AERIE
Volume 25 ● 2020
University of Hartford’s Literary Journal
AERIE University of Hartford’s Literary Journal
Volume 25 ● 2020
AERIE Volume 25
Editorial Board Prachi K. Bhandutia Domenic J. Burby Sophia Clark Estela Laureano Listra Mitchell-Simmons Gabriella Navas Bryana Rivera Terrence White Designer Tatianna Lynn Faculty Advisor Benjamin S. Grossberg Cover Art Madison Cocchi, Hidden Beauty This piece was created by black-ink pen pointillism. It is meant to portray the beauty held within all women and cultures. I wanted to create beautiful artwork comprised of women not often represented in portraits. Revealing only the eyes captures their elegance and how they are able to paint the emotions of a person more than any other aspect.
A Note Before R eading The intersections of our identities have never mattered more than they do right now. The world molds us through different methods, with all kinds of materials. While you may have been formed with adobe to endure the rays of heat relentlessly radiating onto you, another may have been built of brick, a material that refuses to burn. The texts we write and the art we make, too, are fashioned of different materials. In this issue of Aerie, we want you to think of each piece as a home. As you enter, you might find a dinner table with a hot bowl of soup waiting for you or perhaps a baseball signed twice by Yogi Berra. Maybe you’ll see a mobile of origami cranes or a warm bath drawn in a clawfoot tub. Regardless of what you find here, we hope you make the connection that each home is built intentionally, expressing not only the architect’s experiences and individuality, but also the hope for a better world, one in which we can all feel at home. —The Editors
Contents Poetry
Seven Ways of Looking at My Skin Listra Mitchell-Simmons
1
Love Prachi K. Bhandutia
3
three words. one lie. Bryana Rivera
10
Ophelia and I Emily Russo
12
Orionids Joseph Hayes
13
lolita lebrĂłn puts on lipstick before loading her gun
or: puerto rico is a woman named lolita Gabriella Navas
14
Medusa’s Head Dawson Atkin
19
Camping Amongst the Children of the Dutch Doctor
22
Emilygrace Piescki
Portrait of God as Your Dog Dawson Atkin
39
Haikus for Train Travel Jack Harding
40
Heritage Ciara Herget
42
Fiction
Soup Emily Russo
The Baseball Dominic Rascati
5 25
Personal Essay
Proud Monkey Jaylen Lee
16
Post Shower Thoughts Audrey Morgan
45
Screenplay
On Writing Benson Thai
33
Other
Fifteen Simple Etudes for the Beginner
Dawson Atkin and Joseph Hayes
48
A rt
Daily ‘Dough’sage Danielle Arlotta
Shadow Puppets Christine Syracuse
11
Warm Tile Floor Danielle Arlotta
15
Reflections Carol Courtney
21
Carol’s Dairy Bar Sam Nikitas
32
i should think about communicating more Allison Bueche
38
Pile Up Arhats Ying Ye
41
Hanging Cranes Kim Ly
44
Daydreamer Jesse Price
47
4
Listra Mitchell-Simmons
Seven Ways of Looking at My Skin after Abel Meeropol, “Strange Fruit” I. Sometimes, when the sunlight touches my skin, I see an iridescent glow and thank my mother for high cheekbones and slanted eyes that look out on a world filled with color and wonder why we see only in black and white. II. An inescapable skin imprisons me in a diaspora set adrift across an ocean and left suspended in a state of unbelonging by the hand of our father, Africa. III. I let the whirlwind howl and rage so loud inside of me that I think you can hear it. My skin is cool to your touch. IV. My skin is a statistic, a label. I am called a minority. I don’t feel small.
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V. I see my skin on the face of a stranger shot in the back, cell phone in his hand. I am the dead face that you swipe from your screen. VI. A strange fruit, its skin black and decayed, hangs from a familiar tree. I am awakened by the smell of centuries old fires. I am burning. Nina Simone is singing my blues and the skin of my stretched neck regrets the stain of melanin. VII. I wear the skin the color of bruises made by the crack of a whip.
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Prachi K. Bhandutia
Love For the starving children of my country. Is Red. Streaks of cuts on palms—brown, fragile scrambling. Unruffled by the waxy sweat or the pelting heat that chars, cracks like a heated kiln that ossifies the terracotta stockpots. The sun hoists them—to clench the bronzed, rugged Banyan tree boughs. Is Red and watery. Juices trickle from lips’ corners. When fat watermelon mushes into underfed mouths. Hands underpinned by brittle bones. Their grimy faces glisten—like unique flakes of graphite. The sun that usually blazes blue skies, today beams gently, to let their savage shine.
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Danielle Arlotta
Daily ‘Dough’sage An oil painting of a box of donuts is pictured up close, the luminous pink and chocolate frosting broken up by hundreds of rainbow sprinkles. One of these confections is different in that it is topped with painkillers rather than sprinkles. AERIE 4
Emily Russo
Soup It’s the kind of soup that makes you want to cry. The one your mother would make you whenever your nose stopped working and your hands felt clammy. It’s intensely warm, like a living thing. Not hot enough to burn, but warmer than normal soup. You can feel the heat as you swallow, almost as if it’s healing you already. And then it hits your stomach and your whole body feels warm and comfortable like there’s nothing in the universe that can’t be fixed by this bowl of soup.
Will used to make her this kind of soup when she was sick from
whatever she had caught from the kids she was teaching. He had been a guidance counselor at that school as well, and he would always bring home the wonderful, scribbled “Get Well” notes from her kids and prop them up on her bedside table. It’s the same soup she would slowly drink as she read her craft paper crayon cards.
Yeah. It was that kind of soup.
Cassy sat on the couch now, hands and soul warmed by the bowl
she held. The pillows rose around her and the cushion sank beneath her as she stared down into the broth, watching the little circles of oil dancing in the steaming water.
“Any warmer?” Will asked quietly. He sat across from Cassy on a
kitchen stool, looking up at her.
Will was a taller man, something he tried and failed to hide with
his constant slouch. With his beard and broad shoulders, he was a strong contrast to the pale, tiny woman that sat before him.
The fire sputtered behind him, but they paid it no mind. Will started
it in another effort to warm her, although he was still too cautious to go sit beside her. It had been almost a decade since they had last seen each other.
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“Yeah, it’s a bit better,” she said, her hands still shaking slightly.
Will hesitated, “I’m sorry, I—”
“It’s not your fault,” Cassy cut him off quickly, before going silent.
Will lowered his head and began playing with his hands. Cassy
took another sip from the bowl. “How you do…” she began before fading off. Will stayed silent, letting her attempt to work out what she was trying to say. “How do you deal with it? Everything, I mean.”
“What, us?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Her voice was anxiously quiet. Her hands weren’t just
shaking from her fall in the icy pond.
“Well,” he sighed, “I understand why you left … and I know I
wouldn’t have been able to change your mind, but….” He trailed off, choosing his words precisely. “When I’m alone, I keep going over it in my head. Even at school in my office. All the things I could’ve done differently back then, or just all the things I could’ve told you. And then I feel guilty … for pushing you away, and—”
Will stood up, clearing his throat, and he added another log to the
fire. Cassy said nothing as she attempted to process his words, but she took another sip of her now lukewarm soup. “Let me get you another bowl. That one should be almost gone by now.”
“Will—” but he had already gone into the kitchen.
It was different between them since she came back to this town.
Not that she had expected anything otherwise, but it still wasn’t a good feeling. Being in the same room as someone you used to know so intimately, only to have them unable to look you in the eye. Someone who knows more about you than you do about yourself, now unsure of how to act around you or what to say.
It was especially difficult back at school, with the faculty’s know-
ing glances at them in the hallways and the lunchtime conversations that
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were immediately silenced as she walked into the room. No one expected her to come back.
It took Will longer than it should have to fill a new bowl of soup.
She figured he was standing over the sink, staring out into the woods. Trying to work out how to articulate the things ricocheting around his mind. Sometimes he would end up standing there for hours.
Soon enough, he was standing in front of Cassy with a new steam-
ing bowl, which she gratefully took. She watched as he placed the empty bowl on the table in front of her, but, instead of walking away to his stool, he hesitated.
“Is…is it okay if I sit?” Will asked softly. It was odd, seeing such a
large human so unsure of himself.
“Yeah,” Cassy nodded, more to herself than Will.
She felt the couch dip as he sat, and one of the outer cushions of
her protective cocoon fell onto his leg. He didn’t move it.
“Cassy, I…” He sighed leaning his head back to rest on the edge
of the couch, as if he was talking to the ceiling. When he spoke he was more confident. “I used to tell myself that if I had another chance, if you came back, I would fix it. I would be there more, like you needed. Be more honest with you. Try to actually open up to another person for once in my life. Try to make you feel half as important as you are to me.” She saw him glance over at her from the corner of her eye. “Maybe have some fun again,” he added.
Cassy chuckled. “Fun would be nice.”
“And the pompous pricks at school might finally have something
significant to talk about,” he joked.
Cassy’s laughter quickly turned to coughing, and Will immediately
steadied her hand so the soup wouldn’t spill. “Sorry,” he muttered, a hand on her back.
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Russo
The violent hacking slowly calmed enough to allow her to drink, and
she could immediately feel the warmth begin to sooth her ragged throat.
The heat from Will’s body was familiar, and she found herself com-
forted by it, more so than she would’ve thought. It brought back bittersweet memories that she had forced herself to forget long ago.
“I missed you, Will.” It wasn’t something she had meant to say,
however much she meant it.
His thumb stilled on her back, and he tensed, as if afraid that
breathing wrong might shatter what he had just heard.
“I said ‘fuck it’ a long time ago, and tried to find you,” she decided
to continue, taking another sip of broth. “I did, I really did try, but you were gone. Figured I had blown my one shot…so stupid. I don’t even know what I was trying to prove. Idiot.”
“I left,” Will said abruptly, “after you did.”
Cassy looked up at him, their eyes meeting for the first time in
a decade.
“I tried to find you too,” Will told her.
She began to laugh again. Quietly at first, but soon she was in
tears, laughing and trying to hold back her coughing at the same time. He couldn’t help but join her.
“Oh god,” she sighed. Staring up at the ceiling. “What the fuck are
we doing, Will?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “And I’m not quite sure I care. I just
fucking missed you. Why can’t we start there?”
Cassy looked at him again, properly this time. His eyes had sunk-
en more than she remembered, and there were streaks of grey in his hair. More wrinkles on his forehead, and rougher hands. But there was still a hint of the childish spark in his eyes that she remembered.
“Okay,” she agreed.
“Yeah?” he raised his eyebrows in question. AERIE 8
“Yeah. Start from friends again? See what happens,” she asked
hopefully.
Will smiled. “See what happens,” he repeated.
The fire sputtered again as she leaned her head against his shoul-
der, the soup settling comfortably in her stomach.
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Bryana Rivera
three words. one lie. their fingers ran down my spine, over the curve of my ass then back up. my body squirmed in sweat-soaked sheets, head becoming fuzzy, intoxicated as the anticipation rushed through me. their lips met my ear, biting, sucking, speaking.
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Christine Syracuse
Shadow Puppets
Acrylic ink & colored pencil on illustration board. One is not like the other. This piece was created by laying acrylic ink washes, airbrushing the background, and adding colored pencil for texture and definition.
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Emily Russo
Ophelia and I Blurred strands billow beneath river’s surface, Tethered tendrils of her soul escaping, Darkening water frames her moonstruck face. Heavy and damp, fabric hangs off her skin, Held aloft with trapped air, her captured voice Just that morning had sung of rosemary To remember, rue, to regret her choice. Blood, muddy water, the cemetery Waiting, with an empty hole and pine box, For a woman—no, girl—insanity, Her mouth turned upward in serenity, Not a frown, even in her atrophy. Flowers held to her chest in the moment, Scattered, broken, an irony frozen. Static strands aflame in the orange light, The electric bulb reflected in tears. Rouge splotches crawl up her chest in anger, As pink kittens sadistically smile From her flowing pajama pants, flowers Given in pity, crumpled beneath scraps Of photographs, once behind unbroken Glass, an image of happiness and her Ignorance. Glass now scattered across the Desk and the vase shattered in her fury, Toes flexing into the soggy carpet As she cursed herself for believing he Could bring her comfort, such a vague word for Something so many seem to understand.
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Joseph Hayes
Orionids The warbled cry of a goose flutters across the hillside. Soon, others join in a growing flurry of echoing fifths rolling off each surface in the land as they flee from some midnight threat. Miles above, dotting lights flutter across the skydust. Crossing paths in some midnight dash, they dibble-dabble in the ether as they fly from letter to letter. Ambient patterns pit-pat the atmosphere, quickly, slowly, impossibly quick, infinitely slow. Centuries above, Orion aims his bow to the fluttering geese; to the dotting lights. Fleeting arrows cry across nights, shot by a hunter so skilled his targets die eons before he begins to fade. His dogs yearn for geese that flurry just out of reach.
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Gabriella Navas
lolita lebrón puts on lipstick before loading her gun or: puerto rico is a woman named lolita she is careful not to smudge the edges: knows that she will be the cover girl of every paper in the morning, that her picture will survive even if she doesn’t. she practices her expression in the mirror: red-lipped and unrepentant, delicate and defiant. and is that not what liberation requires of women: to be beautiful even in wartime, palatable even when the hunger can’t be satisfied? lolita puts on lipstick before loading her gun because it is 1954 and she is woman first and savior second. because she is a martyr the same way our island is a martyr: unsinkable but always red with the blood of its people.
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Danielle Arlotta
Warm Tile Floor
An oil painting depicting a woman’s bare feet on a pale green bathroom floor. The woman’s shadow is at an angle, and the room is empty. A line of blood drips down the right ankle and tension is held in the scrunched-up toes.
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Jaylen Lee
Proud Monkey “I want you to recognize that I’m a proud monkey…” – Kendrick Lamar
“Even I’m blacker than you.” Is that even remotely possible? “I even live in a way more ghetto area, so I’d last longer in the hood.”
I’ve been to your house. That area is not ghetto, just very diverse. The fact that you are part of one of the only white families on that street doesn’t make it ghetto. Don’t pretend like you’re some gangster that can really handle the street life better than I could. I’ll admit I wouldn’t last long in the hood, and that’s why my dad moved us out of New York in the first place. But if you think you’d survive in the hood longer than me because you “live in the ghetto” and are “blacker than me,” then you are gravely mistaken. Those people would eat you alive long before they came after me. They won’t tolerate a white man trying his hardest to act like a socalled “nigga” when he clearly isn’t. I have an edge over you in that regard because of the color of my skin, so don’t act like you’re the definition of a “real nigga.” And the fact that you’d think and even say that you’re blacker than me is obnoxious. You don’t have a damn clue what it’s like to be black, so don’t pretend like you know better than me. You don’t walk by the police feeling like, for some reason, you’ve done something wrong when you haven’t. You don’t feel fear when you see the weapons they carry on them. You don’t shiver inside when they look you in the eyes, even though all they end up doing is smiling and waving, and you don’t get the idea in your head that it might be your last few seconds on Earth when an officer
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walks in your direction. Blacker than me? Blacker than me? Go talk to the hoodlums the same way you talk to me and we’ll see how “black” you really are. “You’re just a white man trapped in a black man’s body.” That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. “You talk white. You act white. You even dress white.”
Fuck you. I talk black. I act black. I dress black. You know why? Because I am black while I do all of these things. I know who I am, and I know what I am. I’ll give you the perfect example of why I’m certain of my race. A few months ago, I walked into a Walgreens because I was waiting for the city bus and I wanted something to snack on. When I entered, I was stopped by the cashiers at the counter. One of them asked if I could leave my backpack at the counter with them, which I had with me because I’d just come from an after-school program. I saw nothing wrong with that. It only seemed fair, right? They didn’t want anyone to try to steal anything in secret. I was a little skeptical, however, considering there was a detector directly in front of the door that would blare loudly the second I walked past it, but I shrugged it off and handed over my bag. I approached the snack aisle, looking for something satisfactory. From my peripheral, I spotted two white women walking through the doors of the Walgreens. One had a purse, and the other had a large bag. The two of them smiled at the cashier, who smiled back, and they continued to a different aisle in the store.
I watched them, anger pulsing within me. Why didn’t they have to
give up their bags? One was a purse, sure, and I can understand that. But the bag? The large bag? What about that? I had to give up mine. And soon it dawned on me why that had happened, and it stung painfully because it had never happened to me before. They hadn’t just not seen the bag: it
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Lee
was massive and hard to miss. No. They seen who was holding the bag and figured it would be fine. Me with a bag, however … that’s problematic. After all, my kind are known for stealing, right? Right? I know who I am. My name is Jaylen Dantaé Lee, a black man living in a world where people like you still don’t understand people like me. People that work hard to succeed and are told that they must give up their identity because they don’t fit the stereotype. I love that I’m black, and I have nothing against being white, but I know my identity, and you can’t tell me what I’m not. You know, I love the Kendrick Lamar lines in “The Blacker the Berry” that state, “You hate my people, your plan is to terminate my culture. You’re fuckin’ evil I want you to recognize that I’m a proud monkey.” I know you don’t hate my people, but you don’t understand us either. And I love the fact that Kendrick takes on a slur while expressing his pride for his race. So, I leave you with this:
I know that I’m what some people call a nigger, but you’re the
one that is ignorant.
But what do I know? Apparently, the N-word has never even meant ignorant, which isn’t what they told me in high school. I guess I’m not as intelligent as I thought. “I guess you’re black now then, huh?”
I suppose some people will never understand.
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Dawson Atkin
Medusa’s Head The bleeding stopped a few hours ago. I guess I had nothing left to give. Harsh light blinds me as I’m lifted from the satchel. It is my body now. I’m resurrected, if only for a moment, and used to slaughter a man the way one slaughtered me. I was beautiful once. That was before Poseidon took me from myself. Before Athena’s statue became flesh (ironic, I know) and turned away so she wouldn’t have to bear witness. Before she punished me for his violation. Before she looked at me with scorn and said: “You shouldn’t have dressed that way.” I feared men. Who wouldn’t? I threatened to turn them into statues. (They had always been cold creatures with stone hearts.) I followed through when they got too close.
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Atkin
I froze their fearful faces forever. I protected myself. What am I now besides an unconsenting object used by a man? Was I ever anything else?
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Carol Courtney
Reflections I am particularly drawn to alcohol ink for its intense color and unpredictable qualities. It defies control yet allows the artist unmatched excitement and surprise. I often work from life and especially enjoy landscapes. Nature and the environment offer constant change and unpredictability which are also qualities inherent in this medium.
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Emilygrace Piescki
Camping Amongst the Children of Dutch Doctor From concrete to dirt path, you slip from your cloak of humanity. Underneath is an animal just like any other spirit in these woods. Be a predator and take that rabbit up trail, but remember, prey, that the coyote attacks from behind. Silent traveler, the soft earth conceals your step. Provoked by the crumbling leaves underfoot, your senses elevate. Dewy atmosphere condenses on your skin and cools you. The air smells like iron, moss, and pine, and tastes like sweet leaves and old wood. Up through the emerald stained glass of the cedar’s needles, day-old June bugs can barely make a straight line. Vulnerable solitude vibrates in your jaw. The murmur of a nearby brook coaxes you onward. Your spine, a dowsing rod. Red bark and dry ground become whispering fern meadows, they ask if the doves are laughing or mourning. A mud cast claw snaps you from your dream-state. Over the wooden bridge, the clunk of your boots is magnified. An echo through the forest, the frogs slip under the surface and vanish. A giddy rush floods your chest as the river rushes under your feet. You long to be small like the silvery minnows once again. Hoist your body over the boulders, scrape the freckles off of your knees. Scurry through caverns of stone. you generously left behind. AERIE 22
They run a muck reminding you of hopes, fears, regrets, and deadlines. You try your best to quiet the coyotes. You lay there satisfied, this is the earliest you’ve gone to bed in months and when the old owl asks “who cooks for you?” The granite here is veined with quartz, can you feel its energy? The Earth’s crystallized memories, and barefoot phantoms? To see the other side of this mountain is the only motive you needed. Thousands of cicadas are stamped out by the pounding of the blood vessels against your skull. The thicket tears at your skin, and roots, like little fingers, grab at your ankles, your face burns red from exertion. As the horizon sinks. Down from the peak, your blistering heels tingle and your calves tremble. Beyond the mountain-laurels is your prize, a child’s paradise of berries and wildflowers all for you. The damselflies take you by the finger and lead you to the raspberries, glistening rubies in the sun. How greedy of you, stretching to reach only the largest and fullest. Astonished that the bushes haven’t been picked clean, the perfect blueberries are tiny but they are the sweetest you’ve ever had. Shrouded in bursting goldenrod, aster and thistle conspire together. Nestled here is your home for the night. A building with three stone walls and a log roof. A shrine. The plaque reads: “Dutch Doctor 1935: Named for John Frederick Helms, known for cultivating medicinal herbs” But you remember the story of lost-cause children. They were left to him for comfort in their final days. You unroll your sleeping bag.
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Piescki
Later, your fire burns warm on your cheek and the apricot sky drifts to indigo. The cricket chorus and katydid arguments compete for air time. Whip-poor-wills fly into the moon and out of the same galaxy our ancestors dreamt about. Climbing into your sleeping bag you feel exposed. Wild One, at night you are not alone. They skitter past your head and rustle through the leaves. They cry out in packs and gorge themselves on the berries you generously left behind. They run amuck reminding you of your hopes, Fears, regrets, and deadlines. You try your best to quiet the coyotes. You lay there satisfied, this is the earliest you’ve gone to bed in months, and when the old owl asks, “who cooks for you?” your answer is “My microwave.” Remember the gourmet mud pies baking in the backyard sun? Remember the blooming spearmint and the earthworms? Thinking about the children, you wonder how many of them are curled just beneath you. Do they remain to wander this ethereal woodland? Do they still catch lightning bugs and eat perfect blueberries? Do they continue on as shining minnows and June bugs? You wonder what it’s like to be little forever.
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Dominic Rascati
The Baseball Ian checked his watch again. Five minutes after three on the dot. Wind whistled across the grass of the baseball field, replacing long-past-cheers and cracks of bat to ball with its lone shaky tune. It bugged him to be freezing on his cheeks and boiling underneath his sweater at the same time. His mind drifted to the copy of Asimov’s I, Robotsitting inside the town library, where he distracted himself with guesses about the stories he would find during his next Saturday trip. A chuckle rose up from his chest. One of Mom’s jokes about needing glasses because of all those blasted books. Thankfully, the team wasn’t playing that Saturday, so she agreed to take him.
Five minutes later, Ian’s mind tumbled back into the world as they
emerged from behind the dugout. He squinted, readjusted his glasses. How could they have gotten behind there without him seeing or hearing them in the first place? He shrugged it off after a moment. He was in no place to question them. He was on their turf, here to hear their offer.
“Specs,” the tallest boy called. He sauntered over with the three
other boys. If the cloud cover wasn’t so thick, he could block out the sun. His form towered over Ian, long and slender and fast, too. Impossible to run from.
He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Your offer?”
The tallest one, Greg, chuckled back to his buddies and smirked.
“Not gonna point out we’re late?”
Ian’s chest tightened. They were late, by five minutes to be exact. In
any other scenario, he certainly would point it out, maybe a low grumble in his voice. No. He was smarter than that.
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“I’m on your turf,” Ian said. “I don’t call the shots around here, right?”
Greg nodded. “Smart kid, alright.”
“The offer, please.”
“And right to the point, too.” Greg sucked on his cigarette and let
it dangle in between his two fingers. “Here’s the offer, Specs. You wanna join the team, you gotta do more than just impress the coach. You gotta impress us. No lucky home runs this time.”
Ian clenched his teeth. It wasn’t luck. It was practice and they
knew that. But it wasn’t the time to push the issue. He bit his tongue and stayed on track. “How so?”
A large boy behind Greg leaned in. “Hey, let him finish!”
Greg put a hand out in front of the large boy. He shrunk away.
“As I was saying, you gotta impress us. Show us that you’re a valu-
able asset to the team, just as much off the field as you may be on, debatable as that is. You know Old Man Hadley?”
Ian nodded, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, ya see,” Greg explained, “we launched one of our balls right
into his backyard. The old fart snatched it up, took it into his lair there. Now normally, we’d scare it back from him as a group. Seeing as you wanna be one of us, we can kill two birds with one stone.”
“You want me to scare it from him?”
Greg tossed his head back and burst into laughter. The other boys
followed suit. Ian laughed too.
“We both know you could never pull that off, Specs,” Greg said. Ian
exhaled his relief. “We want you to steal it from him.”
Ian’s heart sank. A nervous jolt rocked him from the inside out.
Beads of sweat began to form on his forehead. He opened his mouth to object, to beg that there had to be something, anythinghe could do to prove himself. The words refused to come out. Instead Greg droned on about old man Hadley’s schedule.
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The best time for stealing was just after 6:30 on Friday nights.
That was the one time he left his dirty old shack of a house, Greg said. A nurse would come over from downtown to take him to mass at St. Michael’s, the Italian church. The house was always empty then and, given that he was a poor old sap with not much more than a penny to his name, it was a good bet the doors would be unlocked. He did have something to steal, though. Greg’s baseball, signed t wice by Yogi Berra.
Ian cocked his head in confusion.
Greg groaned. “Catcher for the Yankees. Who am I kidding? That
means shit to you. You in or not, Specs?” The question hung in the air, heavy and thick and blocking out all else like the clouds in the sky. Ian gulped, wiped some sweat off his forehead.
“I’m in.”
That night, Ian inhaled his dinner, not saying a word at the table
except that he was meeting some friends down the street.
His dad looked up from the newspaper next to his dinner plate
with wide eyes. “Friends?” he said. Mom grabbed Dad’s arm, as if to stop him from doing something wild out of habit, but quickly relaxed. A smile melted across her face.
“I think that’s wonderful, dear,” she said. “Do I know their mothers?”
Ian was already up and putting on a jacket. Without looking at
them, he said, “They’re boys from the baseball team.” He didn’t have to glance over to sense the looks of shock and pride that his parents shared. He was already out the door.
The night was cold and dark, a chilly drizzle pitter-pattering on
the street. Ian smiled. Most people had to be inside or at church if it was this crappy out. Less people to notice his heist.
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He darted from sidewalk to sidewalk, hidden in the overcast
R ascati
shadows of the stormy night and the more noticeable sounds of rain that drowned out his jog. His eyes lit up as he passed what he believed were the houses of Greg and the boys. It was no coincidence they were so tight knit, all living on the same street. Maybe, if he couldn’t move his house down to this street, stealing back this baseball would be the metaphorical moving truck he needed.
Besides, old man Hadley’s mind had started slipping years ago. He
never left the house, he never said hello to anyone in the neighborhood, he never even got the paper. Hell, he probably didn’t know who Yogi Berra was. The old fart wouldn’t miss the baseball. He wouldn’t even know it was gone.
It wasn’t hard to find old man Hadley’s house. If being the last
house on Maple Drive wasn’t enough, the exterior of the house practically screamed “looney old man.” The paint chipped, the wood cracked, the lawn grew wildly and lacked any signs of maintenance. Ian slithered around to the back side of the house, eventually finding a few loose spots in the slowly rotting picket fence. Under his gentle fingers the pickets rose in silence, no more than a whine under their breath like crying out to be repaired.
Ian scurried through the overgrown lawn, inspecting the windows
as he went. No lights meant no people. Still, the windows were probably too small and fragile to enter. He scratched that option pretty quickly. Another quick scan around the house revealed a screen door on the back side left ajar. Ian pressed his body up against the side of the house, sliding less than gracefully between the door and the inside of the house. His foot got caught on a lip, causing him to stumble forward. He held his breath and flailed for balance. Thank God he didn’t have to catch himself. That would give him up too soon.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. That was way too close.
Once his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he spotted enough appli-
AERIE 28
ances to tell he was in a kitchen. A stove still topped with the black stains of burnt food and a rusting, leaky faucet. He tiptoed through the room and towards a nearby hall, feeling for the occasional kitchen chair or edge of a corner wall. He found himself in the center of the house sooner than expected. It was a simple living room. No television or radio, just a couch, smoldering fireplace, and a bookcase.
There was no way he could know who Yogi Berra was. Ian’s spir-
its lifted at the realization. But where would this old lunatic even put a baseball he snatched from his yard? Ian slid over by the bookcase. Some kind of end table also sat there, holding up a lamp. His eyes darted back to the bookcase, to the mountain of books. God only knew what kind of knowledge this elderly freak collected. Curiosity burned in Ian’s chest. He turned on the lamp. A soft glow spread throughout the room. He looked around. Nothing in the house stirred. He was safe to look.
And so he did. Ian examined shelf after shelf of books. Charles
Dickens, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain. So many greats. But one made Ian nearly jump out of his skin. He reached out for the story, bringing it closer to the light of the lamp to inspect. The large name on the cover was unmistakable. N ightfallby Asimov.
“Holy hell,” Ian whispered to himself. A second thought was un-
necessary. He gripped the book and shoved it into the inside pocket of his jacket. For a mission this risky, he was coming out with his own trophy.
He rummaged around the room for the better part of a half an
hour, now content to search for the item Greg demanded. Finally, in the very back of the bookcase, hidden behind a thick dictionary, his hands clasped the glass case. Ian shimmied it free from in between the books, admiring it in the light as he did the work of Asimov. The ink of both Yogi Berra signatures glistened in the dim glow. He followed each swirl and loop of the written name. For a moment, he understood the weight of it to
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R ascati
Greg, how precious it was, the rarity of it comparable to a rare book. He understood. He had never watched the Yankees. His dad only ever allowed the Cardinals at home, which became background noise to Ian’s reading. But Ian understood.
A light clicked on down the hallway. Ian’s heart stopped. He
turned and got into the stance to run, but footsteps now echoed. Ian ducked behind the small dusty couch. Peering out from behind the sofa, Ian watched as Old Man Hadley waddled out into the living room, scratching his scruffy chin and groaning like a bear that had been woken up. Ian held his breath. What on Earth was he doing home at this hour? “I see you,” he growled. Ian poked his head out, cheeks burning with shame. “Fuck you doing in my house, kid?” He held up the baseball, hand trembling. “C’mon. Up, damn it.” Ian stood, grabbing the sofa to steady his jelly legs.
“Sir, I can—”
“I asked you a question. Fuck you doing in my house?”
Ian stood there frozen in terror.
“The baseball. You trying to steal it?”
Ian nodded.
Hadley looked him up and down, rubbing his bald head. “Don’t
strike me as a baseball fan.”
Ian shook his head.
“So why you want it?”
Ian just stood there silent.
“C’mon now, I can’t have nods and shakes for everything. Speak up.”
“The boys down the street,” Ian squeaked. “You took their ball.”
Old Man Hadley stood there silent a moment, contemplating the response, before tossing his head back and bursting with a laugh that bounced off the walls.
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“You wanna impress those knuckleheads?” he said, still laughing.
Ian stood quietly as his laughter died down. Hadley frowned. “You really wanna impress those knuckleheads?” he said, this time more somber. Ian nodded.
Hadley jabbed a finger at the inside of Ian’s jacket. “So, what’s
that?” Ian looked down at the book in his pocket, then back at the old man. His cheeks flushed even more. He pulled it out and extended it to the man so he could see the cover. He said, “That’s my copy of Nightfall. I doubt the boys down the street wanted that.” Ian shook his head. Hadley chuckled to himself. “I doubt those idiots could even quote me the First Law of Robotics.”
“Much less the Second or Third,” Ian said.
Hadley grinned, amused. He took the baseball and the Asimov
book in his hands before thrusting the book back towards Ian. “You get that and I get this,” Hadley said, waving the ball, “if you don’t hangout with those shitheads anymore.” Ian stared at the book with amazement. All he could do was nod and thank the man before running back towards home. He didn’t care about the rain or that he didn’t get the ball or that the boys would probably pummel him on Monday for abandoning the heist. Hadley was right. They would only care about the missing ball, not the book. And Greg wouldn’t be the wiser about what happened if Ian didn’t bring the book to school. He’d make something up for why the ball was gone. He could at least read Nightfall before then.
And so he did. But maybe the most interesting part was the inside
cover. Asimov had signed it twice.
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Carol’s Dairy Bar
Sam Nikitas
35 mm black and white film. The subject of this candid portrait is on her lunch break at Carol’s Dairy Bar, a local eatery in her hometown that has been there as long as anybody can remember. Around town, there have been rumors of the restaurant closing within the coming years. One starts to wonder, how are we affected when cornerstones of our community begin to vanish? AERIE 32
Benson Thai
On Writing FADE IN: INT. BEDROOM - MORNING We OPEN on a DESK with a LAPTOP on it. A GUY sits down in a chair and pulls himself to the desk. This is STEVE. He OPENS the LAPTOP. He starts up his screenwriting software.
STEVE Okay. What should I write?
Steve stares at the blank page. STEVE (CONT’D) I did just wake up. I should probably brush my teeth before doing anything else. He leaves. We hear the sound of RUNNING WATER, BRUSHING, and SPITTING. Steve re-enters and sits back down. He stares at the screen. STEVE (CONT’D)
I should probably get some coffee.
He leaves. We hear the sound of LIQUID POURING. Steve re-enters with a MUG and sets it down on the desk. He sips from the mug. Stares at the screen. (CONTINUED)
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Thai
CONTINUED: He sips from the mug again, looks down to see it’s half empty.
STEVE (CONT’D) I should get more coffee.
Steve leaves, we hear POURING, he re-enters. He stares at the screen. He scratches his head, rests his face on his palm and taps his cheek. He checks his watch. Looks at the screen. His hands rest on the edge of the desk and begin to grip more tightly. He looks down at his mug which is still rather full. He grabs and CHUGS it.
STEVE (CONT’D) I should get more coffee.
Leaves, POURS, re-enters. He stares at the screen.
STEVE (CONT’D) I haven’t eaten anything yet.
Steve leaves. We hear bowls and stuff CLANGING, a TOASTER POPPING. He re-enters with a BOWL OF OATMEAL and a side of BUTTERED TOAST. He eats oatmeal while staring at the screen. He sets his bowl down, grabs some toast, and BITES it. CRUMBS fall onto the laptop keyboard. STEVE (CONT’D) Ah, crap. He pushes the laptop away from the edge of the desk and clears the crumbs off. (CONTINUED)
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CONTINUED: (2) STEVE (CONT’D) You know what? I shouldn’t be eating here anyway. He leaves, we hear MUNCHING, BELCHING, WATER RUNNING. He reenters.
STEVE (CONT’D) Okay! Time to write!
Stares at the screen. Checks his watch. He looks at a CALENDAR on the wall. Days 1-18 are crossed out with red marker. Day 21 has a circle drawn and the words “SCRIPT DUE” written within. He turns back to the screen. While stretching and cracking his knuckles-STEVE (CONT’D)
Okay! We’re gonna start. We’re gonna
write something! We’re gonna--
JUMP CUT TO: Steve is asleep at the desk, SNORING. He wakes up. Ah, dammit.
STEVE (CONT’D)
He raises his head and tries to focus.
STEVE (CONT’D) What can I write? What can I do?
Stares at the screen.
STEVE (CONT’D) What ideas do I have? (CONTINUED)
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Thai
CONTINUED: (3) Stares at the screen. STEVE (CONT’D) (sighs) ...Nothing. He puts his head on the desk. A beat. Steve slowly raises his head. He squints at the screen. He begins typing: STEVE (V.O.) FADE IN:
INTERIOR. BEDROOM - MORNING...
FADE TO BLACK INT. BEDROOM - MORNING We see a LAPTOP on a DESK. A GUY sits down in a chair and pulls himself to the desk. He OPENS the LAPTOP. He starts up his screenwriting software. GUY
Okay. How to start? STEVE (O.S.)
Cut!
We PULL BACK to see a FILM CREW in the room. Steve is sitting in a (CONTINUED)
AERIE 36
CONTINUED: (4) corner with HEADPHONES on beside a MONITOR. The guy sitting at the desk is an actor named TOM. Steve walks up to Tom. STEVE Tom, this is not what we rehearsed. The line is “Okay. What should I write?” And when you say it, it’s supposed to be like a playful inflection at the end, like you’re actually excited. The way you did this take was too plaintive. You should say it like this: (like this) “Okay! What should I write?” Okay? TOM Right--yeah. STEVE All right. Steve walks back to his position. STEVE (CONT’D)
Okay! Everyone ready?... Action!
CUT TO BLACK.
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Allison Bueche
i should think about communicating more The piece no longer exists in this form. In my process, I make whole paintings, and then I cut them up and create collage installations. All the pieces still exist, but not as a whole anymore. AERIE 38
Dawson Atkin
Portrait of God as Your Dog You say to your dog: “Sit!� Sometimes, He does. Other times, His ears perked up and His long brown tail wagging, He runs in the other direction. Some days, the dog cuddles up to you, its soft fur keeping you warm under the covers. Other days, your dog pees on your shoe, so that you feel the wetness soak through your sock and the dank odor rises to your nostrils. Either way, a dog is a nice companion when you are taking a stroll, otherwise alone with only Him and your thoughts.
39 AERIE
Jack Harding
Haiku for Train Travel Black snakes drape across Metallic trees, biting tails: Telephone wires. Mercury river Carves through dense forests and hills. The train rumbles on.
AERIE 40
Ying Ye
Pile Up Arhats Pile Up Arhats uses fortune cookies to fashion Buddhist elements, like the lotus and arhats. The interior of the piece forms a lotus. Each fortune cookie implies an individual human, and the fortune cookies support and stand on top of each other.
41 AERIE
Ciara Herget
Heritage My heritage is not there according to you. You say I’m too pale, that my complexion defines who I am. But still I feel my heritage running through my veins at all times. I feel it pounding in my heart with anger as I hear my fellow Latinos referred to as rapists and murderers. I feel it when I laugh with friends about the stupid “jokes” people make about us because of course we are all in gangs and all of our families are here illegally. I feel it when I’m hurt and my mother rubs the pain away, Sana sana colita de rana. I feel it when I eat pollo saltado and drink Inca Kola, surrounded by nothing but warmth. I feel it when I listen to Spanish music, smiling when I hear mi destino es el que yo decido. I feel it when I remember the sacrifices my grandparents made to come here, remembering how brave they had to be, and I feel it when you disregard my heritage. You do not get to tell me that I don’t count. You do not get to deny me my heritage based on my skin color. You do not get to dismiss me based on your idea of what a “real” Latina looks like. You do not get to decide whether or not I am enough;
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I decide who I am. Soy una niĂąa de la diĂĄspora, soy peruana, and my heritage is always there.
43 AERIE
Kim Ly
Hanging Cranes 20� x 16.� Oil paint on canvas. For this piece, I wanted to highlight the subtle color shifts that occur in a simple subject. Nothing is completely one color. The translucent quality of the paper cranes lets orange light shine through with contrasting violet undertones while the wood grain shifts in their cast shadows.
AERIE 44
Audrey Morgan
post shower thoughts ever since i was a kid, i wanted to be able to take notes in the shower. now, i know that’s not possible with a pen and paper—i knew that then, too, but i still had to somehow spell out my ideas. then, my sister was old enough to shave her legs, so i’d steal her shaving cream in the shower, press the gel into my hands, work it into a gentle foam, and evenly try to make it into a page on the wall. she yelled at me for always wasting her shaving cream. she is also the person who taught me that using conditioner was cheaper, more resourceful, and a smoother shave. either way, i needed to put these thoughts onto the tile, fingering letters into the coating, my great thoughts always eroding to a tabula rasa by the end of my shower. i’m here now, a little older than my sister was then, being thought of as cool by someone else’s younger siblings, laying in my big girl bed, eating popcorn and trying to recount the thoughts i wanted to write down from the shower tonight—the reason why i started this page in the first place— but the problem now is the same as then: you never remember what you wanted to write long after the shower is over. the tub i have here is a clawfoot, and there is no tiled wall to finger paint my thoughts onto. i can’t conjure back up what i wanted to write about, a forgotten memory of what could’ve been, thinking about new things now. thinking about books we forget about, the people in them. somehow nick carraway has this grandiose way of writing about gatsby, but even still the reader knows there’s nothing but mundanity in it. gatsby is no more lavish than wasted shaving cream and ideas lost down the drain. and in all carraway’s narration, you’re left to wonder about the
45 AERIE
thing that is not handed to you: what happened to daisy? what does she think about in the shower? just this is left, and carraway was the one using a pen and paper, dry and legible.
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Jesse Price
Daydreamer Daydreamer explores the state of play an artist engages in when placing themselves in a creative mindset.
47 AERIE
Dawson Atkin and Joseph Hayes
Fifteen Simple Etudes for the Beginner i. happen ii. listen to a photograph. send the sound into space. iii. ask the walls a question. wait for a response. iv. take down the moon and smash it upon the pavement. v. scream so loud you drown out the sun. vi. bake a cake. make it disappear. vi(a). bake a cake. unbake it. vii. break the speed of light. viii. walk as slowly as possible. ix. everybody dance now x. make a lasso. throw it around a cloud. ride it for a while. xi. climb a mountain. when you reach the summit, keep climbing. xii. take the moon to a minimart. xiii. live somewhere else. xiv. serenade an insect. xv. return
Inspired by fluxus-era performance art, the piece is a list of text based “performances� that are largely impossible. The pieces may be performed in a traditional concert setting, or in your day to day life.
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Contributors Danielle Arlotta is a senior painting major at the Hartford Art school. Her favorite food is American Chinese food, buffet style. Dawson Atkin is a sophomore student of composition. Born on the moon of Jupiter known as Callisto, Dawson can easily shape-shift to appear human. On their homeworld, Dawson can lift the equivalent of 55,000 pounds, which allows him to survive on Earth. As a Callistian, Dawson both breathes and eats through an opening in their belly-button. Back at home, Dawson’s favorite food is smoked snorglebops. Prachi K. Bhandutia is an international student enrolled in the creative writing program at UHart. She loves hiking, bowling, Netflixing, and frolicking around with her pet hamster. She loves pizza and Thai food. Allison Bueche is currently a senior painting major. She uses collaged pieces of canvas and found objects to explore the space between negative and positive shapes. All of her work presents abstract renderings of places that she frequents. Madison Cocchi is an illustration major with a minor in writing. She’s originally from Pennsylvania but came up to school in Connecticut for The Hartford Art School. She has been doing art ever since she was a child. Madison Cocchi does not have a favorite food but does have a love for tacos and enchiladas. Carol Courtney is a senior BFA student who enjoys the outdoors. Jack Harding is a junior in the Actor Training program at The Hartt School. He will be spending the second half of his junior year abroad studying Shakespeare at the Drama Studio London. Along with his love of
49 AERIE
acting, he has always had a passion for creative writing, particularly poetry. He wants to thank Professor Benjamin Grossberg for always being willing to look at some writing and for helping him to find out who he is as a writer. He also wants to thank his classmates Jarrett Cordeiro and Emma McKeen for always encouraging him to create and for having an open ear. This is Jack’s first time being printed in a literary magazine and he’s very excited. Also, he likes watermelon. Joseph Hayes is a musician and poet from Connecticut. Much of what he writes has to do with setting, memory, and time. His favorite food is that banana bread with chocolate chips and cream cheese icing that Commons has once every few months. Joe is currently studying Composition and Music Production & Technology. Ciara Herget is a junior who is an English major with a creative writing concentration. She started as a Politics and Government major because of her love of debating and speech writing, but when she took English classes she realized how enamored she was with the art of storytelling. As a Peruvian lesbian she enjoys including LGBT+ and Hispanic representation in her writing. She is a lover of all breakfast food. Jaylen Lee is a cinema major obsessed with creating interesting stories for people to both watch and read. He prefers creating films over short stories and novels. His favorite food is simple and has remained unchanged for years. For him, it’s hard to go wrong with a cheeseburger. Kim Ly is a sophomore Illustration major in the Hartford Art School with a love for drawing, painting, and printmaking. She is excited for every opportunity to use new mediums for art-making and hopes to continue finding ways of connecting with others through her art. Listra Mitchell-Simmons is a Class of 2020 English major with an emphasis in Literature. She is passionate about social justice, sunsets, her AERIE 50
family, and listening to life stories. She believes one person’s story can change the world. Audrey Morgan is a senior who chose her major when she was seventeen. She’s going into the music industry instead. All foods are her favorite foods, and she will make yours for dinner any night of the week. Gabriella Navas is a writer hailing from Jersey City, NJ. She is the author of What the Locusts Leave Behind, a collection of short stories about what it means to rebuild. She is easily distracted, frequently smitten, and always willing to talk about the healing powers of vaporub and poetry. Sam Nikitas is a queer, lens-based artist from New England. Their work focuses primarily on the documentation and exploitation of the mundane. Sam primarily works with 35mm film. Their favorite food is paneer butter masala. Emilygrace Piescki is an artist and poet from Suffern, New York. Nature and wildlife is her muse. Her connection with the land fuels her creativity. When she’s not exploring the forest, you can find her sipping chai tea, snug in a warm blanket. Jesse Price is an illustration major in the Hartford Art School who loves to draw anything and everything. If he could eat one food for the rest of his life it would be sushi. Dominic Rascati is a sophomore with a double major in English and Communication. He is a commuter student who one day hopes to work for a publishing company, or perhaps as a professor. His favorite food is bacon pizza. Bryana Rivera is a third-year English major with a focus in creative writing. She is passionate about creative storytelling, the environment, and so51 AERIE
cial justice. She enjoys reading the work of others, especially when it comes to life stories. Outside of writing, she is a Marvel fanatic and dog lover. Her favorite food is baked ziti. Emily Russo is a character designer, poet, author, and artist. She is a senior majoring in illustration at the Hartford Art School, with minors in English, art history, and animation. She plans to create video games with her brother, also a game designer. Her favorite food is anything Italian, but her weakness is candy. Christine Syracuse is a New York-based visual artist. Currently a senior at the University of Hartford Art School, she is majoring in Illustration and minoring in Visual Communication Design and Art History. With experience in various digital and traditional mediums, Christine is fascinated by the rich history of fine arts as well as the exciting challenges of graphic design. She enjoys a variety of mediums including painting, ceramics, video, and photography. Her favorite food is pasta, especially with vodka sauce. Benson Thai is a student majoring in Cinema and English Secondary Education with a minor in Music. He is the creator, host, and producer of a weekly interview podcast titled The Podcast w/ Benson Thai. Benson likes pickles. Ying Ye is a Chinese artist who takes her family tradition of cooking food into her artistry. She cites learning to cook and working in her father’s restaurant as heavy influences in her life and work. Her work and performances often deal with the duality of identities in being a Chinese immigrant in America.
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Acknowledgments Before we leave you, the editors of Aerie would like to thank all the poets and partners whose hard work has made this magazine possible. So thank you to: ● ● ● ● ● ●
Katherine Black, Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences Richard J. Cardin Student Government Association Women for Change Dramatis Personae Mildred McNeil, Executive Director of the Office of Marketing and Communication ● Mario Maselli, Printing Services Manager ● Donna Galin and Nancy Dudek ● Paula Ribeiro, Director of Brand Strategy To our designer, Tatianna Lynn, and our guests and partners. To our wonderful advisor, Benjamin Grossberg, who worked so hard to bring our vision to life. To everyone who bought a cupcake to support us. But most importantly, to our contributors: without you, there is no magazine.
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Contributors Danielle Arlotta Dawson Atkin Prachi K. Bhandutia Allison Bueche Madison Cocchi Carol Courtney Jack Harding Joseph Hayes Ciara Herget Jaylen Lee Kim Ly Listra Mitchell-Simmons Audrey Morgan Gabriella Navas Sam Nikitas Emilygrace Piescki Jesse Price Dominic Rascati Bryana Rivera Emily Russo Christine Syracuse Benson Thai Ying Ye