Skald 2017 by Villa Maria College

ART AND LITERARY PUBLICATION 2017

skald

Skald, our annual Student Art and Literary Publication, approaches its 2017 edition with the concept of osmosis. It is represented

2017

visually through multiple series of points and connecting lines complimenting the transference between imagery and literary works. The cover illustrates the concept with the powerful image consuming the

A solvent, such as water, is a substance capable of dissolving solutes to form a solution. The movement of water, which has a lesser concentration, passes through a membrane, or a barrier, into a higher concentration achieving a state of equilibrium between the two substances in a process known as osmosis. The relationship between student and environment at Villa Maria College is closely

surrounding white space, representing the transfer of knowledge to students. Skald is a presentation of work created by students. All students are welcome to submit literary and/or artwork completed in courses at Villa Maria College. Final selections are made by program-specific faculty and advisors to the publication.

COLOPHON The 2017 edition was designed with an open

students gain outstanding knowledge from

aesthetic and the repetition of transference

higher education. They interact, network, and collaborate to find solutions and obtain necessary skills for success in life and craft. The attention and guidance they receive at Villa Maria College is a transitional process of gradual assimilation into a professional concentration.

sophomore student

FRANCESCA BUBB

Research and Experimentation Cover Design and Production Content Production Leader

related to the idea of osmosis, where eager their surroundings and experiences in

STAFF

and absorption: osmosis.

TRAVIS SPRINGER

junior student

Overall Concept Cover Design and Production Content Design Leader

The traditional warmth and texture of the

junior student

collegiate font Baskerville Italic combined

GINA GRIFFO

with the scientific clarity of the Roboto type

Research

family are employed throughout the book.

Image Correction

Skald was carefully printed and bound by

Introduction and Colophon Writer

Gateway Printing in Hamburg, New York. The publication has been consistently awarded for both content and design from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association,

ALEXANDER MAYERS

junior student

Research Cover Concept Support

The Association of Writers and Writing Programs, and the American Advertising Federation â&#x20AC;&#x153;Addyâ&#x20AC;? Awards.

FACULTY ADVISORS JULIE ZACK professor,

THANK YOU

graphic design BOB GRIZANTI professor, graphic design JOYCE KESSEL professor, english

vice president for enrollment management and student services Thank you to the entire Villa Maria College community for their participation and continued support.

02 devonna poole 03 ana spanhake 05 julia fisher 09 ashton barrie 14 romona harkness 20 alexandra lipinski 22 phillip lee 35 romona harkness 42 ashton barrie 45 romona harkness 46 ana spanhake 46 ryan weatherbee 48 alexandra lipinski 55 alexandra lipinski 56 ryan weatherbee

INTERIOR DESIGN 16 renee falsken 53 claire witt

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LITERATURE 02 chris franklin

skald An ancient Scandinavian poet who memorialized the epic deeds of the Vikings with elaborate recitations at court.

FINE ART 04 jamie pawlak 06 shanel kerekes 10 shelby hood 14 tien nguyen 18 morgan mccutcheon 25 samantha lonczak 30 lian kham thang 38 dawan turner 41 shanel kerekes 43 tien nguyen 44 deeann stachowski 49 deja walker 56 shanel kerekes

GRAPHIC DESIGN 08 alicia salerno 17 dylan nowak 19 travis springer 29 alexander mayers 31 jeffery marotta

PHOTOGRAPHY 02 kimberly holtyn 03 natalie white 11 kat mccabe 12 griffen raymond 13 bianca gullotti 15 kelly styslowsky 15 emily sniegowski 20 kelly styslowsky 21 kimberly holtyn 27 bianca gullotti 32 kat mccabe 34 rachel gallmeyer 39 paige berkheiser 40 megan switala 52 paige berkheiser 57 lianna hogan

31 meaghan lucarelli 31 michael morganti 31 tiarra mcginnis 31 lian kham thang

CONTENTS

33 kayla zelasko 47 tiarra mcginnis 51 shelby braidich 53 kayla zelasko 54 erika tozzo 55 kayla zelasko

ANIMATION 36 kristen dolinar 37 tien nguyen 37 jenna zielkiewicz

INCEPTION chris franklin | pantoum Film of brilliant design Staggering images over depth Heartfelt versions of imitations Glorious sound mixing with breaths Staggering images over depth Transitional beauty in the mind Glorious sound mixing with breaths Interconnected dialogue within dreams Transitional beauty in the mind Deciphering actions beneath landscapes Interconnected dialogue within dreams Strong conceptual film of theft Film of brilliant design Overlapping into an abyss Heartfelt versions of imitations In philosophical diaries

BODYSCAPE kimberly holtyn | photograph

HINDSIGHT devonna poole I spent my life here, gardening all Spring, bonfires on warm summer nights, rolling into leaves Grandpa raked just before and raked again and again. Sledding under the weeping willow during Winter. I had no worries, no fears.

If you asked me where I’d be in a year, I would have told you the blue house on the hill. But I was wrong. No one warned me. I wasn’t told I’d be uprooted and planted into trouble. Nobody told me of the life I would live, the life I’m living. If I could go back to once upon a hill, I would any day.

HOMESTEAD ana spanhake The house once filled with laughter Now sits barren

natalie white | photograph

CENTERMOST

The grass where we â&#x20AC;&#x153;accidentally â&#x20AC;&#x153; started that fire has grown back Without a trace Of what we had once done Every trace of it has blown away Unless you rub your hand across the old worn wood to feel the indentations left by our bullets

jamie pawlak | painting

SELF PORTRAIT

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YELLOW BALLOON julia fisher

The balloon was yellow.

The girl pointed at it, small pudgy fingers eagerly reaching for the bauble. Her mother smacked at her

hand. “It’s impolite to point.”

The child whined, kicking her legs back and forth. Her kicks scarcely missed the knees and shins of

passerbys, all rushing to get to their trains on time. A few looked at her with annoyance. Children were always the bane of their morning commutes.

The balloon seller was standing at the entrance of the subway, leaning nonchalantly against a cart piled

with miscellania. The balloons were tied to the cart’s handle, the strings bunched together so that the collection resembled a cluster of rainbow broccoli.

There was only one yellow balloon. Yellow was her favorite.

“Mama,” the child whined, pointing once more.

This time, her mother didn’t hit her hand down. She wasn’t even looking at her daughter, preferring to

spend their extra time on her phone. “Train’ll be here soon,” her mother said absently, vacantly looking at the news and gossip headlines of the day.

She had said that millions of times. The child hated to take the train. It always took so long, and she was

always so bored. There was nothing to do. All you did was sit in silence, not looking at the person sitting in the seat across from you. Everyone just stared at their phones or their newspapers. They would come in and sit down and then get right back up again as soon as their stop was announced. No one was friendly. No one smiled. And no one seemed to notice any of the fun things going on around them.

On train rides, the girl liked to count things. She would count the number of grey hats, the number

of black jackets, and the number of brown shoes. Sometimes she would count the amount of ties that were fastened around men’s necks.

Counting everything only took up so much time. And when she was done counting all of the things that

she could, she would be bored again.

That’s why she wanted this balloon.

The yellow one.

“Mama,” the child spoke up once again. “I want that.”

“We just had lunch,” her mother replied, eyes not lifting from her screen.

“No, Mama. I want that.”

Finally, her mother tore herself away from her phone. Blinking in the apparent bright light, she looked

around, trying to see what it was that had captured her daughter’s attention. “What?”

The child pointed, and for the first time, her mother noticed. “Oh.”

The voice came on over the loudspeaker. “E Train now boarding.”

“That’s us,” the mother said, standing up and slinging her purse over her shoulder. She tightly gripped

her daughter’s hand. “Come on.”

As she was pulled through the crowd, the child looked up, trying to catch sight of the rainbow balloons

one last time. She couldn’t see them through the crowd of black and grey suits and worn shoes.

They sat in the middle of a train car, their backs to the window. As more people filed in, the child hopped

up onto her knees and turned around so she could look back out into the station.

There. Now she could see it. Bright splotches of color against a newsprint world. The seller had turned

away from his cart, talking to someone who was gesturing wildly, a pamphlet clutched in their hands.

Perhaps the strings were tied too loosely. Because as she watched, one balloon separated itself from

the rest, untangling and drifting away. It floated up into the rafters of the station, bouncing along the ceiling until coming to a suspended stop behind an analog clock, ticking down the minutes by breaking them into seconds.

The balloon was yellow.

Just like the sun.

CALL ME AGAIN shanel kerekes | oil painting

BEEPS EATS alicia salerno | original brand design

the necessary information and to him nothing else matters. It doesn’t matter what color the sky is or what the weather will be tomorrow. For our protagonist, all that matters is that his son is dying and he wants as much time with him as he can possibly get. The other details and things in life aren’t important. From the introductory paragraph, Doyle moves us to a scene where a barrage of doctors are trying to explain to him and his wife what exactly is wrong with their beautiful baby boy. If you have been in a doctor’s office or have watched doctors explaining things on TV, then you know how confusing medical terminology can be. Not only is it confusing, but when you are being given difficult and life threatening information about someone you love – in this case, your son – you tend to zone out and things just seem to go in one ear and out the other. You may only remember certain things and certain images from this memory and when your brain is in shock you may be lucky to remember anything. That seems to be the case in this piece. The protagonist doesn’t give us the exact medical terminology the doctors are giving him. He likely isn’t

ANALYSIS OF “TWO HEARTS” BY BRIAN DOYLE ashton barrie

even listening to much of what the doctors have been saying nor does he even care. He comprehends the gravity of the situation. At this point, all he remembers are images of his son’s heart being drawn out by the doctors and the red and blue lines that accompany them to explain the problem. What strong color choice too: red and blue. They are two of the more identifiable colors that most of us think of and use in our daily lives. And

What an incredibly sad and deep short story. It takes you not even two minutes to read, but leaves you feeling like you have read a long and emotionally drawn out piece and for me personally, that’s where the beauty of this piece shines. It is so brief, yet so moving; so small, yet so effective. The author tells his story and conveys his message in something so simple that others might take a multitude of pages to do. Doyle’s story is short in length, but is as beautiful as anything I’ve ever read. The introductory paragraph does an effective job setting the tone of the story. However, it isn’t a typical introduction. I wouldn’t even necessarily call it a paragraph. To me, it just seemed like six separate, very basic sentences. It’s as if Doyle is providing the reader with a prologue or “needto-know” information about the characters for when he actually starts the story. He doesn’t even begin the first sentence with an indentation as most paragraphs start off. Looking at it now, that seems like an intentional move on his part as the remainder of the paragraphs in the story each have indentations before them. The length of the sentences in the first paragraph and even the length of the paragraph as a whole seem to convey the tone of the rest of the story which is unclear until you keep reading and get to the end. These sentences are very straightforward and “to-the-point.” An event or situation such as the one discussed by the protagonist can have an effect on the way we think and the way we live our lives. This man has no time to beat around the bush nor does he feel the need to. He clearly communicates

again, he gives us the information in an easy to grasp, “need-to-know” form saying, “The heart is a railroad station where the trains are switched to different tracks…in an abnormal heart, like Liam’s, the trains crash and the station crumbles to dust.” What a powerful metaphor. The story then takes a turn we all have taken when something bad happens in our lives. Our protagonist turns and asks “Why?” In this piece, he turns to God with that question. “Why did you break my boy?” He gets angry and frustrated with God and with the world and why such cruelty exists. For me personally, I have asked these questions many times throughout my life when something bad happens or when I’m going through a certain hardship. And it’s a natural thought to have. As human beings, we all care for and want to help the ones we love. In my personal opinion, one of the worst feelings in the world is helplessness. When there is a problem or an issue in my loved ones’ lives that I cannot fix or make better in some way, it breaks my heart. And if we can’t fix it with science or physical things, we naturally turn to our beliefs and our faith and ask unanswerable questions because surely someone must have an answer to ease our minds. So in this story, I definitely understand the way the protagonist is feeling and I feel the frustration and sadness behind Doyle’s words. One thing I did not expect to see in this short story was the imaginary voice of God. I expected the main character to voice his frustrations to no avail as rendering what someone who is all-good and all-powerful would

say is extremely tough to put into actual words. However, God’s sentences/ messages are handled perfectly. After the protagonist states “But you wrote death on his heart”, God responds saying, “I write death on all hearts, just as I write life.” When I read that, I literally looked up from the page at the wall in front of me and thought to myself “That’s so God.” As funny as that sounds, it’s true. I think most people would agree that sounds like a “God” thing to say, so powerful and honorable. I give huge credit to Doyle for painting the perfect picture of God in his short story with just two lines. And he does it in a way that doesn’t overwhelm the piece as a whole as religious figures can sometimes do. The closing paragraph is where I believe the message comes forth and shows itself. It is only one sentence; one sentence is all Doyle needs. At this point in the story, one sentence is all the protagonist has left to tell us and all that he wants to tell us. “I am left holding the extraordinary awful perfect prayer of my second son…who might die tomorrow, who did not die today.” Just one sentence with heaping mounds of emotion and meaning inside of it. For starters, the word choice in the beginning of the sentence, going from extraordinary down to awful and then back up again to perfect is extremely effective. It showcases the emotions the father has and encourages us to believe that just because something isn’t perfect, doesn’t mean it isn’t perfect. That can be confusing, but essentially Doyle conveys that anything can be perfect to anyone. In this case, this little boy who has heart problems and is living on borrowed time is still perfect in the eyes of his father. We as living, loving creatures can find beauty and perfection in anything. Then, that last line just seems to slap you in the face with a wave of emotion and truth: “who might die tomorrow, who did not die today.” The father seems to forget his frustrations and his forever unanswered questions for a minute and accepts the situation for what it is. There is nothing he can do to change things for his son, so he will go on, day by day, being grateful for every moment he gets to share with him. Doyle simply says to his reader, be grateful for what you have today because it might not be there tomorrow. The world is a crazy and unpredictable place and we can all afford to stop for a minute, sit down, put our phones away, look around us, and just appreciate what we have – our family, our friends, our memories – because we never know when we may lose it. A very simple, yet strong last line to end a very simple, yet strong short story.

SHATTERED shelby hood | print

kat mccabe | photograph

FASHION IN BLACK AND WHITE

AMERICANA griffen raymond | photograph

bianca gullotti | photograph

ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK

You donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember anything Except the last time you were

THINK ABOUT IT romona harkness

lucky enough To find rations to satisfy your angry stomach? Have you ever gone to bed hungry?

Have you ever gone to bed hungry?

I mean really hungry.

That you lie down with a headache

So hungry, your stomach becomes angry with you

And wake up with a headache?

Causing you to vomit nothing

So hungry that your heart beats faster than your eyes blink

But misery and despair.

So hungry that your shakes and quivers become typical?

Have you ever gone to bed hungry?

So hungry that your intestines battle with each other to keep

I mean really hungry.

themselves alive

So hungry you cried yourself to sleep

Causing you mayhem?

In order to fight your hunger pains?

Have you ever gone to bed hungry?

Have you ever been so hungry that you dreamed

I mean really hungry.

Of eating fresh fruit at the dinner table with family

So hungry, breathing becomes a battle?

Or maybe you dreamed of waking up to mamaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fresh biscuits

So hungry raising your head off the pillow is a chore?

In the morning?

So hungry you feel invisible?

Have you ever gone to bed hungry?

I mean really hungry. That the thought of having Thanksgiving Was way better than having a Christmas. You would rather feed your starving, malnourished body with sustenance than open up a toy from Santa. Have you ever gone to bed hungry? I mean really hungry

BACK tien nguyen | pencil drawing

That you lose track of time?

kelly styslowsky | photograph

UNTITLED

BLOOM emily sniegowski | digital photograph

HOTEL A BALLARE renee falsken | handicap-accessible suite | digital rendering

dylan nowak | original brand design

HOUSTON BULLS

SELF PORTRAIT morgan mccutcheon | oil painting

travis springer | event campaign design

INSECTS ALIVE

UNTITLED kelly styslowsky | photograph I FEEL SORRY FOR THE CHILDREN alexandra lipinski

I feel sorry for the children of the future, They’ll never appreciate the serenity of a sunny Spring afternoon, Or the tremendous winds during a summer night’s storm. They won’t wait for the sun’s rays to grace their face at dawn, Nor will they watch the sun descend beyond the horizon by dusk. Those entitled brats won’t have their faces buried in books

and they won’t care much for critical thinking. Mother Earth could be screaming beneath their feet, But they’ll be far too busy playing with their iPhones, the least bit concerned. Instead of putting their creative minds to use, They’ll depend on machines for the simplest of tasks. I feel sorry for the children of the future, They’re dead before they even know they’re alive

ONE EYE kimberly holtyn | photograph

the rain, or the tears of the sky. He still couldn’t determine where the steady droplets came from. He assumed the latter.

“Who. Who. Hey. Hey, you. What’s the matter? What’s wrong.”

Shed sniffled his nose. He looked up, to his left, and to his right. Nothing. “Gee, I’m lonely, ugly, worthless, and now I’m crazy,” Shed said. “Who. Who. You shouldn’t say such things. Why do you call yourself such terrible things?” the voice said. “Oh,” Shed says as he sees a brown owl sitting on his leaning ledge. “You’d better get off. You might hurt yourself. My ledge is really weak.” “Who. Who. I’ll be fine thank you. And thank you for your respectful warning.”

REED STREET phillip lee

The owl lifted her left wing. “Now. Who. What’s with the tears?” “Look at me! Look at this street! Everybody hates each other! I don’t feel safe.

On a chilly, gray afternoon, an abandoned shed sits on Reed Street,

a side street on Buffalo’s eastside, no house to his left, no house to his right.

stuff. Trash. Crime. I’m . . . I’m . . . I’m afraid, owl!”

Though, some do sit not too far away, scattered.

“Thena” the owl corrects, “My name is Thena. And what, young man, is your

“Loser!” One blue house calls out.

name?”

“You’re worthless!” Shouts another, a weathered old gray one.

“Shed.”

“Why don’t you go find a job, clown!” Shouts the blue one.

“Hmm. That’s creative.”

The shed looks out. He thinks those houses are picking on him again. Then

“It’s what I answer to. It’s what people call me.”

he sees three guys swaggering down the street. Two had ball caps on.

“Well, Shed, what are you afraid of?”

“Why don’t you pull up your pants, idiot!” The gray one shouted.

“I’m afraid that nothing can ever change, that what I heard is right. Things are

Then, the shed knew he wasn’t the object of those old houses’ bullying, at

‘just the way they are,’ can’t do nothin’ ‘bout it.”

least not right now. The one with his jeans sagging the deepest turned to spit

“Who. Who. Do you believe that, Shed?”

at the blue house. The tallest of the group tossed his bag of chips onto the

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to believe. What I do know, is that there’s

wild lawn of the weathered old gray house. “Ahhhh! I hate all of you! This neighborhood was a good one before all you

nothin’ I can do about it.” “What do you want, Shed? Who.”

people moved in!” The old gray one shouted.

“Huh?

They all laughed and walked on.

“What do you think will make you happy?”

“Oh, I don’t know. To get out of this neighborhood maybe. Maybe . . . maybe

The shed looks down the street to the weathered old gray house.

“What do you mean this neighborhood used to be good? What do you mean

. . . be a house, be a house with white folks inside it. That way, I heard, people

‘You People’” the shed asked?

will love me, respect me.”

“Ahh, Shed, you’re just as dumb as those fools!”

“You think that’s it, huh? That’s what you want? That’s what you think will

The weathered old gray house looks back at the sad, forgotten, abandoned

make you happy?”

little shed. He could hardly see the shed, with the wild grasses that hadn’t

“Yeah. I do. I guess.”

been cut all summer nearly covering him.

“Who. Very well. Who. I will grant you what you want. You cannot leave the

“Oh yeah! That’s right! I forgot. You’re a youngin’. Why, your old owners built

neighborhood, however. You must remain here. All your other desires will be

you in the 60s, didn’t they? Oh, you don’t remember the good old days. The

granted.”

days when this neighborhood was good. It was clean. It was safe. It was

“What, that easy? Who . . . what are you?”

white.”

“Impatient. Do you wish to leave or no?”

“White? This neighborhood?”

“Well . . . well . . . I . . . I can’t. I mean I want to, but I can’t. What about the

“Oh yeah. The whole place. They were quiet, respectful, hardworking people. Nothin’ like these blacks!” “Oh stop it, you old fool!” The blue house yelled out. “It’s not all the black people, just the ones who live here now. Back in the day,

Nobody loves me! All I hear is bad stuff. Arguing. Fighting. All I see is bad

they were just as respectful and hardworking as the white folks. I . . . I . . . I

houses on the block? I mean, I gotta keep em’ company. And . . . and . . . my dad! Shed points to his left, “This lot right here, it used to be my dad. I never knew him.’ This is all I have of him. I . . . I just can’t leave it . . . him!” “Suit yourself. Who.” The brown bright-eyed owl disappeared into the blackness of the night.

don’t know what happened. They changed.”

The gray sky became black. Shed sat there, cold, lonely. Shed felt

ACT II

wet suddenly. He didn’t know whether it was light rain or if the sky had begun

to cry, cry looking out onto the misery that was Shed’s life. Shed looked

awoke to a thunderous mechanical roar. It was roar with no end. Squinting,

to the vacant lot to his right, with its untamed grass, broken bottles, and

Shed could see he had company. A bright mustard-yellow bulldozer greeted

unloved tires. There, once stood the house his owners lived in. That house

him. This was it, he thought.

That next morning, the sun shone and appeared almost white. Shed

was his father. He never knew him. He was too young to remember. Thinking

“I’m a gonner.”

about the father he never knew, Shed began to tear up. His tears mixed with

Then, he remembered.

“Theena! Theena! I changed my mind! Please! Please! Get me outta here!”

called Poland, I think. The humans say that word a lot. Strange word, Po Land.

Shed felt nothing. He saw nothing. No bulldozer. No more warmth from the

Pah. Pah. La. La. Nnnnnnnnn . . .”

morning sun. he heard nothing.

“Okay! Okay. I get it. So us houses are new too?”

“Oh yeah. Not too long ago, slick, this whole neighborhood was made up cornfields.

Suddenly, warmth swallowed Shed. He heard birds chirping, singing. He

heard children laugh. For his first time, he smelt the sweet smell of flowers. “Where . . . where am I?” He began to blink. The brilliance of the noon sun made him struggle. He squinted.

Gooooood eatin’ I tell ya! Goood eatin’!” “So, what happened?” “Oh. Well, first, there were only a couple a houses. Just a couple. Then, outta

“What am I?”

nowhere, folks startin’ pavin’ these long streets between Broadway and Sycamore,

Shed awoke as a house, a big red house with two floors and two families inside

Fillmore and Jefferson. Then, tiny houses started poppin’ up . . . and people. Lots

of him. He had a great, big porch and a balcony covering that porch. His lawn

a people! And factories! Great big ole factories! Then, the folks here, looked like

was mowed. He looked to his left, then looked to his right. Strauss Street. He was

they started gettin’ a lil’ bit more money. Started expanded those tiny houses.

a house on Strauss.

Started buildin’ bigger houses, like you, slick! Some of em’ even got cars now.

“So many houses.”

Stupid cars! Lost my old lady the other day to some big monster comin’ outta

And there were. Houses lined both sides of the street, no vacant lots in sight.

nowhere! Those new cars are dangerous! The devil I tell ya! They are the devil!”

Each house appeared similar to the one next to it. All that differed between

“Well, I don’t like it here.”

them was their color. Some were blue, some green, some red, and some white.

“What’s not to like?”

People, white people, were walking up and down and down and up the sidewalks,

“Eh. It’s not home. I wanted all this. The quiet streets. The friendly people. The kind

the perfect sidewalks. Aside from the laughter of kids in Shed’s backyard and

houses. A family. Now, I have two! But I want all this on my street. In my time.”

many other backyards, there were songs sung by the many birds that rested in

“Well, why don’t you fix it, slick?”

the leaves of trees that lined Strauss. There too were the loud mutterings of the

“That’s NOT my name. And, I can’t. It’s impossible!”

occasional vehicle that crawled and lumbered down the street. They all looked

“Well what is your name, slick?”

the same, the cars. Black. Old timey-like.

“Shed.”

“Well hello, ma’am. Ya sure look perdy today,” a two-floored beige house

“But,” the squirrel drops his acorn and scampers like lightning to the left of Shed.

complimented.

He looks him up. Then looks him down. He scampers to the right. He looks him

The woman, wearing a gray, lace hat, and green dress looked up at the house.

up. He looks him down. “You’re a house.”

She smiled.

“I’m Shed!”

“Why thank you. You’re quite beautiful today yourself.”

“Okay. Okay. I got it. Next question. Why is it impossible to change your

She continued to walk. She continued to smile.

neighborhood into what you want it to be? I mean, it’s your neighborhood right,

“Wow,” Shed thought, “this place is amazing! It’s everything I wanted.”

Shed?”

“I don’t know how. But I know it’s impossible. You know how I know?”

Hours had passed. Despite the laughter he heard, despite the

compliments and the other nice things said to him by both the people and

“Shoot, slick . . .I . . . I mean Shed.”

houses of Strauss Street, Shed still wasn’t happy. All he could think of was the

“Back home, my street, my neighborhood is mean. Everybody’s mean! The houses.

father he never knew, how he had abandoned the lot that his dad once stood on.

The lots. The people. Even the sidewalks! Everybody’s so mean, and disrespectful!

He felt selfish. He wanted to go back home.

So disrespectful! And dirty, and lazy, and . . .”

“Well you’re the one soundin’ pretty mean right now! But, how do you know it’s

“Uggghhh! I wanna leave! I’m not happy here!” Shed thought to himself.

“Hey, slick, why the long face?” “What?” He sees a squirrel. A gray squirrel. He’s chewing on an acorn.

impossible to change it?” “Because. I wasn’t sure before, but now I know what the problem is. Clearly, it’s the people. The blacks. This neighborhood is great! And everybody’s white. So,

“I said why the long face, chum?”

my neighborhood must be bad because it’s all black. Blacks are bad. They’re lazy.

“Oh. Ah. I’m a lil’ homesick. That’s all.”

Disrespectful. Mean!”

“Eh. Not from round here, huh?”

The gray squirrel picks his acorn back up.

“No.”

“Woah! Woah, guy! You are wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong!”

“Hey, what time is it?”

“Huh? What do you mean? I see what I see! My eye’s don’t lie!”

“Good Question.”

“Uh, Shed, you’re a house. You don’t have eyes.”

The squirrel lifts his arm, then looks at his naked, furry, gray wrist.

“Oh, . . . well, you . . .”

“Shucks, must’ve forgotten my watch at home. I’m a squirrel, slick! Why would I

“And you’re wrong about the Negroes, too. You don’t get around much, Shed, but I

know what time it is? Why would I care? Why do you care?” “Um, I’ve been sleep for a while. Do you know the time of year? What year we’re in, maybe?”

do. Been all over this city. Though none are here, on this street, there are Negroes around. Kind folks, the Negroes. Every bit as kind and hardworkin’ as these folks here.”

“Oh! Gee, you have been sleep a good while huh? It’s June, I think. June 1925.”

“What! Where? How do you know?”

“1925?” Shed shouted.

“Those factories that all these people work in, the reason why so many houses

“Yeah, and by the way, slick, nobody’s from ‘round here.’”

are here, I talk to em’, the factories. They don’t let Negroes in, Shed. But, they still

“Huh?”

work. Cooks, waiters, bellmen, gardeners, some, somehow, are even doctors,

“Everybody’s new here, slick! Most of the people are from far away. Some place

lawyers, teachers, and architects, Shed. They live far south from here, Shed.

“Where?”

“But, this is what you wanted.”

“Around Michigan Avenue mostly.”

“I want something different now.”

“Don’t know of it.”

“Which is . . .?”

“Well, you’re missin’ out, Shed. Down there, there’s hotels, night clubs, cleaners,

“I don’t want to just go somewhere else, to be somebody else. I wanna go back

drug stores, restaurants, gooood restaurants, and candy stores! There was even a Negro League baseball team here for a bit!”

do it.”

“Well, then, the blue house must’ve been right!”

“Well, have you learned anything yet, Shed?”

“What’s that? You mean that blue house?” The gray squirrel points, “Over there?”

“I . . . I don’t think it’s the blacks that ruined the neighborhood. There’s gotta be

“No. No. Back home. The blue house said some blacks were all right. He said they

something else. If it was the blacks, then I couldn’t do anything unless, well,

took care of the neighborhood for a few years, but . . . but . . . the time doesn’t add

unless I could get them all out of the neighborhood. But a buddy of mine told me

up. It’s 1925! He made it seem like they trashed the neighborhood in, like, just a

some stuff that doesn’t make the problem seem that simple. That it’s the blacks.”

few years. That was the 60s, he said. That’s like 40 somethin’ years. It must be

“Oh, you’ve made a friend. What’s his name?”

somethin’ else. But what?”

“I have no idea! He’s kinda nutty. Anyway, Thena, I need to know what made my

“I don’t know, Shed. But you sound a lot less mean than when I first met you.”

neighborhood what it is and if I can change it. That’s now what I want! Can you

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Hey. What’s your name by the way?”

help me?”

“Dude.”

Nothing. It happened again. Shed saw nothing. He heard nothing. He

“What?”

felt nothing. All had gone dark. In moments, in minutes, in hours, or in mere

“Dude.”

seconds, Shed was not conscious of time, he began to hear laughter. Women

“What!?”

were laughing. He felt, he felt, he felt cold. What was nothing, then became a blur.

“Duuuuuude!”

This blur became a scene much like that he had last seen. The houses were the

“Dude?”

same. The sidewalks still looked perfect. The trees were nearly bare however.

“Yeah, Dude.”

Traces of orange, red, and yellow were left on some, but the chill and the coats on

“Your name?

the ladies laughing alerted Shed that it was now fall, nearly winter. The women

“Yes.”

were wearing long trench coats, two with what looked to be fur around their

“Yes, is your name.”

necks. All three coats were pale, one pink, one blue, one lavender. Their hair! Shed

“No, Dude.”

spoke.

“Okay!” Well, nice to meet you.”

“Excuse me, excuse me, ma’ams?”

“Likewise, Shed. So . . . ?”

All three broke their laughter though they kept their smiles. They looked toward

“So, what?”

Shed, the big red double floored house. One of the women pinched the opening

“Dude.”

of her lavender coat at her neck together with her right hand as she spoke.

“What!”

“Yes.”

“My name is . . . never mind. So, if you think it’s something else, the reason why

“Oh, Cynthia, isn’t he just the handsomest house?” the woman in the pale blue

where you’re from isn’t nice, somethin’ other than the people, other than the

coat asked.

Negroes, is it still impossible to change it?”

He blushed. Shed became redder, nearly fire engine red.

“I don’t know, Dude, I don’t know.”

“Why, why, thanks miss. That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me. I… I…

“That’s it!”

I wanted to tell you, well, your hair, all of your hair, it sure is pretty!”

“Huh.”

“Oh well thank you, honey,” the first woman replied.

“Nothin’, never mind, slick. I’mma go run and find some more grub. I’ll check in with

“He’s so sweet,” the second woman said.

you a lil’ later.”

“Ain’t he?” the third questioned.

“All right. See ya.”

They cheerfully walked off. Shed, still stop sign red, still blushing, looked out as

home and change it, Thena. I wanna know if it’s possible to change it, and how to

Day soon became night. Dude never came back.

they walked down Strauss. He had never seen hair like that before. Big and black

“Who. Who.”

and puffy and soft. They looked like sable halos. Then it struck Shed. The ladies.

“Thena?” Thena, is that you?”

All three. They were black! Still looking out, he saw the cars had changed. They

The owl’s bright eyes pierced the darkness of the night. She perched herself on

still weren’t anything like how he remembered them back home, but they were

the metal rail of Shed’s second floor balcony, above his porch.

nothing those he last saw either. They were big, really big. And there were more.

“It is I, dear Shed. How have you made out here? Are you . . . happy?”

He looked out onto the other side of the street. There were a few white people

“No, Thena, I’m not. Not at all.”

here and there, but mostly everyone was black. And the neighborhood was still

“Well, this is what you wanted, is it not? Everyone, houses and people, are kind and

. . . nice! Everyone seemed to still be nice. It still seemed safe. Blacks aren’t the

respectful. Are they not? You certainly must feel safe here.”

problem! Then what is? I thought Thena was gonna give me some answers, Shed

The bright-eyed Thena walked the metal rail. She looked up in thought. The moon

thought.

illuminated the heavens. The sable sky was spangled with shimmering stars.

Despite their best efforts, their intensity failed to match the unbound glare of

the time the old blue house was tellin’ me about. That means, that means that

“Wait, if blacks are living here, and it’s still really nice, then this must be

Thena’s silver eyes.

my dad is still around! That means I’m just being built!” Then Shed grew sad. He

“Yeah. Yeah. This place is all those things. It’s not, it’s just not right though.”

was on Strauss. Reed was just around the corner. The house he wanted to know

all his life was just around the corner. He’ll never get to meet him because, well,

“I don’t know how to explain it, man.”

because he’s a house and houses just can’t walk around the corner.

“Dude.”

“Hey, Shed, how ya doin’?” He knew that voice. He never figured out his name.

“I know.” “NO! My name isn’t man! It’s not buddy or friend! It’s Dude! My name is Dude!”

“Hey . . . you!”

“Really?”

“How ya doin’, slick?”

“Yeah, Dude the gray squirrel.”

“I’m all right.”

“Hmmph, that’s . . . different.”

A thought came to Shed!

“Says the house named Shed?”

“Hey, . . . friend, would ya mind doin’ me a favor?”

“Point made.”

“Sure, buddy. What is it?”

“Where are you from, Shed?”

“Well, ‘member when you first met me, remember when I told you I was homesick?” “Reed Street, 2016.” Dude nods his head. “Well, it’s because of my dad mostly. Ya see, all I know is that he caught fire and

“What! How?” “I’ll explain what I can later, Dude. Now, can you do that for me? Can you see if you

he was bulldozed, right around this time. I can’t just run or crawl over there to see

can find my father?”

him, but you can.”

“Why are you here? Why are you on Strauss Street in 1965?”

“Wait. I don’t get it. You’re not from here, but your dad’s around the corner? Houses have fathers? I don’t know what’s goin’ on.”

“Because Broadway-Fillmore in 2016 doesn’t look anything like it does now. The people say mean things. The buildings and the sidewalks say mean things. I don’t

42.89 -78.8719 samantha lonczak | mixed media

feel safe. No one does. I came here, I came to 1925, originally, to get away. To

it. They abandoned my dad and me.”

be in a nicer place. But it wasn’t home. And I wasn’t myself. I’m still not. So now,

Thena shook her yellow, flat face, her neck lost somewhere in the tufts of brown

I wanna change it. I wanna find how to change it. I wanna find out if it’s even

feathers.

possible to change it. I told you all that, like, forty years ago.”

“Shed, you’re still wildly oversimplifying this.”

Shed stops and thinks.

“Then what is it? What is it, Thena?”

“Wait, how long do squirrels live?”

“Shed, do you know what is happening a few blocks away?”

Dude shrugs his soldiers. “Iowono.”

“There was a parkway, Shed, a parkway that reached all the way from the park

He grabs an acorn and begins chewing.

on Best Street, the one Fillmore runs through, all the way to Delaware Park in

“Well,” he speaks as he’s chewing, “how close are ya?”

the north of the city. That parkway, Shed, was filled with big elm trees, benches,

“It’s gotta be more than people, black or white. It’s gotta be sometin’ else. By the

flowers, plants, and countless birds, rabbits, and squirrels, squirrels like your friend

way, what happened to all the white people?” “They left. Quick, too. After the War, the white folks here really began to do well for themselves. Moved out to the suburbs. During the War and after, the country

Dude. This Parkway ran through a middle class black and Jewish neighborhood.” “Wow. That sounds really nice.” “Oh, it was, Shed. Now it’s on its way to becoming a big dirt ditch in the ground that

pretty much ended immigration from Europe. Remember how I told you, forty

goes on for six miles. It’s being made into an expressway, Shed. The 33.”

years ago, that I used to talk to some of the factories? You’d be surprised how

“What? Who would do that? Why would anyone do that?”

much good food you can find there!”

“A lot of people have moved to suburbs but still work in factories and other places

“Dude.”

in the city. They want a quicker way back and forth.”

“Sorry. Like I was sayin’, I still talk to em’. Well, since immigration all but stopped

“Well, what about the parkway? What about that neighborhood?”

and since a lotta the white people have been here for some time now, they don’t

“Oh, Shed, the parkway will be forgotten. That neighborhood, that well to do

really wanna work the dirtiest jobs. They started hiring blacks now. I mean, not

neighborhood made up of mostly black and Jewish people that sits along a

with as much pay as the white folks got, but hey, they’re jobs, ya know?”

beautiful parkway six miles long will be a noisy slab of concrete that will cause

“So, the neighborhood?”

the value of houses to plummet. It will be a big hit against the black and Jewish

“Oh! So, yeah, all these houses here, a lot are still owned by whites though most

communities.”

don’t live here anymore.”

“So . . . it’s not black people. It’s not white people. Policy! Government! That’s the

“Why?”

problem!”

“Eh, to buy a house, people need loans from banks. Banks don’t really give blacks loans. So, most can only rent.” “Wow.”

“Perhaps, Shed. Perhaps.” Thena, the bright eyed owl, soars off. Nothing. Again, Shed, is greeted by nothing. He hears nothing, sees nothing, feels

“Yeah, it’s kinda messed up.” Dude chews on his acorn some more. “Oh! And by the way, though this street is nice, some of the houses in this neighborhood don’t get too much love. Some are getting’ kinda run down.” “But . . . but . . . everybody here seems so responsible. How could that be?” “Well, slick, a lotta times it’s the things ya can’t see that are the problem. Some of those folks, those folks who moved out of the neighborhood but still own these

“No.”

nothing. “Wait! Thena! Dude! Dude was gonna tell me if he found my dad!” BLLRPP! BWWRRRN! BWWWRRRN! Sirens! Shed heard Sirens! Voices! Not laughter from children. Not laughter from women in winter trench coats. They were shouts. They were yells. Angry and fed up. He felt the heat. He had never known heat like this before. It seemed unnatural, otherworldly. What was nothingness soon came into focus. The sun was intense. The trees were fully

houses, they don’t care what happens to them. They don’t make repairs. They

clothed in their leafy dress. The street was littered with bricks, empty shotgun

don’t maintain anything. Couldn’t care less.”

shells, tear gas canisters, and shards of glass. The air was thick with smoke.

“Wow.”

Buildings smoldered in red flames. A crowd of nine people, all no more than

“Yeah, slick, I know right? But, listen, I’ll go run over to Reed and see if I find your

sixteen years old, huddled around a young man of the same age. He too wore

old man. What’s he look like?”

that sable halo of hair Shed saw the trio of women in winter trench coats wearing

“I . . . I . . . don’t know.”

just a couple years ago. He was neither laughing nor complimenting Shed’s

“Umm, okay, no problem. Everything’s possible. I’ll let you know.”

handsomeness however. That young man stood, shoulders back, head held high.

“Great! Thanks, Dude!”

He shouted, “We could sing ‘We Shall Overcome’ until doomsday and nobody

“It’s nothin’.”

would listen to us! Throw a brick and break a window and the whole world wants to know what’s wrong – as if they didn’t know already!”

The cool winds began to whistle. There she was, the bright eyed owl.

He’s greeted by a flood of shouts, all in unmistakable tones of agreement.

This time, Shed saw Thena before she announced herself. He greeted her. She

perched in the same spot as before, the black metal rail.

admiration.

“So, Shed, what have you learned?”

Shed looks on. He looks on in horror and amazement, in confusion and

“The policies,” he tells himself, “it’s not the people, black or white, it’s the policies,

“It’s white people’s fault.”

the greed. That’s whose fault it is. Past the smoke, leaping over the tear gas

“What?”

canisters and emptied shotgun shells hurriedly, Shed spots Dude. He comes

“The neighborhood. My neighborhood. White people destroyed it. They abandoned

running to Shed, out of breath. Huffing.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . .

TROUBLED MIND bianca gullotti | photograph A

“Shed! He says while panting, “Shed! I found him! I found your pops!”

any sense. It didn’t make any sense. I needed someone to blame. It had to be

Shed lit up. Never had he thought it possible for those words to be strung

someone’s fault . . . or something’s. First, I blamed those whom had set fire to

together, I found him. Shed stared down at Dude. The seconds seemed like

him. I blamed the blacks. They had to pay! Then, I thought. If the whites hadn’t

hours as he waited for the squirrel to free him with whatever he knew, whatever

abandoned the neighborhood so fast, if they all kept up with their property, then

knowledge he had found. He could think of nothing more he wanted at that

maybe whatever the blacks were angry about, it wouldn’t a got to this point. So, I

moment than to know something about his father, about himself. At that

wanted to hurt the whites. Make them know my pain.”

moment, the fires, the yells and shouts of a people both sick and tired, the sound

“None of that makes much sense, Shed.”

of bricks thrashing through windows, all of that fell silent for Shed for those

“I know, Thena. I know. But I just had to make sense of it. All of this. It’s gotta be for

moments. Dude looked up at the big burgundy double floored house, then he

some reason.”

looked down. All that could be heard was the heart of a house being broken.

“Well, have you made sense of it, dear Shed?”

Shed shed tears. His tears ran steady and unbothered. His tears flowed without

“You talked about the parkway becoming a concrete slab, an expressway. Dude

yield. He didn’t care. He didn’t care who saw. He didn’t care what anyone thought.

was tellin’ me about the factories and how they’ve just started hiring more black

He was sick and tired, too. “Shed, I’m sorry. Your pops, nothing’s left of him but his frame. From the looks of

folks, but for the least paid and most dangerous positions. Many aren’t even allowed to buy the homes they live in!”

it, he must have been set on fire last night. I’m sorry.”

“Uh huh.”

“It’s policy, Thena. It’s policy! And . . . and . . . you know what?”

Night has fallen. This is the second night of rioting in the Summer of

1967. Shed has blanketed himself with his thoughts since Dude left. He had met

“What’s that, dear Shed?”

his greatest fear, utter helplessness. Sirens rang into the night. Shouts and yells

“It worked. This whole riot, it worked.”

angrily bled into the air. The occasional explosion of guns firing ceased being

“Did it now?”

exceptional. They became expected. As stray flames lit the unsettled night, Shed

“Why, yeah, sure! You wanna know what’s happenin? I’ve been listenin’. I’ve been

could still easily see the bright silver eyes of the wise owl, Thena, headed his way.

listenin’ to the people on the street. The youth, they want two things most of

“Who. Who.”

all. They want employment opportunities and they want some recreation in the

She landed on her typical perch, the metal rail of his balcony.

community, maybe a swimming pool. Maybe some more green space. A baseball

“So, what now, dear Shed?”

diamond! A soccer field! Heck, maybe a hockey rink!”

“Earlier, Thena, I hurt. I had never felt so much pain, Thena. I wanted others to feel

“And . . .”

my pain. I wanted to hurt others. I wanted to hurt them, make them know the

“They promised jobs, Thena! The youth is demanding 3000 jobs, and you know

pain I felt.”

what Mayor Sedita said? He’d look into it! Thena, they’ve promised jobs, low

“Is this so?”

cost housing! This is change. This is the answer! It is possible to change the

“Oh, oh, it is. Hearing how my father was taken from me, Thena, it didn’t make

neighborhood, and this is how.”

“Violence? Rioting?”

was a man who sat as mayor for nearly twenty years. He did nothing for the

“Clearly, it’s the only way.”

black community because he didn’t have to, he didn’t need their vote. The federal

“Hmm. Ready to go home?”

government gave the city millions of dollars to better the schools, neighborhoods,

“Definitely.”

and lives of people on the east and west sides of the city. The mayor deceived and swindled. He was a big fan of baseball. He took that money and built a

All the unrest was hushed by the nothingness. This nothingness, once

multimillion dollar baseball park downtown in an attempt to lure a major league

haunting, now became familiar. Shed greeted it soon after every meeting with his

team to Buffalo. That team went to Miami. He spent millions more on a subway

bright eyed mentor. He heard familiar sounds. Smelled familiar smells. He felt a

system that goes nowhere.”

warmth he had not felt in some time. Before his vision came to, he was already

“So all is lost. There’s nothing that can be done. It is the way it is.”

confident he was home. And so he was. Shed was a shed once more, on Reed

“Shed. What’s your name?”

Street, next the lot that hosted the father he never did end up meeting. Something

“You know your name, Shed.”

was wrong. Nothing had changed. Everything seemed exactly as it was before.

“Have you always been a shed, Shed?”

There were lots where houses were at some point. Trash littered the sidewalks,

“Well, I guess not.”

lots, and the street. No one complimented or said pleasant things to the other.

“Have you always answered to Shed? Called yourself Shed? Even when you were a

What few buildings line the block stood defensive and angry, or depressed and

house?”

sad.

“Yeah.”

“I . . . I thought the policies had changed? I thought that was it, that’s what it took.

“Why?”

What happened?”

“Iowono.”

“Who. Who. Who.”

“Shed, you call someone something long enough, that’s who they become, that’s

Thena was the last person, owl, goddess, whatever she was, she was the last one

who they think they are. You said some really nice things to people when you were

Shed wanted to see at that moment. She perched herself on his weathered shed

a house, Shed. You complimented them. They said nice things to you, too. Have

door, its wood made weak by heavy rains and snow and having never known

you ever said such nice things as yourself, as a shed?”

sealant.

“No.”

“Dear Shed.”

“Why?”

“Thena. This is home?”

“Cuz, nobody ever said such things to me. Wait! I got it! I know! I know how to

“More or less. You are indeed yourself. You are the shed again, Shed. However, it is

change my neighborhood! I know how to make it better, for everybody!”

2005.”

“How’s that?”

“Why didn’t you just bring me home? You asked me if I was ready to go home.”

“Look, I can’t change the big stuff. Racism still exists. Some buildings are still

“Because, Shed. I’m not clear on what you actually want.”

gonna be mean. Some people are still gonna be mean. But I can change me.”

“Thena, at first, I just wanted to be anywhere but here, on this street. I wanted to

“Dear Shed, whatever do you mean?”

be anybody but myself. Then, I saw that there’s no place more home than home,

“Thena, wise, bright, silver eyed Thena, I have one last request for you.”

so I wanted to go home, but I wanted to change it. I wanted to make it better. I

“That is, dear Shed?”

wanted to know if that was possible. I wanted to know if it’s possible to make my

“I would like to become a garden. A community garden. I want to greet everyone

neighborhood better. To do that, I thought I had to figure out who or what had

who comes my way. I want them to feel safe, feel happy, feel respected.”

ruined it. I know it’s not simply people, black or white. It’s bigger. It’s policies. It’s

“Dear Shed, I cannot do that. I can see to it this mass of weathered and ragged

government. It’s all the stuff I can’t see and I can’t get to. That’s what’s gonna

wood I am perched on is no more. I can see to it that it becomes a lush

change it. I know it! I just wanna know, what happened to all those promises after

community garden that will delight all who come across it. What I cannot do, is

the riots back in ’67?”

transition your consciousness into this new blessed public space.

“Well, dear Shed, those promises were empty. The mayor, the other politicians, they didn’t even attempt to create those jobs and opportunities. The 33, the expressway, it opened that same year, ‘67. And, in the years that followed, there

Private spaces have consciousness. They see, think, feel, and hear. Public Spaces do none of this. They do speak, alas. They speak only winged and spirited words to all those who enter and pass by.” “Then that’s what I want. I want to sacrifice myself for the good of the community, for the good everyone around.” “So it is, Dear Shed, so it shall be.”

28 A community garden now stands in the place of the old weathered and ragged shed. A year later, youth in the community planted a bigger garden where Shed’s father once stood. A couple years later, the old gray house on Reed Street was painted pink. The stressed blue house was painted a livelier hue of blue. The street now sees less litter and many more compliments and smiles.

ROLLER BLADES alexander mayers | object typography

SELF PORTRAIT lian kham thang | oil painting

if o

it a pl

uip m

g e nt â&#x20AC;˘ Los A n

, les

I AM NO PRINCESS kat mccabe | photograph

PARAPHRASE kayla zelasko | ticket & poster design

WHAT REMAINS, REMAINS rachel gallmeyer | photograph

What happened to Big Momma The one who made something out of nothing. told the best stories. Worked hard for her generation

BIG MOMMA romona harkness

her children’s generation and their children’s generation. Whose advice was don’t let the right hand know what the left hand is doing.

What happened to big Momma

The one who everyone ran to

The one who could get rid of sickness

for food, clothes and shelter.

by mixing a lil of this and a lil of that.

The one whose wisdom

The one who used her wash board

was valued, appreciated,

to get the grease

Taken seriously.

out of clothes without ruin. The one who delivered babies at home.

What happened to Big Momma

The one who knew what was wrong

The one who would break a stubborn soul

with the baby based on her cries.

with just a look.

What happened to Big Momma

Big Momma is gone now.

The one who never used a measuring cup

A distant memory.

yet the meal came out just right.

replaced by a 35-year-old.

Whose home remedies never failed.

who cares more about her

Who couldn’t read nor write,

hair and nails

but made sure you got your lesson.

than the safety and well-being

The one whose advice made sense,

of her children.

put everything into prospective.

Who knows nothing about cooking, just microwave.

What happened to Big Momma

Whose advice is

The one who taught you to be a lady,

“Make sure you

the one who comforted you every 28 days,

find yourself a good sugar daddy.”

made sure you had the right protection

Whose silence isn’t golden,

(because you sure in hell didn’t know what you were doing),

it’s out in the street fighting over

the one who knew you were pregnant

who said what.

before you did. Yes, Big Momma’s gone. Replaced by the ignorance of the woman who thinks television is the way to teach children right from wrong. Whose kitchen table isn’t for eating but for playing Spades. Yes, Big Momma’s gone Replaced by obliviousness and immaturity. Big Momma, may your soul rest in peace.

SHAMAN

kristen dolinar character design

ENVIRONMENT kristen dolinar | animation environment design

CHARACTER DESIGN tien nguyen | digital drawing

MUSICBOX jenna zielkiewicz | prop design

SPIDER dawan turner | found object sculpture

FISHER-PRICE CAMERA | PENNY paige berkheiser | photograph

SUBMERGING WATERS

megan switala | photograph

shanel kerekes | oil painting

D4M4G3D

old man, was reliable and there was no possible way he was

2 ANGRY MEN ashton barrie

wrong. Even after contradicting himself and his arguments, he still refuses to believe that the defendant is not guilty. We learn about halfway through the movie that he has a son with whom he does not get along. Juror #3 is the last one to change his vote to “not guilty” only after he realizes he has been portraying the feelings he has towards his son onto the boy on trial. In one of the final and most emotional scenes of the film, he breaks down crying and says “not guilty” in what seemed to be an act of defeat. Juror #7 also votes “guilty” at the beginning of the film. However, the motive for his decision is very different from that of the 3rd juror and from everyone else’s. He expresses almost immediately that he has tickets to a baseball game later that Juror #3, played by Lee J. Cobb, introduces himself mainly by bragging about his business. He tells us he owns his own business that he started from scratch and which now employs 34 workers. He, along with 10 other jurors, vote for a “guilty” verdict right from the start. Throughout the discussion of the evidence and testimonies, it is clear that this juror doesn’t think that “reasonable doubt” matters in this case. He is set in his belief that the boy is guilty and no matter what points are brought up and how convincing they are, he simply doesn’t want to pay attention to them. Every juror and everyone in the court room saw all of the same evidence. They all listened to the same testimonies and heard the same arguments. Yet, juror #3 acts as if he and the jurors arguing against him heard different trials. He acts like the rest of them are crazy to believe that the boy is not guilty. Essentially, he hears and sees just what he wants to and does not want to believe that there could be any reason that the boy is not guilty.

This juror, played by Jack Warden, doesn’t seem to care what happens to the boy on trial as long as the decision is made quickly so he can leave sooner. Given what most jurors believed and given the evidence and testimonies provided, he voted “guilty” in the beginning of the movie because he thought it would be an open-and-shut case. It is only when the majority of the other jurors start voting “not guilty” that he switches his vote because he believes now that the quicker everyone votes “not guilty”, the quicker they can get out of there. Ultimately, he never shows any type of emotional feeling towards what happens to the boy. It seems that neither of these jurors really bothered to analyze the case any further than what appeared to them at first glance. They heard the testimonies and saw the evidence and assumed that it was an obvious case when they never even had a thought about digging a little deeper. Clearly their reasoning behind their votes were caused by different situations, but their reasoning,

Through the course of the film, the 3rd juror

in my opinion, was deemed less valid by the end of the movie.

also contradicts himself several times while simultaneously proving the points of the other jurors voting for a “not guilty” verdict. In a fit of rage, he screams “I’ll kill you” at the 8th juror while he doesn’t actually mean that he’ll literally kill him. He also refers to one of the jurors as an “old man”

night and his main concern is finishing in time for that game.

saying “what does he know? He’s delusional!” This came after he claimed that the testimony of one of the witnesses, another

Juror #3’s reasons were because of the hatred towards his son. He never bothered to dig deeper because he was afraid of what might be discovered: the truth. And it seems the truth is something juror #3 never wants to admit. Juror #7, on the other hand, has different reasons. His arguments become less valid when his character becomes less valid. When he switches his vote to “not guilty” because he sides with the popular vote, all of his arguments essentially get thrown out the window. After this point in the story, juror #7 has little to say. He doesn’t necessarily believe the boy is not guilty. The fact that he doesn’t do much persuading after he votes “not guilty” proves that I believe. He just knows it will get him out of there quicker. Neither of their arguments are strong enough to hold up throughout the film and thus they ultimately abandon these arguments in the end.

PORTRAIT OF A WOMAN tien nguyen | pencil drawing

GOOD MOURNING

deeann stachowski | oil on canvas

FOUNDING MOTHERS romona harkness

Our Founding Mothers Was it bad enough we were burned, tortured, drowned and viewed as witches from the 1400-1700s? Martha Carrier, Elizabeth Clark, Bridget Bishop, I honor you. Was it bad enough we were sterilized based on our families’ curse and socioeconomic status, falling victim to dictatorship over our bodies, due to the lack of justice? Dr. Charlotte Lozier, Margaret Sanger. I honor you. Was it bad enough we couldn’t vote until 1920? Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony and Lucy Stone, I honor you. Was it bad enough we struggled to fight for love, not the love that our husbands and fathers demanded of us? Real love, the love we showed loud and proud in the 60’s when we decided that there was no greater love than the love we gave ourselves and to those like us. Wasn’t it bad enough we weren’t good enough to do “a man’s job?’’ Alice Paul, Martha W. Griffins, Betty Friedan, Estelle Griswold. I honor you. Was it bad enough they tried to force us to keep a predator’s bastard child in the 70’s? Norma McCorvey, I honor you. Was it bad enough in the 80’s our husbands were the "head and master" of the property we shared? Joan Feenstra, I honor you. Was it bad enough in the 90’s we weren’t considered good enough to attend military college if we wished? Shannon Faulkner, I honor you. Is it bad enough we still live in a patriotic country, so bad that a woman who ran the White House in the 90’s as her husband engaged in fornication with young interns, lost the election to an arrogant billionaire who’s known as a womanizer? Hillary Clinton, I honor you. The way the others honor the founding fathers, I honor our founding mothers. Anna Howard, Ida B. Wells, Ruth Bader, Abigail Adams, Betsy Ross, Phillis Wheatley, Hannah Adams, Judith Sargent Murray, Molly Pitcher Because of you, I push on knowing we have lost many battles but we have never lost a war.

real is Nothing truth the hide Lies laughs and smiles Fake blanket the under Crying pain the away Hiding tears the hides Laughter with deal to Sleeping depression thoughts only the are words Jumbled misery my of out me Put

PLACE JUMBLED A MINDS MY ana spanhake

place jumbled a minds My dark the in Hiding

Inspired by Bob Dylan’s “Thunder on the Mountain” Move my hands with the beat of my feet Roamin’ and a goin’ all down the scene Where the Main Street and dead end meet Rest my head on a bench and go into a deep sleep The sun comes up and sheds some light Beams in my eyes, blinded up my sight Knew what to do, knew what would be right So I took a left, my chest beating at peak height Stumbled and mumbled as I walked along People passing asked me “say, hey what’s wrong?” Said I feel out of tune in the world’s song They gasped and laughed, as they hummed

DIRECTIONLESS ryan weatherbee

along My heart is a burden, it was hurting for sure Started to feel it rip apart and more So I went and spent some time at my ex lover’s door She said “you’re dead to me, you’re rotten to the core” I was quick to go, a slick slip away Muttered and stuttered both of our names As I roamed alone, I felt cold and insane In my head I felt dead and in my place

Felt lost from the cost of all that passed Felt plenty empty real quick and fast Thought the feeling I’m reeling from wouldn’t last But it broke me up so much, my body needs a cast Scowled and howled as I didn’t feel swell Felt sorrow and hollow and felt like hell Knew I hit a wall as tall as I could tell So I whisked away and wished the world farewell

YOON BORA tiarra mcginnis | cd packaging & original font design application

THE CLOCK STOPPED AT NOON

alexandra lipinski

The hands on the clock above the chalkboard moved nonchalantly as the lecture dragged on. ‘ Thirty more minutes , I can do this,’ I thought to myself, tapping my foot restlessly against the leg of the desk and nibbling on the side of my pencil. “Chemistry is defined as the branch of science that handles the identification of the substances which matter is made up of, as well as the investigation of their properties and the ways in which these properties communicate, combine, and change, and the use of these processes to create new substances,” Ms. Smith announced to the class in her hoarse, monotone voice. I turned to my left and saw my best friend, Jennifer Lewis, scrawling her notes on a fresh sheet of college ruled loose leaf paper. Here and there she was forced to readjust her wide-framed glasses as they slid down the bridge of her pointy nose. “Psst, Jenny,” I whispered, praying Ms. Smith wouldn’t hear me. “What?” Jenny growled back at me, continuing to jot her notes down. “You wanna skip next period and go get some coffee? I’m falling asleep over here.” “What? No, Andrew. I gotta finish my non-fiction paper or Mr. Wright’s gonna fail me.” “C’mon. You’ll have plenty of time to take care of that. It’ll only take five minutes. I know you want some coffee, too.” “No, Andrew.” “Please. Just for five minutes. We’ll be in and out; it’ll be like we didn’t even leave.” Jenny’s face flushed with aggravation. “I said no!” she snapped back at me, this

“You? Fail? Please. You’re the smartest girl in this school,” I said, smiling. Jenny gave me that shy, awkward smile of hers. “Thanks, Andrew. Feel like walking me to my next class?” “Of course. I have nothing better to do.” I always walked her to class, yet she would still ask me, like I wasn’t going to one day. We made our way into the congested hallway and headed towards the english wing of the building. Jenny’s dark curls bounced with each step she took and the smell of her zesty perfume delighted my senses. By the time we had reached the english classrooms, the crowds had died down and we knew soon enough we’d hear the bell in another minute or so. Right by the doorway, Jenny turned to face me. “Thank you for walking me,” she said and started to grin, flashing me that beautiful

time dropping her pencil and glaring at me. Ms. Smith cleared her throat. “Is there something you would like to share with the

smile of hers. “I’m sorry that I got mad at you before.” “No worries,” I said to her, resting my arm against the row of lockers next to the

rest of the class? Miss Lewis? Mr. Hunt?” “No, Ms. Smith,” I replied, hanging my head in shame and embarrassment. From

door.

the corner of my eye, I could see Jenny’s flushed cheeks and began to feel guilt

She continued to grin before turning away. “I’ll see you after class. Oh, and pick up

sprout up within me.

your notes. You’ll need ‘em for Ms. Smith’s test.” Jenny pointed at a piece of paper

“Don’t interrupt me again,” Ms. Smith bellowed before continuing her tedious chemistry lesson. I could tell her keen eyes watched me and Jenny like a lioness hunting a gazelle for the rest of her class. Bdddddddring! The school bell sounded at exactly 9:07 and we all clambered for the door. “Listen, Jenny. I’m really sorry about embarrassing you,” I told her as she packed her brimming backpack. Her eyes shot up at me, and I

Andrew. I just wanted to make sure I took good notes. I’m worried I’ll fail this class.”

expected her to reprimand me, but she spoke softly. “It’s fine,

beneath my feet before heading into the classroom. I watched her walk away before reaching down to pick up the paper. ‘I could’ve sworn I put this away,’ I thought to myself as I picked up the shabby piece of paper and wandered off. My doubt became puzzlement as I studied the trampled sheet. The handwriting was sloppier than mine, yet I could still make out the names: Adam, Kelly, Eric, Mike, Chelsea, Liz, Claire, Billy, Ethan, Jayden. Most of the names I recognized as friends, while others I wasn’t too sure of. There had to be at least fifty names on the paper. At the very bottom of the list I noticed my name, as well as Jenny’s. But who wrote all these names down? And why? As I stood there bewildered by the strange note, I heard something I could never unhear: Crack . It sounded as though someone had shot off fireworks. Crack . The clock read 9:11. I could hear faint voices grow louder and more intense and the sounds of shoes racing down the hallway. “Run! Run!” an unfamiliar face called to me as she sped down the narrow hallway, nearly tripping over the dozens of other students. There was fear plastered all over her face. Some of the students were crying, others panicking. “Run!” the same girl called to me with such urgency as she ran passed me, pulling my arm with her. Her breath was heavy and her feet were quick. Sweat

LOVING DEGRADATION deja walker | oil painting

dripped from her face and

slamming the door shut. About seven shots rattled off outside of the library’s

she seemed to have tears in

doors, followed by heart-shattering cries and desperate screams, then quiet.

her eyes. Crack. Crack.

My heart was pounding out of my chest as the minutes rolled by. ‘Maybe the

“What’s going on?” I demanded as I jogged along with her and the others, but she never answered me. I could hear students running and panting behind us. Some of them were screaming, others looked shocked. “What the hell is going on?” I demanded again through quick gasps. Crack. “There’s a gunman in the building,” Adam, one of our best football players, answered from behind me. “Now keep moving. We’ll hide in the library,” he commanded. Adam’s voice was calm and steady, but there was fear and dread in his eyes. We continued on as the gunfire moved closer. I started to hear deafening screams more frequently as innocent

shooter’s gone,’ I thought to myself, and relief started to wash over me. I opened the cabinet door a crack when the library door swung open and a stranger dressed in black, holding a sawed-off shotgun, stood in the doorway. I watched the stranger stride into the library, shotgun firmly in hand. He approached his first victim, Tommy, one of the most well-liked guys in high school. Tommy was hiding under a desk, and from my hiding place in the cabinet, I could see his body shaking. The killer tossed the table to the side, slamming it against a nearby bookshelf where other students were sure to be hiding behind. The killer cocked his gun and pointed it to Tommy’s head. They appeared to be talking and Tommy was shaking even more violently than before. He nodded his head frantically and the killer blasted him in his face. I looked away, unable to bear the sight of Tommy’s gory, mangled face. Three more shots were fired, and when I reluctantly looked back, Tommy’s body had stopped moving.

lives got bombarded with bullets. Their screams made it hard to breathe and sent

Next, the killer turned his attention towards a bookshelf nearly twenty feet away.

shivers down my spine. I could hardly swallow, I could hardly think. All that I could

As he crept around the corner of it, he showered his victims with bullets and their

concentrate on was finding refuge in the library.

cries for help became mere whispers. He continued to afflict pain and sorrow on

As we turned the corner and dashed towards the library, I could hear the gunfire just behind us as bullets ricocheted off of nearby lockers. Some students behind

the rest of the students in the library, slaughtering everyone he could find with his shotgun.

me shrieked and ducked their heads as they heard the bullets bounce off the

“Dear God,” I whispered under my breath, tears streaming down my face as I

metal. I tried to look back to see who the shooter was. Instead, I looked back in

watched the killer’s every movement. “Please save me.” Nearly everyone around

time to see Claire, an old friend from elementary school, fall to the ground. Blood

me lay silent, a pool of blood streaming from their lifeless bodies. The killer

gushed from the back of her scrawny leg, yet she still attempted to crawl to keep

started to walk towards the library’s exit, but hesitated when he was about seven

up with the rest of the group. Her stringy, blonde hair stuck to her cheeks. Tears

footsteps away from my cabinet. His covered face was fixed on my hiding place,

rushed down her face and turned to dysphoric sobs. “Please help me! Somebody!”

and I could feel my heart race as he approached my cabinet. I held my breath.

she called out to the group, looking directly into my eyes. I wanted to rush back to her, to be her hero, but my feet kept racing on. Another girl, Kassie, stopped and tried to help Claire, but the shooter, dressed in all black with a hood covering his face, shot Claire two or three more times before shooting Kassie once in the chest. Our feet beat on, carrying us to safety as we approached the library.

He lifted his gun, and I could feel the end nearing. I prayed once more to God for help as I waited for the killer to take my life. I kept my eyes fixed on him. I still couldn’t see his face, but I noticed his dark, size 13 combat boots had mud caked on the sides of them. His jeans had deep red and brown stains on the legs and there was dirt caked underneath his nails. Just as he was about to fire, a frantic

We frantically burst through the doors, desperate for a place to hide. There were

teacher burst through the library doors, and the killer turned his attention toward

others hiding as well. Many of them were camouflaged underneath tables, behind

him, walking with his gun roaring as he shot the teacher several times through the

bookshelves, any place they wouldn’t be seen. I saw a few familiar faces, but

chest.

there was no time for small talk. I needed to find a place to hide, and fast. Finding the librarian’s cabinet, I quickly emptied it of its contents before climbing in and

Considering this my chance to escape, I burst open from the cabinet and ran for the nearest exit. I could hear bullets coming for me as I dashed away. I ran until my feet couldn’t carry me anymore. I headed down what used to be the english

wing of the school, but it was a bloodbath. The hallway was eerily quiet; all I could hear were my footsteps hitting the floor. I peeked into a classroom, desperate for another hideaway. There were several bodies sprawled out on the floor, blood oozing from gunshot wounds of the victims the shooter had mercilessly slain. I made my way to the back of the room and tipped a few desks on their sides to create a makeshift barricade. ‘I’ll play dead,’ I thought as I rested my body face down on the classroom floor. The scent of blood and urine was strong, and I vigorously tried to keep my composure. I needed to make it out alive. I needed to find help. Why did nobody call for help? I examined the lost souls that surrounded me. Some were mangled in agony while others looked like they were peacefully resting. Then I noticed those familiar dark curls, and I lost it. “Jen,” I spoke softly in case the killer was near. No answer. “Jenny,” I repeated again, praying for some sort of sign of life. But there was none. Troubled and going half-insane, I jumped up from my hideaway and ran across the room to those familiar curls. I grabbed Jenny’s body, pulling her into my arms. Just as I started to lift her up, I noticed the wounds in her neck and chest, and her head fell to the side. Her face was mangled in pain and there was dried blood on the side of her cheek. My heart sank. “No,” I whispered to myself, dropping her cold, bloody body and backing away. “No!” As I backed away, I felt something jab into my back and I turned around to my fate. The shooter had caught up with me and he pushed his deadly weapon further into my skin. Gasping, I tried to back away from him, but my feet were too sore to carry me away. I looked for a face one last time, but there was nothing to see from his hood. “Who are you?” I asked him, but he ignored my question. I asked again, but received no answer. He cocked his gun and pressed it to my head. The smooth metal against my temple left me paralyzed with fear. When the shooter decided to speak, he asked me just one question: “Do you believe in God?” His voice was steady and lacked emotion. I hesitated to answer. With his gun pressed to my temple, I could hardly think. He jabbed the muzzle of his gun harder against my head. In his same, unfeeling voice, he asked the question that was to determine my fate. The classroom clock stood at noon. Breath heavy, sweat beaded on my forehead, I answered: “Yes.” Crack.

SOCIAL AWARENESS shelby braidich | poster

POWER paige berkheiser | photography

BLU CAFE kayla zelasko LOGO

claire witt | digital rendering LANTERNA

SPRAY PAINT erika tozzo | packaging & original font design application

THE DAY THE EARTH DIED alexandra lipinski I thought we had learned our lesson When the skies had grown a little darker. I thought we had received the message When the seas were corrupted with filth. I hoped there would be better days When God’s creatures started to fade. I hoped the people would come to a realization When the blistering heat became unbearable. I knew there wouldn’t be a brighter tomorrow When she died at the hands of her children. I wonder what our founding fathers would’ve done When they heard Mother Earth screaming in sorrow?

RENÉE ROUGIR TAG

kayla zelasko | clothing brand

FOREST FIRE ryan weatherbee

Self imposed exile in the woods,

Just a man in exile,

Residing there for three years,

Close to almost four years.

Flinching at sightings of shadow,

Engulfed at the sight of every shadow,

No matter the shape.

Encompassing my shape.

I bathed myself in unclean water,

I drank some of the unclean water,

Letting it soak into my skin.

Let it soak in the cuts in my skin.

The brittle branches obscure the sun,

I stared deep into the sun,

The mountains help hide the moon.

Turned blind enough to miss the moon.

I pick the prettiest wildflowers

I stepped on the remaining flowers,

And put them in my hair.

And cut off all my hair.

I sleep by the reeds, and I wake up

I feel awakened by the reeds, and I’ll sleep,

Each day where I can pray

Tonight, when I start,

For a forest fire.

A forest fire…

Through all this binding time, I have desired many things: I’ve wished to be a bird in flight. No weight - no sense of gravity. Landing easily on branches I struggle to climb onto. Flying with wind on my back, Freedom in my eyes. I’ve wished to be a bear in winter. Hibernating in a wooden cocoon. Fur providing warmth For the harshest conditions. Enough food to last the season, Able to survive by myself. I’ve wished to be water in a river, Ceaselessly flowing onward. Home to different forms of life. A chance to provide reflection on the surface, Deep enough to encompass death. I’ve wished to be a flower, Sprouting up from dirt, Watered from the clouds, Vibrant and playful in color, Reaching unabashed beauty When I reach full bloom.

But, I am none of these, Except a man in exile. I have wished to be a part of nature… Instead, I feel apart from nature.

PEEK shanel kerekes | charcoal drawing

lianna hogan | photograph

AURA

240 PINE RIDGE ROAD BUFFALO, NEW YORK 14225 villa.edu