only to go where only the Sky teaches and the sun dances, But only to find a stone waiting, Like a good friend, Willing to help, And listen, As we sit, The sky comes and reminds dawn to come, So the sun takes his rest, For his job is done, And for the now Moon, Who remembers his job, Lets the night guide me home, For I dream, Like everyone should

60

Alexander Moore

I yearn for my summer youth

I yearn for my summer youth. Taught tan skin covered every inch of my unruly teenage body. My fondest memories were of my greatest friend and I over the summers. Teen angst came alive for those few short months of each year. We did everything together under the thick heat of the sun. We sparked our first bowl in her green Ford Explorer, “The Green Machine.”. Impromptu topless photo shoot under the stars at the Botanical Gardens.

Days spent in the central air when it was that too hot kind of hot outside. Sitting up at the infamous breakfast bar in her house that held the majority of our secrets we shared when the whole world seemed to be asleep. The beach at the summer cottage. Walking the streets of her neighborhood when the persistent sun finally set. It was cool enough outside to walk barefoot the whole way. After many of these walks we developed what we called our summer feet. All of the softness and sensitivity from the winter taken away by the harshness of walking everywhere barefoot. Eating a giant tub of cookie dough while floating on a big white pool float in her inground pool. We ate that cookie dough until we turned green. Then winter comes and grasps us in it’s icy grip. The fire the sun set in our hearts fades and we know it is time to say goodbye to summer. See you soon old friend.

Spring 2020

Morgan Trapper

61

Leaving Syracuse: A Sestina

Mary Conover

For weeks now I have been looking forward to October break.

I am an RA in a freshman girls’ building, so I will take any opportunity to leave.

Usually I don’t go far, just Syracuse, because that is where my brothers are. They make my life so much more exciting than any life without and I wouldn’t ever want them to change.

Seeing my brothers is the highlight of going home; that I have to go back to Syracuse is the part that feels like a waste of time.

My family moved to Syracuse’s west side when I was 7. At that time, it seemed like a place where we could thrive, get a break from all of the drama that fills the strange small town the rest of my relatives call home.

I personally find small town drama so amusing; because the people who literally never leave are the ones who will stare at you in the Aldi line while the cashier counts out their change, making judgements they can’t wait to gossip about, because somehow, your life is their life?

Before Syracuse, we moved around a lot. I thought that’s just how people live; out of big boxes that are just never fully unpacked. Finally, we were promised that this time we would find somewhere we would stay. Our life was consistent with so many changes for so many little kids. I remember the day we moved to the west side. It was summer break, right after I finished first grade. I was hopeful this would be the place I wouldn’t have to leave.

It obviously was, and Syracuse became my first real home.

For my mom the best part about moving was leaving those judgy old ladies from her home town. For my father it meant a much better job. He got fired, of course, but that’s how life works, if you really suck at your job they’re going to make you leave.

Through all this my mom was pregnant; I wanted it to be a girl this time.

The baby was another boy. Five times the world would take my heart and break it by sending me brothers. I love them so much now, so my opinion may have changed.

The Trident

In addition to my family always growing and changing, we were all becoming better people, both in the outside world and in the home.

Syracuse opened my mother’s eyes to the ignorance she had been living in for years. Here broken people were everywhere. People here were honest, real, and going through their lives with struggles that meant so much more than what someone wore at work one time.

However, just like everywhere else, everyone in Syracuse hated it and desperately wanted to leave.

62

I was one of those people. As college came closer, I kept telling people I couldn’t wait to leave.

After being here for a while now, I can confidently say that I’ve very much changed my mind. I am grateful for everything I have at Fredonia, but every single time I have the chance to go back home, I go. Happily. The whole college lifestyle is not what I was made for. Syracuse is where I belong and I look forward to the break.

I think that I will take a minute, when I am home, to appreciate the changes my mom went through to give my brothers and I a better life.

I will take time, when I am leaving Syracuse, to think about how much had to break.

Cycle B

In you I see a waxing care for me But prone to melting are the things of wax; And I possess a want for company So for your hand, I do not plan attacks. Hear every branch go crack and snap as I Fear fire fighting for your affection. Deeds dwell i’ the dimension of my eye And there, O Love, present my affliction. I demonstrate desire to lay with you But sense aversion to my timid touch.

Become I tongue-tied, my dry lips refuse To shape my words; Anxiety’s my crutch.

Thus if I wish to keep your light with me Then patient for you I must simply be.

Spring 2020

1

Dom Magistro

2

Together we have been at sea for weeks. While stormy weather rocks our ship, we bet That we survive through storm, shipwreck, and beasts. Now finally the land we reach, and yet Outside, torrential rains assault the ground And lightning’s swift and tort’rous strikes grant sight, Illuminating barren streets around The sleepy town.

Within the home: a fight. The ebb and flow of riptides shake our faith. The cradle of my ignorance permits Your violent words to pass through like a wraith. I wonder if we should just call it quits. The moment thoughts like these enter my mind, The storms clear out and suddenly you’re kind.

3

Age-old myths tell of burning wings of flame. Immortal beasts who grant their witness luck, Whose tears are full of my cathartic shame, And fly with purpose like an arrow struck.

When lightning strikes the forest canopy Exactly just. It does, without witness, Give way to smoke and fire burning free, It, like a wick, ignites the tallest tree. From ashes, dusty feathers themselves shake free. And shake, like ash, your weak apology. Now acrid smoke fills air and lungs of beasts And choke the life from love that has long ceased. Now stretching wings and taking its first flight, The bird arises to the violent night.

63

Text Box

Anthony Miller Look at this text in the glowing green box Jingle--zipper handles on your bag as you talk in your head

Stop. Read the green little screen coated box instead Of walking stop and start again with your head lost What she said is sad because you read it kinda not How you presently should’ve. Reading is hard.

Wrong. Interpretations are hard to untangle from this start Of something you label and mark like christmas socks Glowing green box of mystery words you are the devil.

Lurking in my bubble of hair pulled hard thoughts Soft smiles ticking, set to go off and become a rebellion eating this simple back and forth. Jot

The Trident

Hit send and hope I don’t mess up Something I desperately want to destroy

64

symbiosis

Robin Eassa

[why is it so hard? i know that i can’t ask this of you, but it kills me to know that you would have asked me just a short time ago.] passing yellow lights highlight the edges for a moment, reminding you they remain but never giving them enough to shine

Spring 2020

glow in the dark stars plastered to the ceiling in careful patterns unlit they only work when there’s light to take in

[did i do something wrong? what made you change your mind about me? if you felt that way before, why did you never tell me?] over time they fall, soft clatters on the floor and you aren’t tall enough to put them back because you hung them together and they were always closer to the stars anyway [why did you stop caring? you know i can’t be without you, and i feel my body decay every passing hour without the life you gave me. i take what i can, but you stopped giving. why?] you never thought you’d see the stars themselves fall [you stopped giving me light. and you have the gall to ask me why i don’t glow.]

65

Vocal

Sarah Weynard

We always impersonated his conducting, his mild threats to throw us out if the alto section didn’t shut up, his knee up on the chair when he dropped the news that he knew – he knew our stories before we even made eye contact.

I suppose that intuition was a result of that December morning when he could smell the engine from his mother’s garage a dust path of crushed Xanax guiding him through the ranch’s hallway the weight of 25 years with a depressed alcoholic parent the weight of his mother’s arm when he tried to wake her the weight of car fumes threatening his own lungs all seemed to collapse on his young shoulders at 7:13 AM on a Thursday.

He knew us because he knew her.

He used our voice tests to determine what we weren’t saying.

Our stance on the risers notified him of the confidence we didn’t have, how many hours we slept last night, which one of our parents hated us more Short term goals: get out of high school, he’d tell us in his closet of an office.

Some students laughed in agreement but those words made my eyes burn with saltwater, my nails scratching my arm raw, because that red and white concrete Adderall infested hole was the only thing that saved me from the house on Seminole Street.

And on a 75 degree day in April, he knew why.

The Trident

He knew, he knew, he knew, even when I thought I didn’t want him to know.

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He knew about my nights in the basement, where the bruises on my back came from, why a 50 year old man was jealous of my junior prom date, and what the shape of a belt buckle looked like on a sixteen year old’s skin.

I’d imagine the worst case scenario of what happened next: the walk down to the guidance office, flashes of the news stories of unfounded CPS cases, or the worst: the silence the “your father is so charming” the lies the neglect. but I don’t think I’d ever be prepared for what he did for me he pulled me into his arms and I was enveloped in a cocoon of the father I never had. he kissed my forehead with a tenderness my dreams wouldn’t even entertain.

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he smelled like home and he promised to keep me safe. all the tears I was never allowed to shed in that house poured from my hopeless eyes onto his shirt.

He let me.

And he saved me Because he knew.

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ha

i

ku

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Minty chewing gum.

Brown eyes, brown hair, and brown skin.

I remember you.

Tell me you love me Maybe I’ll pretend with you Yes, let’s play this game.

Adrianna Burgos

Colors fade to gray, I’m changing my mind again.

Come back, I love you.

The sun is shiningThe rays reflect off your skin; It’s warm, I am home.

Pacific nightfall A passionate, love dances At the perfect death.

Sarah Lopes

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Selections from “Now and Forever” To you, of whom my heart desires:

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If only I could Hold you in my arms once more, I’d ask for no more. ______________ Your smile lit my heart Even as you vanished; Gone.

Your words echoed on. _______________ An anger so cold, With the power to burn flesh.

Flushed; Abandonment. _______________ Addiction- not choice; Fallen from grace, with the ghosts Beckoning, “come, now.” _______________ Still, still, still I cry: “I deserve this love too!” But...

I give all to you. _______________ This “recovery.”

A glass box; enshrouded maze.

Happy; Sad; Happy. _______________ To learn once again Intrapersonal comfort.

I will find my way.

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Kailyn Gatto

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the terrace

Milo Arnone

“do you remember the first time you told me you loved me?” green and grey and brown. leafy green and grassy green. metallic dark grey and light cement grey. stairs. but we were on the inside of my car. browns to be more accurate. tree branch brown versus tree trunk brown. but the sky was pure blue. it transformed into an elevated volcanic eruption hours later. but pink. pink that matched the roses on the ground. and pink that rose in the fire of your cheeks. we were on the inside of my car. and she was giggling. glowing. burning. and the sun wasn’t even behind her. talking about something she loved. loved. loved. love. it flew out of me. as if it didn’t belong inside of me at all.

“I love you.”

The Trident

silence

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October 13 It ended the day it began One year One month One day One second was all it took for my world to change For the world I thought I knew to collapse at my feet The ground I stood tall on crumbled I fell I fell with no one there to catch me I fell without someone to pick up the pieces I fell still wanting to hold on I fell out of love My heart broke the same day it beat You told me the truth One year from when our journey was first beginning One year from when I thought I had the world One year from when I did not know what was to come I broke I pieced myself back together I fixed the cuts that ran deep with needle and thread I healed

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The ground I stand on now is my own And never again will I let my life be changed by one second

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Julia Gero

My Boy

My boy swore he loved me and would never stop My boy claimed he fucked up because he’s fucked up My boy promised to do anything and everything to make it up My boy cheated That’s when he stopped being my boy

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Some girls right about the boy who stopped loving them But I don’t know if that was my boy

Julia Gero

All those promises turned to empty claims All the memories turned sour All the love turned to heartache The boy I thought I knew became a ghost My boy wouldn’t have cheated My boy would have always been there My boy would never want to see me hurt My boy didn’t exist

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Connection As humans We crave human connection.

Though we lock ourselves away, Trapped iIn the prisons of our minds inand what we call our safe havens, our Homes.

We do not want want to talk or. to To go out.

Or to exist.

But, We still want a friend or. or a lover.

Somebody.

We want to feel wanted.

Cared about.

Loved.

Appreciated.

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But we sit and we wait, for nothing but loneliness.

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Olivia Berne

Change

Love

Olivia Berne

Spring 2020

The sun sets differently each day.

As I watch I think, I too, can change.

Think about all the things All the things that you love That you enjoy, Now take those things and subtract Subtract the physical What is left?

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Weekend

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Casey Huber

Coyotes circle a bed exposed to the cold winds swept up by a vast flat landscape.

Each bears their teeth as the bed’s occupant attempts to keep them at bay by rolling over to the other side of the bed.

Suddenly, the reliable repetition of the workweek ends, leaving an empty slate full of impossible potential for two days and three nights to fill.

Friday comes and goes, then suddenly all things come grinding to a halt.

Time has been brought to its knees, slowly marching in lockstep behind some unseen shadowy guardian, trudging through another 48 hours of emptiness.

Also in the chain gang is a miserable soul inextricably bound to the slow march, looking for coveted distractions to turn seconds and minutes into an indistinguishable mush.

A phone buzzes, a reminder of the real world.

Ten minutes had passed while the soul was lost in the muddled trenches of his mind, a precious victory bringing closer the familiarity of Monday.

A movie, some dinner and a shower all soak up their respective minutes which brings Friday to a close.

Of course, first the trial of sleep must be overcome, a trial both familiar and foreign.

Filling a mind with bouncing sheep is hardly a menial task.

Keeping at bay the coyotes proves the most difficult task of the day, with each circling predator eagerly waiting their turn to tear into the sleeper, who wants only peace.

Counting sheep would prove unproductive when surrounded by coyotes.

Saturday starts late after an ignored alarm evolves into a slow breakfast and shower.

And the shower culminates with a fresh, clean perspective which is then promptly wasted on the nothing there is to be done.

Not to say that nothing could be done, rather to say that nothing would be.

Depression is a shade of grey that coats everything rather than manifesting into a singular being with which you can fight or shout at.

This grey fog proves harder to count sheep, as you can probably imagine.

The coyotes came again that night, this time attacking with doubtful remarks and snide self deprecation.

The bed’s occupant was again eaten alive, torn piece by piece apart until all their mistakes and doubts stained the snowy ground.

Another weekend passes.

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Milo Arnone is a junior English Adolescence Education major at SUNY Fredonia. Hailing from

the rural/suburban side of the Buffalo, NY area, Milo forever seeks the perfect balance between city and country.

Brianna Benvenuti is a student at SUNY Fredonia.

Olivia Berne is a student at SUNY Fredonia.

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Contributors

Adrianna Burgos is a freshman at SUNY Fredonia. She is studying Music Education with a

concentration in voice, and is a dedicated member of the “Some Like it Hot” acapella group (also at SUNY Fredonia). Her hometown is Forestville, NY where she currently resides full time.

Mary Conover is a SUNY Fredonia Sophomore from Syracuse, NY. She is a Childhood Inclusive Education major in the 4+1 Literacy Birth-12 program. Mary loves art and working with children.

Jay Darling originates from a small town that, like its namesake states, lies between two lakes,

Seneca and Cayuga Lake. When they are not busy between taking long walks through nature, reading, and drawing, they can be found listening to Lofi Legend of Zelda music and writing. They are a junior Sociology major with two minors in Public Health and English.

Katelyn Davis is a first year Illustration/Animation student at SUNY Fredonia. She is minoring in Creative Writing. Katelyn’s hometown is Williamsville, NY. Other than writing and art, Katelyn enjoys taking walks in nature and playing the flute.

Robin Eassa (he/him/his) is a freshman Music Education major at SUNY Fredonia. He is from

Rochester, NY and has an avid passion for the weird and the macabre. Despite this, his other pastimes include singing, playing Animal Crossing/Minecraft, drawing, and doting over his cats.

Kailyn Gatto is a sophomore at SUNY Fredonia currently earning a Bachelor’s of Science in

Music Industry and a Bachelor’s of Art in Music with a concentration in Entrepreneurship. Her hometown is Westfield, New York, and she has a long-standing love for writing. One of her proudest achievements was winning the Poetry Out Loud Regional Competition at Brockport her senior year of high school. Find her on Instagram at: @k_gatto_

Julia Gero is a freshman student who majors in childhood education with a concentration in

English. She is from Poughkeepsie, New York. Julia went to a high school with approximately 3,000 other students. She always enjoyed writing, but did not get into poetry until her creative writing class here at Fredonia.

Neil Goldsmith is a student at SUNY Fredonia.

Carly Grimm is a junior Communication Studies major at SUNY Fredonia. She is from Newfane, NY and studied abroad in Seoul, South Korea last semester. Carly took Introduction to Creative

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Writing her first semester at Fredonia and was inspired by her fellow classmates to continue to write and share her stories.

Jules Hoepting is a sophomore Public Relations major with a double minor in Rhetorical Writ-

ing and Environmental Studies. As long as she can remember, she has had a love for words - especially word play. Her passion for photography has developed within the last few years, nature her dominant theme. Whether it is words or images, Hoepting’s ultimate goal is to find unique perspectives on every day life.

Casey Huber grew up in Fredonia New York. Journalism and international studies dual major.

Graduating class of 2022. Will be studying abroad in Belgium August of 2020.

Alexa Kartschoke is a sophomore BFA Acting major with a double minor in dance and creative writing and she is originally from Williston, Vermont. If you want to check out more of her poetry, head over to Instagram @sweetpeapoetry.

Jordyn Lee is a Senior Communication Studies major at SUNY Fredonia. She was born in Hor-

nell, New York and raised in Gowanda, New York. She is soon to be the first person in her immediate family to attend and graduate college in Spring 2021. Jordyn also independently studies alternative medicine in her free time and is a freelance writer.

Sarah Lopes is currently a sophomore at SUNY Fredonia from Long Island, New York. She has

been writing for seven years, but recently decided to share some of her work with the public. Her zodiac sign is Sagittarius and some of her hobbies are listening to music, singing, reading, and writing.

Dom Magistro is a junior at SUNY Fredonia studying Applied Math. When Dom isn’t at Fredonia, they enjoy camping and walking their pets, a Rottweiler and a Savanah Monitor around their hometown of Horseheads, NY. Dom enjoys romantic poetry, especially the sonnet form.

Emma Marino is a student at SUNY Geneseo.

Anthony Miller is a fourth year transfer student at SUNY Fredonia with a major in English and a minor in Creative Writing who is originally from the Pittsburgh area. Besides writing, he enjoys fishing, playing golf, ultimate frisbee, writing music, and watching Toy Story.

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Alexander Moore is a Junior in the English Adolescent Education BA/MA Major. He is from Syracuse, New York. He has always wanted to be an author and is working towards completing his first set of poems and his first novel.

Dylan Murawski is a sophomore at SUNY Fredonia, studying music technology. Though not

directly involved with the English program, he has a fondness for creative writing that stems all the way back to his childhood, when he used to write comic books with his friends. He hopes that, no matter where his future takes him, writing always remains a big part of his life.

Alex Simmons is a student at SUNY Fredonia.

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Mark Speranza is an Animation and Illustration senior with a minor in Creative Writing. Coming

Morgan Trapper is a third year Adolescent English Education major at SUNY Fredonia. She

currently resides in her hometown of West Seneca where she lives with her family. Morgan has been an avid reader/writer since she was young. She can’t wait to share her love of English with her future students someday.

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from Long Island, he has an interest in storytelling through both written and visual means and intends to pursue a career in animation and script writing. His hopes are to one day fulfill his dreams of realizing his own fictional worlds through these means and provide rich and character driven pieces.

Sarah Weynand grew up in Albertson, NY, and is now going into her senior year at Wilkes. She is a double major in Musical Theatre and English Literature. In Fall 2021, she will be the president of her school’s chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, the International English Honor Society. Her favorite writing partner is her cat, Theo, whose seating placement on the keyboard is well-intentioned.

Robbie Wolfe is a student at SUNY Fredonia.

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