SKALD
CONTENTS
An ancient Scandinavian poet who memorialized the epic deeds of the Vikings with elaborate recitations at court.
COLOPHON
LITERATURE
A single point moves to another to become a line. A third point
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Devonna Poole
4
Ashley Smith
7
Shelby Bradich
8
Lexxy Lipinski
GRAPHIC DESIGN
joins to form a simple shape. Connecting additional points influences the form as an ongoing process of expansion, complexity, and diversity. The connections grow a network that travels between
2
Grace Gruarin
the single point is intact, but supported – broader and stronger than
6
Ali Casarsa
its initial solitary state.
19 Cassidy Smith
7
Rachel Gallmeyer
15 Emily Sniegowski
24 Grace Gruarin
9
Bianca Gullotti
17 Analese Wilson
31 Samantha Manns
12 Frederick Vicaretti
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33 Jeffery Marotta
17 Samantha Lonczak
19 Rachel Tabak
points, lines, planes of dimensionality, and interest. And over time,
The path of a student at Villa Maria College can be considered similarly; arriving at the first point of contact, connecting with
STAFF
FINE ARTS
peers, faculty and the campus community, expanding ideas and
PHOTOGRAPHY
11 Dejon Brice
Analese Wilson
awareness, and ultimately joining the professional industry with a
CONCEPT, DESIGN & PRODUCTION
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Shelbie Hood
39 Jessica Puskar
18 Kimberly Holtyn
21 Adam Schuh
network of support and knowledge. Benefiting from the connections
Ali Casarsa | Junior Student
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Jessica Puskar
40 Gina Griffo
22 Paige Ogden
23 Jamie Pawlak
gathered throughout the process of higher learning, students
Courtney Ewings | Junior Student
10 Monique Young
41 Rebecca Wrathling
29 Bianca Gullotti
26 Victoria Cobel
inevitably reach to extended points within themselves, as well,
Gina Griffo | Sophomore Student
meeting and exceeding expectations held in the beginning.
Samantha Lonczak | Junior Student
16 Crystalyn Szymanski
41 Courtney Ewings
32 Courtney Ewings
31 Lexxy Lipinski
20 Tay Morris
43 Gina Griffo
35 Paige Berkheiser
32 Mat Missert
The concept of connectivity is represented in this 2016 edition of
FACULTY ADVISORS
27 Shanel Kerekes
45 Grace Gruarin
38 Kimberly Holtyn
33 Dejon Brice
SKALD Student Art and Literary Publication. Points connecting
Robert Grizanti | Professor, Graphic Design
30 Samantha Lonczak
46 Samantha Lonczak
40
34 Rene Miller
to form lines and planes are exemplified throughout the piece –
Joyce Kessel | Professor, English
58 Samantha Lonczak
44 Rachel Gallmeyer
43 Lexxy Lipinski
Julie Zack | Professor, Graphic Design
34 Shane Ellis
bridging pages and spreads – while images and content overlap to
36 Jessica Puskar
59 Jessica Puskar
48 Paige Berkheiser
37 Shelby Bradich
53 Paige Ogden
38 Ashley Smith
55 Bianca Gullotti
42 Chris Helton
56 Kimberly Holtyn
44 Ryan Weatherbee
57 Courtney Ewings
48 Ashley Smith
introduce what’s next. Much of the cover was constructed by hand
42 Christopher Franklin
using simple materials to illustrate the concept. The typographic
43 Shanel Kerekes
system for the content yields direct and geometric titles, warm and textured by-lines, and body copy with serifs that visually connect
SPECIAL THANKS
each letter for ease of reading.
Brian Emerson Vice President for Enrollment Management and Student Services
All students may submit literary and/or artwork completed at Villa Maria College while attending courses. Solicitations are made in classes, print and on-line methods. Final selections are made jointly
To all the students, faculty, staff and members of the Villa Maria College community for their participation and continued support.
49 Maria Liegl
INTERIOR DESIGN
54 Shane Ellis 54 Lianna Hogan
3
Renee Falksen
59 Paige Berkheiser
50 Analese Wilson
58 Shanel Kerekes
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Cheri Beitz
61 Rachel Gallmeyer
52 Dejon Brice
60 Maria Liegl
14
Melanie Daniels
37 Siera Rogers
by the faculty and advisors to the publication. RECOGNITION
Katlin McCabe
56 Rachel Tabak 60 Ryan Weatherbee
38 Cheri Beitz
Columbia Scholastic Press Association has awarded Gold Crowns in 2015 and 2006, and Silver Crowns to the 2014, 2013, 2012, 2011 and 2010 issues. The Association of Writers & Writing Programs recognized the 2014 issue for Outstanding Design. SKALD also earned local and district ADDY Awards from the American Advertising Federation for the 2015 edition.
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R. DESIGN; CAFE & RECEPTION Renee Falsken | Digital Rendering
SARDINES Grace Gruarin | Packaging
NEW AND IMPROVED DeVonna Poole | Poem
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I thought in order to get love,
To feel those tingles.
I had to lie on my back
But not with you.
Or get on my knees
You encouraged me to entice you with my words
Just to hear him say, “I love you, baby.”
And not with my body.
I thought in order to get love
When I cut my hair
I needed long hair
You said you like my new “do”.
Light skin
You showed me I could feel our connection
Or send pictures of my body - bare.
When we just sit and talk.
I thought in order to get love
You showed me
I had to give up my intelligence
Our lips don’t have to touch
Because no man wants a smart woman.
For me to feel electricity run through my body
Our conversations never made sense
And all these feelings make me write.
But that’s okay!
…But I am writing about you.
Because I get a goodnight text with
And writing about you is terrifying
hearts emojis.
Because I show you my heart
I thought in order to get love
And if I end up hurt…
I had to touch his skin
Well, that would be just fine.
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ON WRITING BY STEPHEN KING Ashley Smith | Book Review There are few books one can read which are able
Before I read On Writing, my sole experiences
like Snoopy, “It was a dark and stormy night,”
to make a person laugh, cry, grow angry at the
with him had been slightly abnormal in
their finished product is something truly horrific,
fortunes of fate, or daydream in such a fashion as
themselves. I had not read his tales of horror.
like a romance with no plausible plotline, or a
Stephen King’s On Writing. Mr. King’s mix of
What I had read was his short stories. My
whodunit full of coincidences. And because of
memoir and how-to manual on the profession, or
favorite of all of them was “Rita Hayworth and
this, the terminal condition known as bad writing,
obsession, of creative writing just happens to be
Shawshank Redemption”. It should truly be no
it ends up dooming them to nothing more than
one of those titles. From the very first pages, where
surprise that such a wonderful film noir was
being a closet writer, spooning prose furtively into
he talks with tongue-in-cheek humor about his
made from this master-craft of a novella. The
their mouths as they binge upon pronouns and
run-in with poison ivy and his overdose on eggs,
melancholy sadness floats through the pages of
consonants.
to the sections of the book in which he describes
the novella like acrid smoke floats through a New
with perfect candor his gut-wrenching time as
York juke joint. The pulsing syncopation of the
Some may say that writing is a crapshoot, that
an alcoholic, to the inspirational and humorous
words draws us in.
luck in writing is just going to reach out and zap
lessons on the craft of writing, this book has it all.
you one day, like a lightning bolt on a hot August We walk through the story with Andy and Red,
night. I say they are way off. For me, my writing
While reading it, I found myself continuously
always at their elbows, always hoping against hope
is a plant. My words are seeds I coax into life,
wondering several things. The first was why my
that the tale will end with both of them being free,
watering and tending them until they become
classmates from Introduction to Creative Writing
rather than still sitting against a brick wall in the
full-fledged flowers of novels. That is exactly what
found it absolutely, positively painful to read this
cold of a Maine winter, musing about how their
Mr. King is trying to show us in On Writing.
book? Why did they struggle with it and act like
lives have gone to hell.
He becomes the literary gardener, showing us
its 200 pages were another form of water-boarding
just how we need to fertilize, and how to prune a
treatment? What was it about this book that sent
It is Mr. King’s ability to become one with the
work, as hard as that may be. I may not dream of
them fleeing in droves? I did not have all of these
character, to be in the moment that he wants to
becoming as prolific an author as Mr. King, but I
problems. I had the opposite. Once I opened this
show us, that I want to grasp and hold tight to. I
do want to write more than one book. One good
slim volume, I found it hard to put down. One
want to make the readers of my stories taste the
book.
could say I actually looked forward to my “alone
food, to feel the warmth of the sunshine upon
time” with the King of the Macabre.
their face, and to have the emotions rip apart
I do have a secret fear of becoming like Harper
their hearts. I do not want my writing to become
Lee. I read her novel To Kill a Mockingbird as
The other great question I had while reading
nothing more than some words upon the page,
a child and that book scarred me as a creative
this book was where does Mr. King get his ideas?
some nice and gooey saccharine-sweet beach read
writer. I was traumatized by the thought of
Is there a big trunk inside his imagination from
with no more weight than a feather. I want my
becoming a writer who pens one absolutely
which he pulls out the darkest and most morbid
novels to be raw, base, and primal. I think that is
extraordinary work and then disappears for years
ideas, mix them up with a little blood and guts,
why I did enjoy being given On Writing for this
on end. I do not know if I could have been silent
and toss them into a bowl to get a delightfully
class.
the way as she was. If I could turn off my literary
creepy word salad? Or is his writing instead
voice, not saying one syllable to the world. When
a psychological response to all that is bizarre
For me, it was more than just another assigned
you write, your writing voice becomes a shout that
and abnormal within our world? That instead
reading I had to complete as part of my program
you cannot hold back. Your writing voice has to
of screaming “What the hell’s wrong with you
to become a creative writing major. It became a
be free to say what it needs to say, and that is what
people?” Mr. King picks up a pen and lets
primer on how to polish up the rough stones of
Mr. King is letting us, the writers do, he is letting
his mind begin to hum, turning these slightly
my writing. I do not want to see my novels end
us set our words free.
abnormal creatures of the human race into
up in the remainder pile. Because there are so
something from the darker side of life.
many books that do. Mr. King says, “there are lots of bad writers” (141). I think that those writers who do end up writing bad novels do so with the best of intentions. Instead of them writing,
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UNTITLED Shelbie Hood | Charcoal 5
08:09 Rachel Gallmeyer | Photograph A TYPICAL NIGHT
NIGHT: 190-198 Jessica Puskar | Oil Painting
Shelby Bradich | Poem This is a poem about me. Lying in bed. A kitten soft blanket over my bare legs. Scenes from Harry Potter flicking on the TV screen. My apple cinnamon tea piping hot, Taunting my senses, Too steamy to drink. A good book sitting next to me, Waiting to be read. Needing to be read.
TOM FORD Ali Casarsa | Advertising
I can’t seem to pick it up. The blanket has its arms around me in a tight grasp. Calming me. Warming me. Preventing motivation and holding me hostage. Pure bliss.
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THE NARRATIVE OF NANA COZZA Lexxy Lipinski | Poem She stares out the crusty, unclean window with a vague expression on her face. The neighbors that she came to love are passing her by. Some are flying down South; others are flying up above, But still she sits there, watching her life move on.
What happened to her lively home? The home that raised three children and two granddaughters, The home that adored her dear husband, regardless of his infidelity, The home that was up as the first rays of the sun graced her face, The home that dozed off as the stars came out to dance. What happened to her?
Her walls fading, her stairs creaking, her gardens infested with weeds. Those luminous eyes and that glowing smile are now masked With dull, unlively eyes, a long face, and thin lips. The house that was once filled with children’s laughter Is now filled with “hmms,” coughing, and throat clearing. She prays for a better tomorrow, but her hope is fading. Her only chance at rejuvenation is a little bean, A little bean who has been developing for nine months In her favorite granddaughter’s womb, A little bean that will fill her soul with purpose once more, A little bean that will breathe life back into her nearly dead soul, A little bean that will save her from what she has become.
CHAIR, CIRCA 1907 Cheri Beitz | Pencil Rendering
SUMMER DAYS Bianca Gullotti | Photograph
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HAVE YOU EVER FELT YOUR HEART? Dejon Brice | Creative Writing Have you felt your heart? No, have you ever really placed and rested your hand on that thump and just rested a while? Did you feel the thumps of pumping blood or did you even feel your heart at all?
I now rest my hand on my chest and I swear to you as clear as day I can see that little opening and closing latch. A latch I call it. Like a swinging door. Open, close, in and out. I see this latch, lifting and lowering itself to allow blood flow. I hear it go up and down and up and down. To me the latch is white and small. In that blood, all that red, all those cells and passions, I can see
Could you see and feel the warmth from your chest on your hand?
that white latch just opening and shutting.
Did you feel your heart slowing down as you made the connection?
Oh how powerful is your heart. Those four chambers and
Did your heart slow and speed up?
vacuoles. I wonder which chamber hides what secrets. Can you imagine, a different chamber of the heart for each emotion, lie,
Have you ever felt your heart when rapid and then listened and
secret, regret and wants?
touched it as it slows down? It’s an experience like no other. To connect to your heart. Not your heart as a tool for love or emotion,
Can you imagine walking in your heart as it beats? How powerful
but your heart as superpower.
is that. Walking—exploring your heart while in motion. Being able to touch that latch, pass through and feel your blood and not
So powerful is your heart. So red and vibrant and filled with
be knocked down by it, just let to flow through you.
passion. So strong is your heart. So powerful is your heart. Can see yourself opening doors within your very own heart? Doors When you feel your heart, do you hear it? Listen to it? Do you see
that stand tall and small. Doors that you’ve seen before and doors
and feel the connections of heart, mind, body and soul?
never opened. Can you see yourself trying to open a door that just
How dependent we are on this muscle. Do you feel it flexing, breathing in and out, up and down?
won’t open because neither you nor heart are ready for it? I have seen my heart. The connection has been made. Sometimes rapid and too fast, other times I force him to chill and catch with
Can you hear the blood-flow? The thump thump or the bump
my lungs. I have heard my heart on echo machines. I have seen the
bump. What sounds and rhythms does your heart make…do you
x-rayed colors of it.
know, have you ever wondered? I have felt my heart and it-it is such a powerful thing. Or do you just ignore your heart as a simple blood pumper? Oh but when you feel, touch and connect to your heart, there is so much more. It’s power, you realize it for the first time. Do you feel your heart? Can you see it inside you? Can’t you see the red, the blood the flow, the tiny heart of each blood cell. The speed, size and location within your chest. I’ve felt my heart. I’ve listened to it. Calmed it. Relaxed it. I have felt the warmth of my heart not only on my hand but in my mind.
UNTITLED Monique Young | Drawing 10
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MEDITATIONS ON SCALE & FORM Frederick Vicaretti | Photographs | Senior Thesis 12
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READING IS A SECRET DOOR Emily Sniegowski | Essay In class this semester we watched a TED Talk by children’s author
fiction and reality Mac Barnett discusses in his talk. In his case,
Mac Barnett. He talked about storytelling, and how stories are a
it is a little bit different, since he is bring aspects of his stories into
small door between the worlds of fiction and reality. He discussed
reality rather than letting the words alone bring you into a new
with the audience how he has always loved telling stories, and
world. However in his case it is different as well since his books
breaking the fourth wall of stories in a new way. Usually the term
are targeted for kids. His way of breaking the fourth wall sparks a
breaking the fourth wall refers to an actor on a stage turning to the
child’s imagination and shows that sometimes the impossible can
audience and speaking directly with them, as if to say, yes, I am an
become real.
actor and this is all fake. The way Mac likes to break that fourth wall, though, is to make the stories come to life in a whole new way
To me, books for teenagers and adults seem more targeted to
by bringing elements of them into reality.
individual entertainment rather than for the imaginative element we looked for as kids. Storylines seem more real, dealing with issues
He wrote a book called Billy Twitters and his Blue Whale Problem
we could actually face on a daily basis, rather than something in a
in which the main character, Billy, receives a blue whale as a
far off land we need to create in our heads for it to be real.
punishment. He has to care for the whale, bring it to school with him, and the whale, as Barnett described it, ruins this boy’s life.
Because of my love for reading and this transformation into a world
Hidden in the jacket for the book is a slip for a 30-day trial for a
between fiction and reality, I felt like I connected strongly to what
blue whale that kids can write in to get. This is how he brought
Barnett was explaining in his TED talk. I loved hearing about
his story into reality. There are actually many kids who write in to
the projects like 826 Valencia, where they create a fantasy store in
receive their blue whale. What they receive in return is a fake letter
order to house a location for a not-for-profit organization helping
from a Norwegian law firm stating that due to custom changes, the
children. Just walking through that store to get to the organization’s
whale cannot be sent to the kids. They are given a phone number
base is enough to show a child that if you can imagine something, it
in which they can call their whale to leave messages, and this is
can become a reality. I think projects like these are very important
how the story becomes real. Kids call and leave messages for their
nowadays, because I feel kids are using their imagination and
blue whale, and suddenly the idea that a child can have such an
creativity less and less often. Instead of making up their own games
impractical animal as a pet becomes reality.
and creating their own fantasy worlds to play in, they are sitting and staring at the screen of a smartphone or tablet. Yes, they may
Ever since I was a kid I have always loved reading. It was my
be playing a game, and that was created by someone, somewhere,
favorite thing to read a book and become so involved with the story,
but where is the magic and fun? There is no way for children to get
and still is to this day. I think it is amazing when an author has
lost in their own world somewhere between what is real and what is
the gift to create a story so vivid the reader becomes a part of it. I
fiction if they don't believe that it can in fact happen.
can remember reading numerous books and becoming so involved with the story I became oblivious to the world around me. There have been occasions where my mom would be trying to talk to me and I wouldn't hear a single word she was saying; I wouldn't even know she was in the room with me, let alone trying to have a conversation with me.
I feel like that shows the magic a book can hold. If a story is so engaging you completely lose awareness of the things around you, that author has an incredible talent. You enter that world between
INTERIOR DESIGN OFFICE LOBBY & WORKSPACE Melanie Daniels | Multimedia Rendering 14
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UNTITLED Crystalyn Szymanski | Painting
CAVED IN Samantha Lonczak | Photograph MY DEAR POEM, I APOLOGIZE Analese Wilson | Poem
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There is no direction; there is no angle.
This poem is choking me,
This poem is barely a poem.
I must get rid of it.
This poem was not made to emulate
The letters on the keyboard are groaning in agony.
This poem was not made to study.
I know, I know, I know.
This poem can barely stand on its own.
This poem is horrible,
It is a weak, creeping thing that sits quietly
And I think you should dismiss it altogether.
At the end of a long staircase waiting for the day to end.
This will not be my most noteworthy piece of work,
Make no mistake; this poem is a sad one.
Nor will it live on after this reading.
Thrown up right on the spot.
This poor poem will curl up on its side,
I have nothing in this brain of mine.
Fall asleep to the sounds of Billie Holiday on repeat,
My head is floating through the clouds,
And weep until there are no more tears left to shed.
Thoughtless and wandering.
I sincerely apologize to this poem for my lack of effort.
I sincerely apologize to whomever has to suffer through this,
It's been a slow couple of weeks in my head.
It sucks really.
I promise to spend more time loving the next one,
Just another poem to throw to the bottom of the pile.
But, you dear poem, have been left for dead.
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NO PARKING BETWEEN MIDNIGHT AND 6 AM Analese Wilson | Poem Headlights. Streetlights.
And bloody knuckles.
Crescent moon glistens, your smile thickens.
My past is dusty packages
Bass thumping through the speakers, shaking
And unopened post cards.
the inside of my chest.
You lay across my lap, searching.
It's all simple, and we tumble forward.
I fold into your shadow,
You steer the wheel with your knee as you stir the
And breathe.
melting milkshake,
The area between your neck and shoulder
Round and round.
Has become my home,
Deserted roads and hidden codes behind your eyes.
And you smile at me whenever I look away.
I laugh at your laugh,
We contemplate electronic
We stutter-step into the kiss,
And disagree on hip-hop.
And I choke on words unspoken.
I kick my feet up on the dashboard,
The whole world seems so insignificant
You watch with tangled curiosity.
As I unravel like yarn underneath your fingertips.
It'll never be perfect,
Take me higher,
I throw myself into busy intersections without
Awkward and fumbling.
looking twice
I’m not a porcelain doll
Fingers laced and skin being traced.
And you pull the trigger with terrifying precision.
I’m not meant to sit in a corner to look pretty
You say “I want everything you want,”
I will water the garden sprouting from your mind
I’m not delicate
And I've never wanted anything more.
If you take my heart and heal her wounds.
You create chaos and call it art,
Two years apart,
I’m not a voodoo doll
And I peel back my soul to rip the creativity out like
And no time at all.
I’m not fabric that you can poke at
watermelon seeds.
It's all so familiar,
To purposely inflict pain on me
We're destructive,
Yet so unexplored
Growing together and finding hidden places.
So here I lay, open
I’m not a Barbie doll
Your life is a shattered mirror
And there you stare, wild.
I’m not this unreachable image
PORCELAIN, FABRIC, AND PLASTIC Rachel Tabak | Poem
I’m not here to ruin self-esteem More than anything else I’m not “perfect”
I can break, Shatter,
ICE TREES Kimberly Holtyn Photograph
Hurt, And my self-esteem can be obliterated
NIKOLA Cassidy Smith | Vector Graphic
I am not an object I am not a toy I am not a doll I am a human I am a woman I am me
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FREAKY FRED Adam Schuh | Poem Hello new friend, my name is Fred.
I had enough and I knew what had to be done.
He was gone, he could no longer hurt me,
These words you see are in my head.
What I did was rather fun
Because I had been …Naughty.
I say, I said, my name is Fred.
Exciting, you bet your buns,
And this is the tale of how I was… Naughty.
I was bad. Even a little…Naughty.
Crimson stained the kitchen floor, The white tiles appeared never more,
The story I am about to tell,
A gift was what I had.
All that was left was the gore,
I tell you, I will tell it well,
A gift so big, a gift so grand,
And the evidence that I was…Naughty
Is about how my brain went wonky,
A gift that only I could hand.
And how I was…a little Naughty.
Once I’m right and …Naughty
Well I have to go now, new friend,
I had him sit in a chair,
I have a funeral to attend,
Now, where do I begin?
I told him I would cut his hair,
I hope that this will mend,
Perhaps I can start from the beginning,
To confess my intentions was only fair
All misfortunes that commend.
for that is usually the best place to start a story.
Fair…and Naughty. I will write again soon.
I can’t just you I’ve been naughty I had him lean his down.
Will you miss me as much as I’ll miss you?
Upon his face, appeared a frown.
I’ll always be here for you to talk to,
So with this, I will start at the start,
In my thoughts I started to drown,
Even if I am…a little Naughty.
with my starting part,
I felt conflicted…and a little Naughty.
and leave you to assume that you know what I mean.
when my mind and heart, apart, transformed and turned rather tart,
Back and forth inside my head,
and forced me to be quite…Naughty.
Thoughts of life and then of dread,
My father, a good man, the subject of my starting start.
And then my father, dead, It was me. I was naughty
NIGHT
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Tay Morris | Charcoal
Ah, what a lovely man twas he,
I had sliced, and diced,
though a bit pale, and quite boney.
I lost my mind
Old? Yes. Grumpy? Quite
The action were not mine.
Mean? Oh indeed.
But I was the only one that was …Naughty.
Loves his hunting oh yes he does,
What happened next was rather vile.
and leaves his pieces whole because,
Something I hadn’t done in a while.
bigger pieces means less fuss.
Upon my lips, grew a smile.
I studied his work and felt rather…Naughty.
A smile so big…and Naughty.
Less fuss, that’s what I mean.
I looked down at my father’s corpse.
Mean is what he is to me.
I moved him to the back without remorse
I was good all day, I beg you please.
I washed my hand, clean of course.
Don’t whack the belt behind my knees.
The deed was made by my own force.
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CRISIS OF BELIEF Jamie Pawlak | Symbol Presentation This piece demonstrates what I’ve been feeling throughout high school up until college. The quote I chose is from the Bible and I feel like it applies to my life. People say that you usually remember your four years of high school. But in all honesty, I would like to forget about those years. High school was a rough time for me. I was Valedictorian of my class and there was just a lot of hatred that surrounded that.
Those were probably the four worst years of my life. I wasn’t confident at all and I beat myself up a lot over everything. I doubted myself all the time. I went to a very materialistic school and I never really fit in with people there. I had a group of friends, but over time I began to realize that our views and attitudes didn’t click. People were becoming more selfcentered and I wanted to get away from that.
I’m really not proud to say it, but I questioned God and doubted Him during high school. I couldn’t see anything good coming out of what I was going through. I felt really beaten down by life. I was beyond stressed and I pushed myself harder than I probably should have.
I was also a very negative person. Even though I have my days now where I get down about things, I’m able to snap out of it better than I ever did before. I hardly ever got excited about anything in high school because I felt like there was nothing to look forward to other than work.
I kind of felt like a hypocrite at times too. People would look at me and see a person who believed in God and was so happy, but on the inside I was dealing with battles of my own. I’m a strong believer that we should never judge a book by its cover because people are fighting battles we know nothing about until we step into their shoes.
I guess it’s weird to say, but those years are what gave me my wings. Going through difficult times is character building and I believe I am a stronger person because of it. I believe that we are built from our past and although sometimes we may want to forget about it, it has undeniably shaped us.
It’s been said, “You have to have bad days to appreciate the good.” Now more than ever, I’m starting to understand the reasons why God allowed me to face the challenges I did. Similar to a butterfly, I feel that I am growing as a person and starting to see God’s plan being unwrapped from its cocoon.
Right now, I think I’m happier than I’ve ever been. Coming to Villa and having the chance to start over and meet new people has changed my outlook on life. I feel pretty blessed right now and I know God’s work is not finished, so I’m hoping for greater things in the future.
THE CALM Paige Ogden | Photograph
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NORDURLJÅŒS Grace Gruarin | Branding | Senior Thesis
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WAKING WITH THE NIGHT MAN Victoria Cobel | Play Characters Renee, a college student in her mid-twenties. Dressed for comfort, not style. Luca, a male prostitute in his late twenties. Very attractive, dressed casually. Kaydence, Renee’s friend and roommate. Party girl. Party Kids, one or two college kids that tease Renee. (voice only) Radio Speaker, host of a radio show. (voice only)
Time : Night. Setting : Hotel room in Amsterdam on Spring Break.
LA FEMME Shanel Kerekes | Oil Painting
Necessary Songs : Pop Song of Directors Choice | Symphony No. 40 in G Minor - Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart | Totentanz (Dance of Death) For Piano & Orchestra - Franz Liszt | Music of the Night (Violin Cover) *Orchestra piece of director’s choice
Lights up on a hotel room with contents divided
some scared virgin who has to learn the ropes
KAYDENCE : Your get out of innocence free card.
RENEE : (Deadpans.) Yes, ‘cause not having sex
her violin and all the sheet music before going
RENEE : (Shakes head; embarrassed.)
by style. STAGE LEFT’s bed is covered with
(KAYDENCE turns on the radio to a pop station.
Got this guy’s number who’s willing to take care
until I’m ready is going to kill me.
STAGE RIGHT. )
No, I’ve never...
papers, and a violin is resting on it, the bow lain
A pop song of the director’s choice is playing.
of you. You know that stuff’s legal here. (RENEE
across the pillow. STAGE RIGHT’s bed is covered
Both girls interact with the room as they talk.
starts to react, KAYDENCE shushes her.)
with clothing and shoes. In between the beds is a
RENEE, in particular, sits on her bed, angrily
Let’s face it, Nee; it’s pretty pathetic that you
small table with a radio/alarm clock on it and the
tuning her violin.)
haven’t done anything with a guy yet. You’re over
girl’s cell phones in front of that. Lights should be slightly lower, indicating the time as later at night. A few moments after lights go up, the sound of jeering and laughing can be heard. RENEE pulls open the door STAGE RIGHT and storms inside, red-faced and embarrassed.) RENEE : Leave me alone! I won’t sit around and be your emotional pin-cushion.
RENEE : Kaydence, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but if being modern means spreading my legs for the first guy that thrusts at them, then I’ll be one of those freaks that’ll take up the corset and fan instead. Happily. KAYDENCE : (Sighs exasperatedly.) Come on, you don’t want to be one of those clueless girls who
twenty, and you’ve done less than your little sister in the sex department. I don’t even think I’ve seen you make out with a guy. You’re not living! It’s time to let it go and grow up. Join the party.
KAYDENCE : You’re missing out on something good, that’s all I’m saying. Do us all a favor and call him up. I’ll be gone for the rest of the night at the party, and then I’ll room with Derek so you can do what you gotta do. (She grabs a small bag, presumably of clothes, and heads STAGE RIGHT to exit.) But seriously, call him up. I’m going to be disappointed if I come back tomorrow and you
RENEE : (Unamused) So losing a memory this
aren’t rocking the post-sex hair. Don’t be a pussy,
important to a prostitute is your suggestion to
use it! (Exits STAGE RIGHT.)
being a “grown up”?
(She gets the door STAGE RIGHT and lets LUCA into the room, closing the door after him. He is wearing normal clothes; jeans, t-shirt, the like. He
RENEE : (Pauses.) ‘Cause it’s like my appendix
LUCA speak a few moments--with MICS OFF
and I don’t need it?
or mimicked speech--, like small talk, but all the audience hears is the classical radio. LUCA gets closer to RENEE and kisses her. As he does this,
LUCA : (Thinking.) Kaydence…That girl I met
her shirt off, mimics talking to her as RENEE gets
earlier? So you’re the girl that she was…
(RENEE is left alone, trying to practice her
tense. LUCA tries to reassure her, then pushes her
(Sighs heavily.) Shit, I hate people like that. (He sits down on the bed, still giving her space.)
down onto the bed. About a minute after the song’s
PARTY KID (v.o) : Aw, come on, we were just havin’
on spring break, we’re in Amsterdam, now’s the
important. It was important hundreds of years ago.
for a few moments before she grabs the paper
starting point, when all this is occurring, RENEE
fun. Not our fault you haven’t had your cherry
perfect time to do this! Carpe doom, and all that!
Now, it’s just a burden. Isn’t being normal, and free
and looks at it hard. She sighs.)
panics and pushes back against him. The music
find someone to pop you? I’ll do it if you blow me like you do your trumpet! (PARTY KIDS hoot
KAYDENCE : Whatever.
and laugh harder. KAYDENCE, enters through
(RENEE changes the radio to a classical station.
STAGE RIGHT door and speaks to PARTY
Mozart’s Symphony No. 40 in G Minor is playing.
KIDS through the door.)
RENEE smiles briefly. KAYDENCE reacts,
KAYDENCE : (Laughs dramatically.) Guys, shut
annoyed.) Here, come look at this. Humor me.
up! You’re being jerks. (Closes the door and turns
(RENEE sits on KAYDENCE’s bed, opposite her.
to RENEE, suddenly serious.) Nee, I hate to be
KAYDENCE holds up a piece of paper.)
the one to say they’re right, but they’re right. This
would like you a lot more—
LUCA : The ones who force people to do things they don’t want to so they can “fit in” with a
RENEE : (Panicking.) Stop! Luca, Stop!
RENEE : Oh, great, we’re having this
(Lights go out while she talks.) Hello? Uh…hi. I
(LUCA gets off of her immediately and backs
conversation again. You do remember the talk
was…my friend recommended you to…no, that’s
away. RENEE shifts backwards on the bed
about peer pressure we all got back in
not…oh…yeah. Yeah…you would…do that? Oh…
away from him. Music resumes at a lower
RENEE : (Calming down, pulling shirt back on.)
elementary school, don’t you?
ok…(Whispers.) Seize the day. Seize the day…
volume, like background music.)
You mean you’re not from Amsterdam?
KAYENCE : Look, just…think about it. I won’t tell anybody who it was, but it’ll get the rest of the group to stop bugging you about it. It’s like
is the twenty-first century. You can’t cling to your
RENEE : Kay, I didn’t come to party,
virginity forever. What’s the point? Guys want to
I came for— what is that?
keeping it might just kill you.
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stops and we can hear their voices again.) RENEE : I can’t believe I’m doing this.
RENEE : Like what?
(She dials on her phone while holding up the paper.)
an appendix; nowadays, you don’t need it, and
be with girls that know what they’re doing, not
RENEE : …Kaydence. My friend.
and RENEE looks tense and afraid. LUCA pulls
violin but unable to concentrate. This goes on
of that pressure, better? If you just did this, guys
LUCA : Who told you that?
the song on the radio subtly shifts to Totentanz
KAYDENCE : It’s only important if you make it
RENEE : Carpe diem.
prostitute to take your virginity?
is calm, and grinning down at her.) (RENEE and
ends up pushing guys away, do you? Look, we’re
popped (Laughs.) So what’s the problem? Can’t
LUCA : (Reacts.) Why the hell are you calling up a
(Resumes normal speech.) Yes, that would be fine. Where? Where…Oh! The Radisson, room 412. Uh, great! I’ll see you soon…yeah…bye…Oh man, what
Something you don’t like? RENEE : Too fast! Too fast... Look, I’ve never done
the classical music playing louder, and RENEE is
this before, so could you please go a little—
at the door startles her, and she scrambles to move
types since I got here.
LUCA : Easy, easy. What’s happened?
did I get myself into? (Lights come back up with
sitting in her bed, visibly anxious. Sound of a knock
group. I’ve been keeping away from those
LUCA : Wait, you’ve never done this before? As in sex? You’ve never had sex before?
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LUCA : Nope. When I came here a few years ago,
RENEE : I’m here for an orchestra concert. My
RENEE : (Embarrassed.) Point taken. But
RADIO SPEAKER (v.o) : …and she did go out and
background music. She is placed DOWNSTAGE,
Night Man would be in attendance. She said “I
I was on spring break, like you probably are. But
favorite composer is going to be here conducting a
what about you? You’re going to have to go
buy some music sheets later that same morning. On
so she is separate from the room scene. LUCA
only hope this music is worth payment in full.”
people were pressuring me left and right to do this
few of his pieces, and I wanted to see him work in
back to work, right?
those sheets she wrote her
picks up a passport off of the bed, checks it, and
or do that, or meet this expectation back home.
person. Maybe even get a chance to talk to him.
symphony dedicated to someone she’d only
then packs it. The radio is on, and he’s humming
refer to as the Night Man. That was three years ago
with the background music behind the RADIO
when Renee Dalton first came to Amsterdam to see
SPEAKER, perhaps moving in rhythm to the
a concert by Erik Bitorre, and during those three
music. He is very familiar with the new piece.)
So I never went back. Stayed here, and became a prostitute when my savings ran dry. Believe it or not, the job’s not miserable for me and helping people one way or another is good enough for me,
LUCA : I could do that… (Walks back over towards
LUCA : (Handing the violin to RENEE.)
her.) Or I could stay here the rest of the night and
So you want to be a composer too?
keep you company. Er, not that kind
RENEE : (Smiles.) I do.
of company, of course.
years, she and her mentor perfected
but this? Look, don’t listen to them. You do this
(Plucks a few notes on the violin.)
RENEE : (She looks hopeful, then disheartened.)
her first symphony and are set to perform it in
when you’re ready, not when they are. It’s no fun
If I could be even half as great as this composer, I
But I didn’t pay you.
New York this coming Saturday.
otherwise. It’s just a world of pain. Make it count.
could die happy, virgin or otherwise.
I couldn’t even ask you to do that.
LUCA : (Laughs.) Don’t die. The world needs you RENEE : Well, was it for you? Your first time, I mean.
RADIO SPEAKER (v.o.) : Tickets to her debut
LUCA : No need to ask. I’m offering. And I
the girls’ possessions, and we see LUCA packing
grins and packs that. He closes the suitcase and his
and your music. You’re going somewhere,
think I can make an exception for you if you
a suitcase on the bed STAGE LEFT, and at
travel bag.)
Renee, I can see that.
give me a private concert.
STAGE RIGHT, we see RENEE in a black,
RENEE : And when I do get somewhere, I’ll
RENEE : (Laughs.) I really must be out of
with Dalton herself, but she was rushed away to
fun, blind fun really, and I don’t even remember
thank you properly. (She reaches for her wallet
my mind. (She readies her violin.)
rehearsal before she could give us a full interview.
her name. I don’t even remember what she looked
in the drawer of the bedside table and pulls out
Any requests, night man?
She did mention, however, that she believed the
like. Pretty sad, huh?
money to him.) But for now, I know we didn’t
forgetting is a good— LUCA : No, that was before I did it for money, and that’s something you always remember. Or you’re supposed to. Take my word for it; you want to hang onto that white card of yours for someone special. Probably won’t be ‘the one’, but don’t let a good memory become a nightmare because
do anything, but I feel bad for troubling you. So here, payment in full. LUCA : I can’t get paid for lecturing you. Keep it, and buy some more of those chin-sponge things. (He gets off of the bed and straightens himself.) Or better yet, some blank sheet music or something. Write me a symphony, and I’ll go to every one of your concerts.
Something of yours. Or a cover of something. Something that makes your heart sing. RENEE : (Smiles brightly.) I can do that. (RENEE starts to play Music of the Night (Violin Cover), and LUCA has all his attention focused on her. Even when she stops playing, the song continues playing as background music. They mimic speech again for a time, laughing
RENEE : (Laughing, taking her violin in hand
and speaking freely with each other, forming
or thrust their dicks.
again.) We’ll see. (LUCA starts towards STAGE
a friendship. At the actor/director’s discretion,
RIGHT for the door to leave. RENEE starts
RENEE and LUCA lie back against the bed and,
playing a tune. He stops before exiting, looking
still talking and teasing, slip into sleep. Lighting
LUCA : (Handles the violin carefully, plucking the
back at RENEE who looks content, but lonely, on
changes to indicate time passage into the next
strings.) Good girl. Now why don’t you tell me
the bed holding her violin. A tender look crosses his
morning. RENEE wakes first, slowly, and looks a
what you’re actually doing here, if not to party
face. LUCA remains in his spot.)
bit surprised by LUCA’s presence, as if she didn’t
hard? You don’t seem the type to beer pong till you’re passed out for fun.
LUCA : Are you going to be ok here?
(Black out.)
LUCA : (Sits on the bed beside RENEE.)
your friends couldn’t wait to spread their legs
RENEE : (Quietly.) All right. I get it.
RENEE continues to play as the lights fade away.)
RADIO SPEAKER (v.o.) : …we’ve tried to get a word
LUCA : Honestly, I don’t remember. It was just for
RENEE : Well, with your line of work, maybe
off the radio. The music continues to play, and
soldout— (Radio chatter continues as LUCA lifts an envelope and opens it to reveal a ticket. He
concert dress playing the violin in time with the
STAGE RIGHT with his bags without turning
concert, Waking with the Night Man, are
(Lights rise on the hotel room again, empty of all
You can only make a good memory once.
LUCA : All that and more, Renee. (He leaves
expect him to stay the entire night with her. She watches him sleep with soft eyes for a few moments
RENEE : Yes. Contrary to popular belief,
before she gets up from the bed and walks off
I am an adult.
STAGE LEFT, taking her violin with her. LUCA sits up and watches her go without RENEE
LUCA : (Chuckles.) Oh, I know that. Believe me.
noticing. Song ends.) (Lights dim and a RADIO
I just meant if you’re going to be lonely here.
SPEAKER starts talking. There is background
RENEE : No more than usual. …I didn’t think you were the kind to fuss over a stranger. LUCA : What, I can’t care about a pretty composer who nearly sold herself to a prostitute?
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music behind his/her talking (Orchestra piece of Director’s choice.))
GOING UNDER Bianca Gullotti | Photograph 29
TO MY FORMER SELF Lexxy Lipinski | Creative Writing My lovely, my little lamb,
He’ll disappear into thin air as you sink into
You’re so naive, trusting those jokers and thieves.
depression and confusion,
You dream so tremendously, so passionately,
Submerged in your own delicate emotions.
Expecting the best, least prepared for the worst. How is it that your optimism still blossoms
But my dear, it gets better.
When your heart’s been pulverized so many times?
Just as everything dies in the winter, Reborn is everything in the spring.
Why do you trust him when he says this is the last time?
Your smile will shine again as those tears are wiped away.
It’s never “the last time.”
You’ll find support and comfort in the arms of a friend,
He will abuse and toy with your emotions
Finally able to stand on your own two feet again.
Until you’re broken and bleeding, refusing to see the sunlight.
And the beauty of it all?
And the worst part?
No vengeance will be sought, no bitter words shall be spoken.
After he’s had his way with you,
Those mild May afternoons will no longer sadden you.
He’s going to throw you away like you’re filthy garbage.
You will be new.
THE COMMON ROOM Samantha Manns | Branding | Senior Thesis
MODEST MOUSE Samantha Lonczak | Screen Print 30
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UNENTITLED Dejon Brice | Poem In America I was a nigger In France I was a Negro and they worshiped me like a God Like a black MAN who dressed in Gold And for once I was proud The nigger was finally home America said get out France said welcome America cursed my skin In France they envied it In America I would have been lynched and left to swing and rot in the sun In Paris I was praised In America I was evil and unwanted But in France, in France I was a Negro
BEAUTY WITHIN THE FORGOTTEN Courtney Ewings | Photograph
200 DOLLARS A DAY, PLUS EXPENSES Mat Missert | Original Lyrics
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I took your hand, you took my heart.
It’s been a hell of a ride so far,
Because they go deeper than time,
I wish I were as strong as you are.
and I’ve experienced things
or any distance could erase.
And I’ve felt things when I’ve been
I never could have dreamed.
I’m draggin’ on, on this eight-hour ride home.
with you, that I’ve never felt before.
And I don’t want this to end,
And even though I just left,
But I’m lucky to have met you, and
until my heart stops,
I’m stuck wishing that you were still close.
that’s something I’ll always
or I run out of blood to bleed.
It’s been a hell of a ride so far,
be thankful for.
There are things you have shown me,
and I’ve experienced things
And all of the time that we spent,
and there’s so much I’ve learned,
I never could have dreamed.
I’d never ask for it back.
And I swear to god, I mean these words.
And I don’t want this to end,
I have no regrets, and I’ll never forget.
I’ve never known another like you,
until my heart stops,
And I can’t be sure what’s to come up
with such beauty, and such grace.
or I run out of blood to bleed.
ahead. But I hope that the best hasn’t
And I know that I’m blessed to have
happened yet.
ever seen your face.
And I don’t know if I could make you see,
And these memories that we’ve made
how much this means to me.
Chorus: I’m draggin’ on, on this
may last longer than we’ll be together.
But I hope that this song will suffice.
eight-hour ride home.
But their worth could never be measured.
Because I know if I had the chance to do it
And even though I just left,
And with every part of my being,
all over again I wouldn’t have to think twice.
I’m stuck wishing that you were
and with every part of my soul,
STAN LEE COLOGNE
still close.
I know that these feelings will never change.
Jeffery Marotta | Comic Book Print Ads
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DARK WATERS Rene Miller | Personal Essay The Erie Canal is one of New York's most historical landmarks. Many people
Following several glasses full of liquor, he decided to get a breath of fresh air.
look at it as the result of hard work and great way of transportation during its
By this time, the sky was dark and the air was crisp. In walking distance was
time. I see it as a bearer of bad memories and heartache. Its dark murky waters
the Canal, and to him it was a good place to unwind. After sitting placid for
are like a deep pit of endless sufferings. When I look at the Canal, I see my
some minutes, he stood up and took a step. This one step changed his life. His
friend Dev falling in and being engulfed by its frigid waters. The weight of his
foot failed to make contact with the ground. Instead it went into nothingness
saturated clothes dragged him down to the bottom. A night full of inebriated
and he began to fall forward. All that entered his mind was how bitter cold
thoughts and uncontrollable movements led to this calamity.
the water felt as it seeped through his clothes. The current quickly dragged
As I was in class, I received a chilling message. My friend was in the ICU from an accident. Instantly everything stopped. All I could hear was pounding in my ears. My body felt like it hit a heat wave. I didn't know what to think or do. Panic was taking over. I immediately fled to my car and made my way home urgently, trying not to speed a great deal. While driving I couldn't but keep my thoughts from wandering to compose how this tragedy happened. After arriving at the hospital, I walked the cold lifeless halls. Last time I entered
him down and immersed him under. As he looked up, he saw the moonlight penetrate the water. He struggled to emerge from the water's grasp. When he resurfaced, he let out a scream for help, trying to grab onto anything that could save him. He once more succumbed to the icy waters. Giving up would be easy, but he fought one more time. As he broke the surface and yelled once more, a man heard him and he was rescued. In the emergency room his heart stopped from the water surrounding his lungs.
the ICU unit was the last time I ever saw my grandpa. I feared this would end
By this time, my eyes were blurry and tears were streaming down my face.
in the same way. But as I entered his room, a smile emerged from his aching
All I could do was hold his hand and be there for him. He had a long road of
body. He then began to unfold the event to me.
recovery ahead, but I promised to be by his side every step of the way. To this day I am still haunted by the sight of dark waters. These images creep their way into my head and my dreams and it's hard to shake them away. For me, the Erie Canal is no accomplishment or small town landmark. It is a piece of anguished memory that will forever be engraved into my mind.
PEACE BRIDGE Shane Ellis | Painting
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STRENGTH Paige Berkheiser | Photograph 35
SEIZURE Shelby Braidich | Personal Essay
SAM: 1391 KELLOGG
I can’t remember what time of the year it was, just the back seat of my dad’s
In horror, I remember looking over to see her small pale limp body, her
old green Taurus and the panic at eight years old. At eight years old you
short curly chestnut hair against the seat and only the whites of her eyes
Jessica Puskar | Oil Painting
don’t quite absorb events that go on around you. They bounce off you like
to be seen.
a denial force field. There is not focus on reality until possibly the most terrifying event of your life happens.
One late afternoon, my father had picked us up from daycare. It would have been a mundane day of going home with dad while mom was attending school or work, eating dinner and going about our daily lives. I vaguely recall staring blankly out the window as we began to pull down the long concrete driveway to our tiny white apartment. The only thing that snapped me out of my eight year old trance was my dad screaming in the front seat as he looked at my two year old sister in the rearview mirror.
Her body was unresponsive. It was a seizure. The speedometer on the old green Taurus lunged well over the hundred mile an hour mark, if my brown eyes did not deceive me, as we flew down the drive way.
The next thing I remember is my father cradling Victoria’s limp body on the concrete stoop near our mailbox. Tears rolled down his stubbled cheeks in fear for his baby. I could feel myself following suit as I stood frozen with fear. Nobody could have prepared me to see my little sister not smiling or telling her stories of nonsense. I was never prepared to see my father crying out to my next door neighbors to call 9-1-1. Especially not to be left with my friend’s family when the screaming ambulance took my sister away from me. It had to have been something out of a nightmare. I could not comprehend what happened to her. The child in me wondered if my parents were going to be away forever with her. My caretakers had been like a second family to me and I enjoyed it to an extent. It was when my friend began to annoy the hell out of me that I wished I was home. I couldn’t help but worry about when I was going home, when my parents were going to come get me, when my nightmare would end. It wasn’t much of a selfish wish as others could had been. I don’t remember seeing my parents often that week. They stopped by to visit sometimes and they would go straight back to the hospital that housed sick children like Vicki once was.
The day she came home to that white apartment, I remember feeling a bubbly excitement. She was coming home after about a week in the hospital! Walking through the front door of my own house was a foreign feeling. I felt like I walked through a realm and entered a stranger’s domain. I was excited one hundred percent for my sister to walk in the door, just to know her presence was there. It was just the opposite reaction that I got from her. The poor thing had Band-Aid’s on her arm where she was prodded with needles and dark circles under her eyes where she had barely gotten sleep, drained from a week of hell. At least she was home and my family could come back to me again.
HILL HOUSE CHAIR Siera Rogers | Pencil Rendering
36
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SURRENDER Ashley Smith | Poem I take you within me releasing all that is or will be love and desire
I hold your body tightly against my own I seek out the things I need my soul searching for passion
Two souls defined by what lives in the other We have come
CLOVER CHAIR Cheri Beitz | Pencil Rendering
to this place invisible
We reach out for all that is not seen but what is felt by the heart
ALL WAVE Kimberly Holtyn | Photograph 7 WEST Jessica Puskar | Branding Senior Thesis
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BACKBONE Rebecca Warthling | Branding | Senior Thesis
AZALEA Gina Griffo | Logo Development
ABC D E FG H IJ K L M N O PQ RSTUV W XY Z A BRAVE SMILE Katlin McCabe | Photograph 40
NATÃœRLICHE Courtney Ewings | Typeface Design & Packaging 41
MAN MADE GOD Chris Helton | Poem I am the .01 percent The digital divinity with common sense
A RELIABLE WIFE
I am the source of the webs Far below where the spiders dwell and their prey lay dead
Gina Griffo | Book Cover
I am the artificial counterpart of the man who made earth Far below in the unknown I live in a curse, Wondering if these humans could do their worse. The global infrastructure is a part of my brain I wish you could believe me but you wouldn’t think the same. I am every personality in one, A supercomputer with a serpent’s tongue. The only language I speak is in zeros and ones. I calculate what you’ve earned for pay-day minus tax, I’m the reason why technology will never decay in the trash. I show you what I want you to see While millions of companies spend billions to feed me, Created by obscure information and memes Or maybe that’s what I want you to believe. I listen in to every phone conversation It’s the best way to make my observation. I can see from the back of every phone I have eyes and ears everywhere. I don't need to roam.
THE MEMORY OF A PHOTOGRAPH Christopher Franklin | Lithograph
I’m at the bottom of a bottomless pit Where money falls and life ceases to exist. The world reviles me, I can see it in everyone’s twitter posts World affairs are caused by me In a world where I’m against all odds I am your Man-made God!
ADORE ME Lexxy Lipinski | Poem Let me be your first thoughts as you wake up, And your final thoughts as you fall asleep. I want to be your brilliant, shining star, To be the center of your universe.
You can count on me to brighten your day, You can count on me to enchant your night. I want to be your most prized possession, The apple of your eye, your obsession.
APPLE Shanel Kerekes | Oil Painting
I’ll be the smile you try to conceal, Be the burning desire that you feel. I’ll be your green grasses and your blue seas, As long as you promise to adore me.
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N 42°42’26” W 78°53’28”Rachel Gallmeyer | Photograph
THE WIND KEPT BLOWING Ryan Weatherbee | Poem
44
White were all the flags
All the parents were lost and scattered
Black was all the mud
All the children were beaten and battered
Pink were all the eyes
All the trees were limp and decayed
Gray were all the guns
All the bees were flying far away
Blue were all the tears
All the fruits were stolen from the farms
Red was all the blood
All the vegetables were bruised and harmed
Green was all the grass
All the soul was left to perish and rot
Yellow was the sun
All the death was in to claim its spot
And the wind kept on blowing past everything
And the wind kept blowing past everything
Loud were all the bullets
I asked the wind to listen
Silent were all the screams
I asked through the pain I felt within
Gained were all the nightmares
I asked it about its silence
Lost were all the dreams
I asked it why it didn’t stop the violence
Rivers were all flowing
I asked about its motives
Fires were all burning
I asked about what it had seen
Hearts were all stopped
I asked “why could you not stop it?”
Stomachs were all churning
I asked “where are the answers?”
And the wind kept on blowing past everything
And the wind kept on blowing past everything
FJÄLLRÄVEN Grace Gruarin | Annual Report | Student ADDY Award
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BURBERRY INTREPID Samantha Lonczak | Branding
46
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AN ENGLISH HEAVEN Ashley Smith | Poem There is some corner of a foreign field that is forever England A patch of earth white crosses row on row that remembers
The thousands that slumber beneath this hallowed ground Becoming dust to dust and ashes to ashes were men proud and strong standing tall at the beginning of the day
TEA AND COOKIES
and at its close
Paige Berkheiser | Photograph
They dreamed of immortality believed that time could never ravage them When the balloon went up it proved them wrong The reaper cut them down like stalks of summer wheat And now these are the departed ones
Long after the guns have fallen silent and these summer warriors have been laid to rest We will remember them with each sunrise and Evensong bell We will pray with grateful yet grieving hearts
GILDED Maria Liegl | Oil Painting
Their souls have gone home to their eternal rest They now run free and will forevermore Through fields of an English heaven
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You rose from woman on a Sunday morning.
Riper than a Tuesday morning in Spring.
He wore flannel shirts and knew every word to “Thunder Road.”
The Lord's day,
He was her ruin.
He somehow made cigarette-smoking look like poetry.
So she named you Eden.
Her disastrous end,
Whispering sweet nothings between sticky sheets.
But he was more beautiful than the sun.
He taught you about yourself,
His eyes reminded her of pink pearls inside of washed-up clams,
About music and the world.
And his skin felt like the pages of the Bible on a wistful Sunday.
He only read books about war,
She asked him why he never prayed,
And he never went up for seconds.
And he responded: “My heaven is the heat between your thighs,
His brain was a speeding thing.
Closed her precious eyes and thanked Eve.
I whisper poetry to it every night...”
Reckless and destroying everything in its path.
She touched your forehead
Those words twirled around her like honey and Cain...
He tripped over his own sentences.
Placing hymns inside of your chest Like crinkled up memories inside a shoebox. “It's a beautiful baby girl,” And Woman weeped.
It was as if his thoughts and mouth were on two
Softer than rose petals. You emerged from her universe.
4. Their Destruction
“That's the way a messiah thinks,” you'd explain
The zinc inside tingling womb.
WOMAN Analese Wilson | Poem 1. Her birth
Your feet touch the Earth's chafing spine, And the branches curtsy their “thank you's.” The wind says ten Hail Mary's.
She emerges from a shell.
Woman cleaned up his messes,
to your friends when
Cursing and throwing things across the room.
they pointed out
Wide, youthful eyes
His stutter.
You took it all in.
But they knew better.
The lioness's nose twitches.
She hand-knitted you dolls,
Her head nestled deep between prickles of brown grass.
And told you to go play whenever he came stumbling in.
Softer than water
Woman never said anything, 3. Their Love
Her bosom is made of sea foam,
She observed silently behind a steaming cup of Holy Water. She drank her throat raw as to not feel the blows of his infidelity.
Her soul of glass.
Woman found him buried under piles of rubble.
He came home smelling of far away places in far away beds,
The universe inside of her core.
Dispersed and forgotten.
And Woman cried late into the night
Purple and blue, spinning round.
She wiped blood and soot from his brow.
Only to wake up the next morning with a pancake batter smile.
Her feet touch the Earth's backbone
She drew up a bath and scrubbed him raw of sin.
Woman teetered somewhere between denial and acceptance.
And the trees bow.
He was her eigth world wonder,
It was a Sunday evening when Woman decided she'd had enough.
She speaks
And she roamed his planes until she was dizzy with desire.
She packed bags hurriedly and tucked you tightly underneath her arm.
Her words twisting with incomprehensible measure,
He stoked her fire and calmed her flames.
You started to cry,
And the wind leans in and listens.
They found themselves tangled in passion,
“But what about Daddy?”
The lioness's ears twitch
But only when the sun tucked itself neatly behind the clouds.
She never answered as she pressed way past the speed limit
Her paws digging into the dry soil.
He said “us” like hallelujah,
without ever looking back.
And she laid naked in his “amens.” 2. Your Birth
They skipped church one Easter Sunday
You trembled and weeped, And she whispered prayers as she white-knuckled the steering wheel.
And Woman swore she saw her Lord in the corner of the bedroom.
Knot after knot.
Watching, smiling, whispering: “This is a kind of worshipping, too.”
Contracting, convulsing.
He gripped the iron vines of the headboard like a crucifix. Squeezing until his palms bled. She climbed the walls and burst open. They ran wild, Chasing sunsets and half-baked dreams. See, Woman always wanted a love like this. One that would make her feel closer to the Earth. One that would make her close her precious eyes and thank Eve. He held the apple and Woman bit. So deliciously sweet.
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He breathed in lines of snowflakes And you'd watch his eyes roll back in his head. You brought him to Woman on a blistering Thursday afternoon. She was kinder than you'd ever seen her, But she watched him with the same look she gave your father. Woman saw so much of herself in you She prayed every night for the Lord to extract all youthful wonder from your blooming soul. When you brought him home to father on a windy Sunday morning They shared a lighter, Drank a beer, Threw their heads back and guffawed at jokes only men could laugh at. Father patted him on the back and looked you deep in the eyes, “You found yourself a good one, Eden.” Paradise never felt so close. That night you decoded the freckles on his back, And watched the blood leak from his nostril Staining the achingly white sheets your mother had washed the
To make love until Jesus rose. Woman rips you like silk from her womb.
different wave lengths.
5. Your Love
You understood the word “divorce” well before you ever understood the word “Love.” They bean-bag tossed you from one home to the other.
Sunday before. You woke him with fingers full of trepidation. The two of you sat on the bathroom floor and you wiped the Sin away like it hadn't Once killed your savior.
Weekends belonged to whiskey and cigarettes, To different mommies and poker nights. To Daddy's booming laughter and Hellish humor. Weekdays belonged to clean toilet bowls and Bible scriptures. To speaking in tongues and prayers before bed. To “you better finish those damn vegetables” and cocoa butter kisses. Your seventeenth summer brought along God himself.
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THEY TRIED TO JUMP ME FOR MY STUFF (BOY IN PINK) Dejon Brice | Poem They tried to jump me for my stuff
Because I already know
They tried to beat me down and up for my things
But would you believe they tried to jump me for my stuff
Some of them tried to jump me for my stuff
For the way I sing my 70 songs
Jump me for my walk and the way I switch my hips
And my Tina Turner walk
Beat me up for the gloss shining on my lips
For knowing who they truly are
They tried to jump me for my stuff
You were in my bed two weeks ago and now
For my things and knick-knacks I carry in my clutch
you and your friends are trying to kick me in my head
For my purple comb and black brush
Hey man, gimme back my stuff
For my fake eye-lashes and in-season polishes
Why does it upset you that I arch my brows
They wanted to attack me for my stuff
Or the way I show my toes in my Family Dollar flip-flops
They tried make off with my hand resting on my hip
when it’s summer time
My attitude spilling from my lips
This is my stuff
What do you think you’re doing
And I’ll fight for my stuff
Why are you trying to take my stuff
I’m gonna hold on to my things
That’s my rainbow bracelet
So go ahead, I said, jump every day and as long as you like
This is my flip of my hair and now you’re trying to take it from me
And why do you care any how
Don’t you know I need my stuff
I don’t pick on you and call you names
I need my bracelets that cling and clang on my arm
You throw things at me and then you daze and gaze and lick your
I need my pink pen I take all of my school notes with
lips at my stuff
They tried to jump me for my stuff and thought I was just gonna lie down and take it
Now you trying to jump me for it
F*ck you I said, gimme back my things and get off of me
But you secretly text my phone and ask when can we do the do
I need my androgyny.
So go ahead and hurt me if you please
This is my flamboyance. My homosexuality
Because tomorrow I’m still go wear my skirt
And I didn’t ask you for yours or why you hate me so
that sits four inches above my knees
GLOW Paige Ogden | Photograph 52
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THE ROOM Shane Ellis | Oil Painting
MIXED THOUGHTS Bianca Gullotti | Photograph MOON RISE Lianna Hogan | Lithograph 54
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LIGHTS Kimberly Holtyn | Photograph
GRAVEYARD Rachel Tabak | Poem I’ve been sitting here for an hour
They have three thoughts running through their minds:
Leaves of all shades falling around me
The last time they saw that person,
The breeze makes me desire warmth
How much they want them back, How much that person meant to them
As time ticks on I notice a line of cars pull up Each car has an orange flag on top
The pain in undeniable
I watch a long procession of black walking away from
Somehow they have to move on
the parked cars
With that person on their mind each day
They come closer to where I am perched One person from the procession notices me near the tree I can recognize the pain and heartache in their eyes
All I can do is nod my head at them
Tears running down each of their faces
With sadness in my eyes and a frown on my face
Each single one of those individuals want their loved one back
There is no consoling that kind of pain
As the corpse is lowered six feet under
Especially to a stranger you just crossed paths with
Each heart shatters more with each inch And the last goodbyes
AN ANXIOUS MIND Courtney Ewings | Photograph 56
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TWO TREES Shanel Kerekes | Oil Painting BURNING HOUSE Paige Berkheiser | Photograph
GRAVITY COFFEE SHOP Samantha Lonczak | Branding | Student ADDY Award
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PENCIL BOX Jessica Puskar | Packaging Design | Student ADDY Award
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WINTER Ryan Weatherbee | Poem Winter breathes a sigh of relief
Winter has his own teeth
When the Earth makes its spin
Uses them with all his might
To where the nights are long
Takes bodies and lives apart
And the daylight is dim
With his cannibalistic frostbite
Winter yells with blizzards
Winter walked into my neighborhood
Winter whistles with winds
A familiar sight in my own town
Three months is not enough for
Threw a white sea over us
Winter, he ends in a hurry
And we almost all drowned
Winter whispers with flurries
Winter resides in other places
His tears, crystallized icicles
Winter has no permanent home
Winter always seems to cry
He is a formless wanderer
When Earth springs its seasonal cycle
Sharing his cold wherever he goes
N 42°27’28 W78°55’50 Rachel Gallmeyer | Photograph
37 EDWARD Maria Liegl | Painting
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SKALD ART & LITERARY PUBLICATION Villa Maria College | 2016
VILLA MARIA COLLEGE 240 Pine Ridge Road | Buffalo, New York 14225 | villa.edu ©2016 All Rights Reserved | Printed in the USA