BACKROADS 2017
Backroads Literary Magazine University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown Volume 45
1 | Page
Page | 2
Editors Victoria P. Kelly Kristin Caro Erin Cain Rachel Logan Patrick Stahl
Editor-in-Chief Poetry Editor Prose Editor Visual Art Editor Treasurer
Faculty Advisor Professor Marissa Landrigan
3 | Page
Page | 4
Letter From the Editor Welcome to the 2017 edition of Backroads. By reading through these pages, you will witness the unwavering talent found here at the University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown. This issue contains work in the form of creative prose, artwork, poetry, plays, and more. No part of this magazine would be possible without the contributions from a community of talented writers and artists, or the hard work and dedication of our editors, Rachel Logan, Erin Cain, and Kristin Caro. Without them and their committees, we would not have been able to organize such wonderful works to present to you. A special thanks also goes out to the Backroads membership and all of those who worked behind the scenes to keep this organization together. Without the dedication from our Treasurer, Patrick Stahl, we would not be publishing this year. His efforts in securing our budget for this and next year was. of course, the most essential part of our operation. I would also like to thank our advisor, Marissa Landrigan, for her endless positivity and creativity. I would be remiss for not thanking you, too. Thank you to all who continue to keep this magazine in the hands of others. May it still continue for years to come. As always, I encourage everyone, from any major and any artisrty level, to continue to submit their work.
-Victoria P. Kelly
“It's none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.�
-Ernest Hemingway
5 | Page
Table of Contents Poetry silk red water .................................................................... 8 Kyler Smith
organza ......................................................................................... 9 Kyler Smith
Parlor Games ....................................................................................... 10 Patrick Sathl
Shattered Grace .......................................................................................... 11 Kyler Smith
bloom .............................................................................................................. 12 Joshua Calandrella
Internet Internment ........................................................................................... 13 Coltt Lepley
Genes & Genocide. ............................................................................................... 14 Richard J. Audu What Did I Love?.................................................................................................. 15 Jacey Hunter retrograde ............................................................................................................ 16 Kyler Smith Cognitive Writing ............................................................................................... 17 Josette Saunders the dolly mausoleum ...................................................................................... 18 Kyler Smith Sorry ........................................................................................................ 19 Jacey Hunter
Speaking of Sadness - ...................................................................... 20 Jaclyn Reed
Full Bloom ............................................................................. 21 Jacey Hunter
las montanĚƒas de los dios ........................................... 22 Joshua Calandrella
Art 24, 25, 27, 30, 31, 36, cover Ivana Djiya 26, 34, 33 Devin Parfitt
28, 35 Jacob Williamson-Rea
29, 32 Rachel Logan
Prose 36 The Implications of Living Pt. 1 Jane Stueckemann 40 A Special Friend Coltt Lepley
43 Waffles: A Normal Story Joshua Calandrella 49 I Keep Silent Breanna Berkebile 51 Unification Patrick Stahl
55 Up to the Brim Patrick Stahl
Author Bios 68
Submission Guidelines 70
About Us 71
61 Miriam Breanna Berkebile 63 Pulse Erin Cain
66 In Remembrance of Forgetting Breanna Berkebile
Cover Image by Ivana Djiya
silk red water
corporeal christening of the corpus velvet nectar where carnal senses overtake the stoic, and essence of rust superimposed around our lips and under the nose, the red thus brings us back to black and white. I have seen the ruby rivers, through and because of this platinum shiv of sky Where Christos and Shiva would comply to agree and find harmony in their shared misery and divine.
Life source called red mercury, driving the hatters mad with their liquid felt between sticking fingers. Life source called sustenance for those who hear the wolves cry and attribute their sounds of loneliness to music and them to the children of moons Life source called messenger of bitter pain brought forth willingly in an unflinching hope to dismiss it By ridding ourselves of the crimson ribbons down our pale and frigid pallor we can find salvation as they dry to exterior veins.
-Kyler Smith
Page | 8
organza
my wretched hero, who you may call cult leader, my neoclassical nightingale, dressed in neoprene and lamplight.
my gentrified gentleman, with his bloody beating wild hearted soul, mockery of the mundane, in his slashed red view of the world.
tasting my vixen glassed neck, with the liquid pearl tongue of his, gunpowder is left in the midst of his fist, knuckles inlaid with cracks of drywall and rust.
here is the fractioned threads of veins, left electric in their absence of skin, the cold black metal air, hitting harder than my lungs fighting frozen oxygen.
here is the explosion of the nebulae, the rasa of the tabula, here is the convalescence of Oppenheimer's dusk.
-Kyler Smith
9 | Page
Parlor Games Give me A match And I Shall set The world On fire, Light up The corners Where the lowly Huddle down In the dirt While we cry Over spilled bubbles And roast Each other Over red wine. -Patrick Stahl
Page | 10
Shattered Grace
I found myself, one day, with shivers That slithered into my consciousness like a Mocking mess of frozen tendrils. They made me twitch in my skin like there were eyes upon me, like there was ice upon me, like the sun had sunk away from me and my dying fire.
I found myself, one day, with shivers like Fingers, signals from individuals whom I’d Wronged or flown from or sung songs of praise, Denotations and inflations and depressions and All of it tumbled down my spine with heavy glee.
I found myself, one day, with shivers, And I could not myself tell with what I should do with such Muck and guck and f— I found myself, today, with quivers, but I, myself, was unarmed against the Waves of depraved names that knocked upon my mind. I have been the madman in the equation, and now all the Variables wanted defined at once, shouting and Crashing and into my cranium like quantum particles When stakes are raised too high, and I found myself today with My back against the wall, although I did not remember having stopped my hallway crawl. I found myself with eyes glued on a blurred doorway, My fingers stabbing my backpack strap with A ferocity I wished for toward larger things. I found myself without breath in my lungs, Without a haven in mind, Without a name on my heart. I found myself today without And I could not speak of why. -Rachel Logan
11 | Page
bloom
A roll of distant thunder bursts unto the scene while colossal pearls of wet sweat deepen the cool of his tanned body. Not by the work of the field –but from the burden of heavy consternation. To belong with the flowers that once, oh so gently, broke past the barriers of the earth. They swiftly emerged from the grave of their seeds to bloom unlike the boy whose body will never experience their release. -Joshua Calandrella
Page | 12
Internet Internment
Log in, password, start up‌ Waiting, hating the time spent equating your precious wasted seconds. The clock Tick, tock, ticking, wi-fi connecting, frantically clicking A slave to some search engine named after nonsense. Wild animals corralled by a fence at the zoo. A question? No, a google No, a yahoo, a yelp, Yik-Yak, Kayak Yes
Lunatics that click, seeking candlesticks on a crucifix, while you Search politics, sexy chicks, or sickness to determine your sneeze means You’re dying. Or a recipe for frying, or if your lover knows your lying. About what?
Tinder, a fire started with a photograph and three lines, or a DM on a book of Faces, or the loud tweet of a little birdy I once heard from. And the ghost that I only see for 10 seconds at a time. Who was friends with the dinosaur in a time machine. What is this new norm? Sit in our dorms with a tool. A tool to educate? The ability to see the world, a poor point of view? No.
A mindless portal to a Tube that You watch cat videos, and laugh at memes And cut the vines, and admire instant posts on Insta, And remember to turn your Notifications on. So just read this poem instead, and click the link in the bio below for more.
-Coltt Lepley
13 | Page
Genes & Genocide.
In the city where I sleep, We’re unsure of how to breathe, Because it's only certain, we're alive when we bleed.. The bombs boom, But, the bullets are rather silent, Peace to the people! Doused in evils, & raised in violence.. Peace for the people! Unashamed to be unequal.. Royalty, elite! Before the turn of regimes, Prior to plantations & HIV, Project buildings, gang lynchings.. Hide our history! To save the women & children, Thus, the men are either lost causes, Or bosses, of the highest order.. The type, that if you cross, Repay in slaughter.. The type that resurrect after a three day rest, And force the whole world to glorify their death... -Richard J. Audu
Page | 14
What Did I Love? What did I love about darkness? Sinking into Earth, shining like silver; I loved testing the edge as the world narrowed. Her stone eyes didn’t ask forgiveness.
-Jacey Hunter
15 | Page
retrograde
how many shots will it take how many breaks in my bones and memory till I feel I'm in place? in the universe I'm part of the universe I'm made of each shot is a star shooting back into space I once asked God why does it matter I once bled for God to show that it could be said without words but with shots but was it God—? it was space inside I have seen galaxies speak and confide, while fingernails digging across my faces skin fingertips dancing through my sin, fingers tracing the origins of where, from shots, I first bled.
someday a shot will put me too hard against the wall, or too many biting down my fighting throat. too many OOH’s made starting in the soul too many shots into the galaxy and I wonder how many more it will take: to be so full of shots and holes I'm resigned to finally be whole. God is watching me. and I know it’s not all what he would like to see but I bet he's happy I'm sure he's okay he designed, weaved, and even placed the galaxy. -Kyler Smith
Page | 16
Cognitive Writing
She always tells people She loves to write. And they ask her, “What have you written?” She never has much to say Because the words are somehow Trapped in the back of her mind. Her mind has written books that Her hand has not yet gained the courage To put on paper. Obstacle after obstacle, her mind stops her From what she truly want to say. Her mind wants me to write at 12 a.m. While her body wants her to sleep away the words.
She becomes so engulfed in the idea of writing Something that is worth reading, That she neglects its true power. She becomes so engulfed in who she wants to be That she forgets who she already is. She forgets to take notes on the things That are special about her She constantly gives advice to people That she should be giving herself.
So she says “I have written so much, But I have yet to put my thoughts on paper, So they stay in my temporal lobes With my inability to accept my current situation.”
“She lives the poetry she cannot write.” Oscar Wilde
-Josette Saunders
17 | Page
the dolly mausoleum
if you bite the dolls face, the porcelain taking on properties of sinews and cartilage, the Gollum will fall down will come dreams down comes the Parthenon. the poor ancient one, that doll is still in my cellar, its unclosing eyes unfiltered and foggy with dust. its companion, the small bear, her bear, its vest the color of her petticoat, I think you can hear him sigh if you can stand to try to listen. none of them have their shoes anymore. their hair, all of the horsehair on their vinyl heads, are matted, are frayed, transformed into brittle, bending strings of waxnever finding their ringlets or braids, perfect, again. I've never held plastic so cold in my life. the pastel sepulchers are lining my walls coffins that small should never be made the memories in them, no casket can hold. my dolls all need buried at sea. -Kyler Smith
Page | 18
Sorry
“I’m sorry.” those words again “How many times?” I said calmly, “Really do better, you’ll kill me” he nodded pushing my lips to his I was dragged toward the dirt trying everything, and I hated you, but I loved you. -Jacey Hunter
19 | Page
Speaking of Sadness Weren’t you speaking of sadness? I know – I thought – I heard a word somewhere Along the line Of sadness. Or maybe it was just the wind. Just a word whispered in my ear. Grief, sadness, loneliness. The word reminded me How all those things feel, And all at once, suddenly, I felt very, so very, Sad. -Jaclyn Reed
Page | 20
Full Bloom It woke her, it called her, and whispered in the mirror. It was. It was.
And she loved herself. -Jacey Hunter
21 | Page
las montañas de los dios Count one by one each time you recall the time when you wanted to fall.
And then you get back up and all you did was complain about how scared you were Scared. Things seem to be up and up and the sky is alive–so pink. Why do I bother with poetry when I cannot even stick to a rhyming scheme? I on the other hand Sit on my rock Out and about And tremble to their mighty sounds.
Look how the lines cross as they turn and over set. The wick of the wind revives the the darkness within And twists the clouds with white sublime accents. –A screech and a moan Go along with a drone While the energy of wind is trying to keep
in heat from the sun. Inspire me to leap! Far off, in the unknown. For the promise was to own
ev’rything that I can see. Oh how I could weep!
But what would that show? Would my emotion be cheap? What am I to life, but an animate bone?
Page | 22
Cold shone through those bones. I will leap from the stone! May my courage keep– while I descend this steep. Only a ways off until all this does stop and I'll read back on you with glee! More fine than the time I had actually spent writing this stress in my head.
Encima de las montaĂąas de los dios, where you understand me, I can go the distance, to see more than sky, rocks, and trees. -Joshua Calandrella
23 | Page
Ivana Djiya
Page | 24
Ivana Djiya
25 | Page
Devin Parfitt Pelican
Page | 26
Ivana Djiya
27 | Page
Jacob Williamson-Rea
Page | 28
Rachel Logan The Abyss Stares Back At You
29 | Page
Ivana Djiya
Page | 30
Ivana Djiya
31 | Page
Rachel Logan Thumbprint of a World
Page | 32
Devin Parfitt Purple Duck
33 | Page
Devin Parfitt Caution
Page | 34
Jacob Williamson-Rea
35 | Page
Ivana Djiya
Page | 36
The Implications of Living Pt. 1
I want to ask Atlas how it felt all those years ago, in the oblivion of time that had people searching the clouds for Greek gods to cuddle up with. I want to know how it felt to be the Titan who, according to legend, held the world on his shoulders. I want to ask him what it was like to be the man who bent his knee to the ground to bear the weight on top of him, who had to sacrifice inches of himself to hold a heavy thing for the others. Would he puff out his chest in pride and tell me that it was an honor? Or would he tell me, after the crowds have all gone away, that his shoulders still sag sometimes with the weight of remembering? I think he would have me imagine the moment of setting down that great big ball of blues and greens and imagine turning the heavens on their axis and moving the stars to dancing. He would tell me to imagine the relief of only carrying your own weight again.
Nothing is as freeing as shaking off the chains you thought were glued to you. When you finally realize that you are free from the thing you feared you would have to carry forever. It’s an incredible moment that comes after the witching hour of your fears- it’s when the word “morning” spells out letting go and moving on.
I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for all the times that words have been spoken over your radiant mind that have buttoned up the parts of you that are meant to be shown off. You know what comes with those words; they feel like they’re the weight of the world and you are Atlas. Darling, it’s a shame. It’s a war and it’s far from being over, but we were not meant to fit all the large triangular parts of ourselves inside tiny square packages and still try to drag them around.
It is so easy for us to go ahead and give people a little box- a place. So simple to uncap a sharpie to tattoo a word between their eyes that we’ve settled on by stacking up the number of times we’ve seen them at church next to the number of times we’ve seen them at a party.
But let me tell you what I’ve found: the sanctuary on Sunday mornings and the party houses on Saturday nights are filled with the same breed of people- all sinners in need of love, myself included. That fact alone should be one to still the breath of accusation. I’m finding that there are so many different ways to live in 37 | Page
this less-than-certain world; seven billion different opinions about little rights and big wrongs. I cannot stop you from deciding for other people who they are, but know that they have no obligation to stick to it-and nor do you. So toss those familiar and unnecessary boxes out the train windows and let them crash into the evergreens and sink into the river. And when the others see you doing this, invite them to join you. Show them that these boxes, whether they appear smooth and elegant or chipped and raw, aren’t everything.
And because I’m being honest, I’ll tell you that I’ll still pay way too much attention to those boxes in the rear-view mirror. In the moments of doubt, I’ll worry about the ones that I threw out long ago, and I’ll wonder if their pieces are salvageable. But the difference is that this time I am aware of their unruly power- the way the awkward angles will dig into my skin when I hold them too tightly. I know that caring too much about those boxes and sharpie tattoos will morph them into shackles that bind me to the ground.
I think you know this too. So let people find their own identity. Let them search without the pressure to be someone they never wanted to look like. Stand on the sidelines cheering them on if you want to, but always hold a smile and a cool glass of water for them when they need it, because they will need it.
The guilt is as thick as the scarf this town decided I would wear today, and of course that’s how I know it’s impossible not to liberally attach the wrong name tags to people. It’s what we, as humans, are oh so good at. We will win the gold medal every time. We are unfailing at the art of assessment. We so often cheat individuality- and when we give in to the temptation of being mislead, we end up telling Beauty she is Worthless and Joyful he is Unwanted and Precious she is Insignificant.
Sometimes Beauty will be wearing midnight sunglasses and you are unable to see her green eyes shining with hope. Sometimes Joyful will forget to put on shoes that day and will be walking around with socks wet from jumping in the puddles. You’ll turn him away because of the fun he had. And
Page | 38
Precious. Precious might be armed with a big black bag that you will mistake for a sick sadness, and you will miss out on the lemon drops and brown sugar cookies she has hiding inside. I am learning. Like Samson’s honey, I want to be the sweet that comes from something strong. I want to be the one who will see the best in the eyes around me and be blind to the idea of preconceived notions. I want to break the measuring stick that I too often carry around in my back pocket and replace it with invitations that fit perfectly in your palm.
I don’t want to give one-sided, expectant love. I want to give jumbled up and seethrough love that messes with your perception of the One who is Love. I want you to know what I know about freedom, for it is hard enough already. We jump off these tiny cliffs called judgment and forget that it is possible to climb higher, up to the majestic ones named acceptance. So consider that the twists and turns of this dusty road that I’m traveling on are the same ones your bare feet walk on. We’re on the same journey, love. I want you to climb the side of this steep mountain with me so we can share the view together and laugh about the times we almost tripped on the way up. It is far better than jumping off below for a three-second thrill that will not satisfy.
But, I am not fooled so easily, for we have been speaking this language our whole lives. We cannot unlearn the sounds that are somehow intrinsic, the ones that run so deep within our veins. We can only start to learn a new language, this time one with accents of grace and patience in every sentence.
You get to choose who you are, so choose well. Choose joy. Choose kindness. Choose the words that are written on those cliché signs that your best friend’s mom has hanging in the kitchen. Let yourself be won by the hope of a new dawn. Be the prize that is fought for, the trophy awarded to the team who deserves it. Be the X at the end of the dotted line and mark the spot with your sweet smile and gentle words. You are much more than the walls that held you for so long. -Jane Stueckemann
39 | Page
A Special Friend
(Police were called to the scene of a suicide in the home where a mother had apparently committed suicide six months prior. The neighbor said she smelled something that was making her sick coming from next door. When she entered the home, she saw their young son playing with blocks in the living room and talking to himself. From the door, she could see the decaying body of Mr. Roderick, slumped over at the kitchen table. Dr. Lycoming answers his phone to a call from his boss. “You’re supposed to interview the kid, and see what he has to say about it. It looks like it was a self-inflicted wound, but see if he can tell you anything else. We moved the man’s body, but the house still smells of rot. The kid won’t leave, so see if you can coax him out, and just let him talk for the official statement, thanks. –Police Chief Mendez.) - December 29, 2016, Dr. Lycoming, interview with Lazarus Roderick - Lazarus “It is a curiously sad thing to be so alone. But that was before. That was before she came from my closet.
I am not popular in school, the other kids look at me sideways because I talk to myself. I think people that don’t talk with themselves are boring. A person must talk with oneself to know what goes on in his mind, right? Oh well, they don’t have a friend ... a special friend, like me. She comes at night, and comforts me during thunderstorms. We are the same in that we both are different. People don’t accept us. But we’ll show them. We’ll show them all. She says she has a plan. That’s why she told me not to tell Mom and Dad. I tried to tell Mom once, but she didn’t believe me. Nobody does. That’s probably why she died. My friend was playing with her and she fell from the loft in the living room. I think she would have lived, except she got wrapped around the garland hanging on the rail for Christmas. When she fell it caught her neck, and it snapped rather loudly.” (I gave Lazarus a look of concern, he responded with a similar look. He does not respond to social cues appropriately.)–Dr. L. “I heard it I promise! I can even tell you how it sounded; it sounded like when you accidentally step on a bag of chips. I told Dad that and he just stared at me. I guess it was wrong of me to giggle, but that’s the truth and funny to think about.” (Child laughed for about thirty seconds hysterically)-Dr. L. “Then I ate a bag of chips. Plus, I broke the rules so I understand. My friend told me it had to be done. I guess that’s why she told me not to tell.”
“She hovers from my closet, her feet never really touch the ground. I didn’t ask her about that, I figured she’d be embarrassed if I did. Sometimes it is as if the Page | 40
wind is always catching her hair and her dress, like she is always in a constant state of motion. Her dresses are so old fashioned, I really intend to buy her new clothes soon. She only wears black and that’s kind of sad, but she says it’s what she must wear ... whatever that means. Probably like when Mom said I had to dress nice for church, she said a man told her she had to wear black because if she didn’t she’d catch on fire. They’re the kind you see in those silly old pictures, the dress I mean. I don’t know why people hang pictures of dead people, what good does that do? That’s why I took all the pictures of Mom down. Dad yelled at me, but I think it’s because he drinks. He drinks so much that his eyes are starting to look like my friends. I shouldn’t have told you that. Sorry friend.” (The child keeps looking towards the stairs, and the air in the room has changed. I myself thought I saw something run from room to room upstairs, I am extremely nervous.)-Dr. L.
“Other times, I’ll walk up the stairs and she’ll just be standing there waiting for me at the end of the hall where my room is. That’s what good friends do, they wait. She’s so nice this way. She makes me jump sometimes though, because she stands so still, I forget she’s even real. But she’s real. She’s as real as you and me. She only scares me because she moves so quickly. She can go from standing dead still, to being in my room in what seems like half a second. Her little legs move so fast; I wish mine did. Sometimes she even crawls on the ceiling when she’s not hovering. Just crawls like Dad and I would, except upside down. We do this cool thing where I walk to her and she walks to me, and I look up at her, and she looks down at me from the ceiling. Then I laugh, and she just smiles. I like her smile, even though her teeth are different than mine. They’re kind of like Max’s, our dog. But, oh well. I need to quit telling you all this. I think you and me are friends, so maybe she’ll like you too, but she might hurt you like Mom.”
“I found Dad last month lying on the ground, and his pistol was next to him. He must have been cleaning it and got such a bad nose bleed he just needed a nap right then. I even cleaned his blood up for him, because he’s done that for me. My friend help me sit him up at the dinner table, he didn’t wake up yet. But he’s been sad like I use to be, and he works hard, so he deserves a good nap. I took his pistol and I carry it in my pocket to be safe for when he wakes up. I even take it to school so that I know nothing bad will happen to it. My friend told me that was the responsible thing to do you know. When will you be bringing him back by the way?” (I responded with, “I’m not sure honey, we need to take him away for a
41 | Page
while.” It was at this moment, the kid called me out and said, “My friend says that’s a lie.” I just smiled and let him keep talking.)-Dr. L.
“Since Dad’s been napping, I decided it was time to invite another friend over, besides my friend from that closest and you of course. This was a few days ago. I invited Jensen over to play, and she was reluctant. She looks at me the same as the other people in school do. However, she did agree, and I was so happy. I told my friend that she was coming and she was not happy at all. When she came, I met her at the door with Dad’s pistol. I pulled the trigger, while my friend’s fingers grasped around mine. We pulled it together. Jensen was so pretty, but when I pulled the trigger, the top right portion of her face was completely gone. All that beauty lost in less than a blink of an eye. That made me sad, and the blood on my shirt from her brain looked like someone ground pepper onto it. My friend helped me wrap her in our shower curtain, and I put her in the closet. Dad never let me use the shovel, so I thought it best to put her in the closet with my friend. Girls smell so pretty you know. When they walk by you, you catch a draught of flowers. Jensen doesn’t smell like flowers anymore.” (Walking up stairs to check closet.)–Dr. L. ***
“Hi! My name’s Lazarus, I put Dr. Lycoming in the closest with Jensen and my friend. I’m not sure who he was writing to, but my friend told me I should finish it. I really didn’t have room for another person, so I had to cut him up into pieces and put him in my backpack. I’m just going to take him to school with dad’s pistol and hopefully nobody notices. My friend said if they did, she would come with me to school so that nobody would ever find out. I’m not sure what that means, but hey, I got to go now. My friend’s name is one that can’t be spoken, but she’s calling me to the closet now. She said maybe there was room for me there, and I’d never have to come out again. I think that’s a pleasant idea, because I am growing ever so tired of all the people around me not coming back. So goodbye now friend, whoever will read this! How funny. Hopefully Dr. Lycoming’s special friend will be there too, I saw he had one as well, it followed him around like mine did. I think that’s why he believed me. -Coltt Lepley
Page | 42
Waffles: A Normal Story
Norman Deary woke up and got out of bed. He could tell it was a cold morning from the frost that clung to his bedroom window. He whipped off a spot and marked that inches, gratefully not feet, had covered the cars that lined his dreary street. “The weatherman was right for once,” he said and promptly turned around, sat on the windowsill, and pressed his back up against the frosted glass.
“I think I’ll have a waffle for breakfast.” He got off of his perch and marched off to the bathroom. “And perhaps two cups of coffee this morning.” As he stood over the register a warm rush of air ran up his legs. His bathrobe blew up some and he stayed there for a few moments more. Then he remembered that he wanted waffles for breakfast. “Normally,” he said to himself as he walked down his stairs to the kitchen, “I would have eggs and toast, but today, I want waffles.”
Norman walked into his small kitchen in his apartment and opened his refrigerator. He glanced at his milk and eggs and butter. “I want waffles,” he said, “and two cups of coffee today.” He shut the door and turned to his kitchen sink and saw that he had cleaned and put away his dishes from the night before. “I remember now. I had a visit from dear old Margareta last night.” Norman ran back upstairs to his bedroom and put on one of the old record that his mother had wrapped up for him for his birthday. For once, he took his time getting dressed for the day. As the record scratched and skipped, Norman struggled on his bed to tie his blue canvas shoes.
“The record is over now.” Sorrowfully, he put it back in its sleeve. “I’ll be back, don’t worry.” He put the album away, in its proper drawer, next to other records of the same genre, and looked in the mirror. “I look fine,” he assured himself. “I am fine. No one in the whole world can ruin today for me.” Norman made his way over to his nightstand to grab his wallet but much it was not there. “Oh yes! I remember, I left it in my coat pocket! Margareta reminded me not to leave it at her place. Silly me.”
Norman opened the drawer of his bedside table and found his sunglasses. It was 43 | Page
bright outside and the reflection from the snow would be quite distracting.
“Black with the white rims?”
Norman Deary put the glasses on and felt transformed. He looked in the mirror once again. “Fantastic,” he said, “No one will stop me today.” He ran down his stairs and immediately left his apartment. “Goddamn it.”
He reached for the door handle, “Lucky me.” The door opened this time. The last time he not only forgot his coat and wallet but his keys and locked the door. After walking back inside, Norman rummaged through his coat closet, searching for his grey wool winter coat with his house keys and blue leather wallet from Montgomery Wards. He found it as well as a grey knit hat in the inside pocket. “I have to stop forgetting these things.”
He put on his hat and whispered to himself his mantra that would get him through the day, “I think I’ll have a waffle for breakfast and two cups of coffee today.”
Norman went out and headed to the bus stop down his street, thinking of waffles and his evening with dear old Margareta.
The bus arrived on schedule; however, Norman never seemed to care whether it arrived on time or not. He sat down by himself, not saying a word to anybody for two stops. At the third stop, a young man in a worn red trapper hat, sat down next to him. “I’ll be getting off at the next stop,” he said to the young man.
“Oh, that’s nice. I’ll be getting off soon too,” said the young man expelling the scent of freshly smoked tobacco as he spoke.
“I’m Norman.” Page | 44
“Oh, hello. I’m Isaac.”
“Why hello, Isaac. You see,” Norman continued after removing his sunglasses, “I have had no one to talk with on the bus this morning.” Isaac nodded politely, which lead Norman to wonder if he seemed interested in making his acquaintance.
“You see,” Norman continued, “Lovely Ms. Thatcher rides with me to breakfast almost every morning, but I do believe it is much too cold for her to leave her house today.” Isaac nodded then turned to look out the bus window. Margareta had told Norman how intimidating he can sometimes be, so he promptly slipped on his sunglasses. “That’s too bad. I’m sorry,” said Isaac. “But, you know, I am on my way to get breakfast as well and I’m a–”
“That sounds fantastic! I am getting four waffles and two cups of coffee!” Norman said, causing Isaac to jump a little in his seat. “Hey,” Isaac laughed, “I can see how excited you are.”
“I have been preparing all day for this!” Norman relaxed back in his seat aware of how excited he had become. “Yeah, when it’s snowing all the time, you really don’t get out that often, so.” “So, it’s a big deal when you actually can get out of the house.” Isaac laughed and hit Norman on the shoulder. Norman shivered some when he hit him.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Isaac said. “Some people need their personal space.”
“That’s, er, okay,” Norman said. “I mean, father always would hit me on the shoulder like that so it’s not a big deal.”
“Norman, because your friend couldn’t join you today, why don’t you join me for breakfast?”
45 | Page
Norman quickly took off his glasses and coughed into his shoulder, then just as quick, put them back on. “Um, actually, I would most certainly enjoy that.”
They both stopped talking and let the silence of the bus ride fill their thoughts. The bus engine and the slosh of the snow on the road filled their ears as broken conversations of passengers wove together the sounds that constituted their silence.
Suddenly the bus came to a stop, Norman’s stop. Isaac sat with a confused look on his face while Norman casually walked off the bus. Once he was off, Norman called out quietly “Coming?” But Isaac had not moved from his seat and the bus door closed, leaving Norman standing alone staring, as the bus eased back onto the road and disappeared. ***
Norman Deary was alone at the bus stop. No one wanted to eat waffles with him. Margareta, dear old Maggs was at home, asleep in her bed. It bothered him that lovely Ms. Thatcher was much too old and frail to come outside. Not to mention Isaac, but oh, he was just a stranger. Norman Deary was alone.
“I don’t mind,” he said as he began to walk.
Sal’s Diner was only a block away. He always walked the last block, even when he went with Ms. Thatcher. He would get off at the stop before Sal’s just so he could enjoy the weather, look at the other people walking around town and attempt to get old Ms. Thatcher walking some more. But today was very different, so he ran.
Sal’s was a lovely place, if you were into greasy food made by greasy cooks served to greasy people. Norman, despite considering Sal frightfully greasy man, was obsessed with his cooking. His mother would take him and his sister to Sal’s for breakfast almost every Sunday after church. “Norman, my boy!” out boomed all of the other loud voice from the kitchen. Norman barely had himself in the building before big old Sal stomped out of the kitchen, grabbed his shoulder and shook his hand. Page | 46
“Norman!” he boomed again. “Come sit with me. Let’s talk for a while Norm!” Sal was large and awkward, with scarce grey hairs on his pudgy head that Norman had assumed to have been thinning since his youth. Norman and Sal sat down in a booth near one of the restaurant's many windows which faced the snowy street. “Norm! How are ya?” said Sal, this time adjusting the volume of his voice to a more appropriate level. “Where is your lady-friend? Couldn’t make it out in this ungodly weather, now could she?” Norman remained silent, making it a habit to watch what he would say around Sal to avoid one of his infamous rants.
“Okay, I see, not talking to me today, eh?” Sal leaned back on the booth, causing the vinyl to pop and stretch underneath his weight. A waitress with long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail walked up to their table.
“Dear,” Sal said, looking down towards her breasts, “Norm and I would love to have a coffee, right Norm?”
Norman, silent, nodded once more. He wanted his coffee, he wanted his waffles, but now that Sal was sitting across from him, he no longer thought he could stomach his beloved breakfast. He nodded in agreement –at least there would be coffee. “Anything else, Norm?” the waitress asked.
Norman fought inside himself either to speak or not. The courage he had earlier, seemed to be gone.
“All right then, Bridget.” Sal turned his glare to her breasts, and motioned for her to leave. “Norm is just not talking today that’s all. I bet he’ll be leaving soon. Goddamn boy hasn’t even take off his coat and hat yet.”
There are often triggers in life. Constant changes that push and pull people to act out of the ordinary. Sometimes, a single offhand comment can awaken an angry
47 | Page
giant who had been waiting for eons to arise, even in Norman Deary. There in that restaurant, that cold January morning, Sal finally put Norman over his edge. “I want a waffle, and I want you to make it!” Norman said as he slammed his hands on the table, causing the entire restaurant to fall silent. Sal and the waitress were taken aback some. Norman stood up, and finally took off his coat and his hat. “I want four waffles and two cups of coffee and I mean it!”
Norman sat down and looked at Sal and the waitress’ surprised faces. “And,” he paused, “I want you to make them for me, dear Sal.”
The waitress then scribbled down Norman’s order in a panicked rush, while Sal stood up and told her that he got the order and would take care of it immediately. “Anything else, Norm?” Sal asked.
Norman’s face was flushed bright red with embarrassment as he slowly came down from his tantrum.
“Syrup on my wa-waffles please.” He bowed his head, avoiding eye contact when Sal went back to the kitchen. Exhaustion swept over him. He was extremely grateful for when the waitress returned with his two cups of coffee. He downed the first, and realized it was silly to order two at the same time. -Joshua Calandrella
Page | 48
I Keep Silent
It was raining, and I walked with the hood of my coat down, because I didn’t particularly care. In fact, I wanted to be rained on. The droplets were cold, I could feel them. Every single one of them. It felt good to feel them, the chill against my scalp. It soothed the warm pressure of the thoughts pushing against my skull.
So much. There was so much going on. So much that I wanted to talk about that I couldn’t talk about. There are some things better left unsaid, but against my better judgment, I wanted to say them, scream them. But I kept silent.
The tiny droplets continued to fall, freezing my hair. And I thought, and thought, and thought.
***
If I tried to speak, would anyone listen?
If I told you, reader, would you stop reading? Are there thoughts too personal to share?
I will keep silent.
I will think, and think, and think.
***
There is a place near my house where great tragedy occurred. The year, 1889. The cause, neglect. My house sits where the lake used to be, and the park where the dam broke is a five minute walk away. The dam breaking killed a great number of people, but now the empty valley brings not tragedy, but peace.
49 | Page
Here, thinking is easy. The sounds are soothing: Birds sing alongside the river’s bubbling song, and the greenery never ends. Here, the breeze is always warm.
Most people come here alone. No one is afraid to walk in the woods, or sit by the river and meditate. It’s safe. People come here to think. I come here to think.
When the wind blows, I like to whisper my thoughts into it and watch them be carried away. It relieves the pressure.
The thoughts are no more.
-Breanna Berkebile
Page | 50
Unification
“We the servants of the Almighty Lord, in order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, and efface the grip of Satan from these United States, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United Christian States of America.” -Preamble to the Constitution for the United Christian States of America
Thomas scrutinized the book of Psalms in his mind. The fate of Virginia may very well rest on this epistle, he knew. There were many concessions he wasn’t proud of, but he prayed to the Almighty Lord that this letter would suffice to hinder the dissolution of the Commonwealth. He chose a suitable passage and closed with “blessedly yours, Archbishop Thomas Jefferson of the Church of the United Christian States of America, Blessed Governor of the Most Holy Commonwealth of Virginia.”
Father Samuel of the Parish of Monticello stepped into the room, wringing his hands. “Your Grace, I bear grave news.” “Regarding Virginia?” Thomas returned his quill to its ink.
“Pennsylvania, sir. I am afraid the people there have decided, peacefully, I grant, to disassociate into two discrete commonwealths. The Quakers have hold of the western half, while the Church of the States is holding strong in the east.” “And Archbishop Franklin?”
“He is in full control of the east.”
“Interesting.” Thomas sealed his letter with red wax. He massaged the tension building in his brow. “I have a letter for Bishop Nelson. Send my best horse and rider, forthwith.” Before the priest passed out of the room, Thomas added, “And send one of your deacons to assess Pennsylvania as it adapts to this new change.” ***
51 | Page
Smoke billowed from within the chipped stone bowl that had once been the beginning of the unnamed cathedral in Richmond. Thomas dabbed at his eyes with a fresh handkerchief. Construction would be set back a year, at a minimum.
An elderly man walked up to him and bowed. “Your grace, the rebels would like to speak with you.” “Father Benedict, are you alright?” Thomas asked.
The bottom of the priest’s robe was charred. A bloody bandage coiled about his elbow.
“I will be fine, sir. It is a small group of violent young men. Most of the Catholics and Orthodox Christians have protested in full peace. A smattering of Calvinists have been causing trouble.”
Thomas looked up to the Heavens. “If the Lord will not bring his hand down upon them now, it must bear witness to a greater meaning.” He turned his eyes back down toward the priest. “Are they good Christians, Father, they who do not belong to the Church of the States?” Father Benedict nodded. “The majority, sir.”
“Show me to them.”
Father Benedict led Thomas to a small Calvinist church a few hundred meters down the street. It was built from plain brown bricks, austere, as many of the Church of the States’ churches were. In fact, Thomas had at first mistaken it for the church of his denomination that was finished during his last visit to Richmond, prior to his recent ventures in Pennsylvania. That church lay on the other side of the street, he noted.
A young man sat in a chair before the threshold of the Calvinist church, a musket across his lap. He cocked his head at Thomas and frowned at the priest. Father Benedict folded his hands.
“I am here to speak with your leader,” said Thomas. He stopped at the bottom of the small stair leading from the street to the church’s door. Page | 52
“Who are you?”
“You may call me Governor Thomas.”
The boy—at closer sight he appeared to be no older than fourteen—stood so that he could bow to Thomas. His eyes bugged. “Pardon, Governor. Just inside, he is.” A few dozen men sat arguing in the pews. The man in the front attempted to absolve the anarchy, spouting something off in German. Within a few moments, the room was silent. “Governor Thomas, thank you for coming,” the man said with a curt nod. His accent was thick, yet mellifluous. He did not seem a pugnacious man, almost certainly not one of the Hessians who had settled after the war.
“Anything to assuage this conflict.” Thomas whispered a parting word to Father Benedict, who left him graciously. “And you are?”
“Reverend Otto Goebel.” Otto smiled. “My dearest apologies for your church, sir. It was not my intention for the younger members of my congregation to cause it harm. They are good boys, but take to my sermons too strongly, I think.”
“You have preached against the Church of the States?”
Otto shook his head furiously. “We wish only for peace, my good sir. Your bishops treat us like dogs until we convert, and then it is as if we were Saint Peter himself. I have lost twenty members in the last month.”
Thomas twisted to where Father Benedict had been standing and sighed at the empty air. “Bishop Nelson, is he among those who mistreat you?” “He is not a nefarious man, but no less hateful.”
“As I feared.” Thomas closed his eyes. “My declaration never came then?”
“From you? We have heard nothing from Monticello in months. Not even from my nephew, who had been corresponding with me every few weeks for a year.”
53 | Page
“I had meant for Richmond to be divided, as Pennsylvania is, after Bishop Nelson informed me that there was open rebellion and that my first letter urging for peace had been ignored. It appears that my choice in bishops is poor.” Otto furrowed his brow. “There are few Quakers here, sir.”
“My apologies, Reverend. I misspoke. No, this is not Pennsylvania; that arrangement shall certainly not do. Archbishop Franklin has been wiser, and far faster to see the truth than I have been, with his commonwealth. However, I fear that even he has not done enough. I had intended to divide the city between the Church of the States and all of the other Christian sects combined. But now I see that I have been lied to in many matters.” Thomas laughed, looking down. “No mail from Monticello? I penned no fewer than three letters before I left for Pennsylvania, over three months ago. I have been deceived.” He rubbed his face with one hand. “My mind has changed.” “Richmond will not be divided then?” Otto frowned.
“No,” said Thomas. “Richmond will be united. I will see to it that all Christians are allowed to worship here in peace.” Maybe there is still hope for the Commonwealth, Thomas thought. Though Pope Washington may not like my means. -Patrick Stahl
Page | 54
Up to the Brim
Carlton Drivers swirled the whiskey at the bottom of his glass. He sat in his parlor at a mahogany table set for two. A light breeze flitted its way through the open window. Good for conversation, a little atmosphere flowing in, his brother always said. The new chandelier swayed, scattering oblong sheets of light throughout the room. The butler left Elias Sander in the doorway. “Do you have need for anything else, Master Drivers?” he asked, an afterthought.
“Could you bring a pitcher of lemonade for us?” Carlton nodded to his guest. “You do enjoy lemonade, do you not?”
“Of course.” Elias strode to the chair opposite Carlton and took his ease. He drank a small sip of water from the goblet at his setting.
“How are the talks going?” Carlton broke the large loaf of bread at table’s center and took a reasonable hunk for his porcelain plate. He tore off a mouthful and smeared it with jam—blackberry from the patch on his brother’s country estate. “They are holding strong to twelve-hour days.” “The hounds.”
“And our best efforts have afforded only a five percent raise for the general laborers.” “That’s one shilling a week,” Carlton exclaimed.
The butler swept inside, two glasses of iced lemonade balanced on a tray. He set the glasses before the two men and went away without a word. “There is one larger problem,” said Elias. He finished his goblet of water before tasting the lemonade. “And that would be?”
“The workers. Some of them suspect that we have been embezzling from union funds.”
Carlton laughed. “Well of course we have. They wanted their foremen to lead
55 | Page
their union, and they got us, but they cannot hope to tap into our capital without us brushing off the top.” “We’ve done a little more than brushing, Carlton.”
“A pound here, a shilling there. What is it to them? A two shilling raise in five months’ time is quite the accomplishment.” Carlton switched to butter on his bread.
Elias placed a worn sheet of parchment on the table. “‘On behalf of the laborers of this our union, I write to you in duress,’” he read. “One of the workers can write?”
“I believe three of them.” Elias took a drink of his lemonade. “Now do not interrupt me again. ‘It has become apparent to us, in keeping track of the funds we have given to this our union, that no small portion has been withheld from use in our efforts toward ethical working conditions. We implore you, our dear foremen, to give answer to this accusation, which has been made by many of our number.’ It is signed by all of the laborers at the factory, so far as I can tell.” “The ungrateful bastards,” Carlton said. He called for his butler to bring in more lemonade. “After all we’ve done for them.”
The muscles in Carlton’s throat began to constrict. He coughed several times, but it did not release the pressure.
Elias sat back in his chair and scanned the room. “That is a mighty fine chandelier for a man of your station,” he remarked. “I got it for a good price.”
“How much exactly have you been taking from the funds, my dear friend?”
When the butler returned to the room with the lemonade, Carlton pulled the glasses from the tray himself. “That will be all, thank you.”
Page | 56
“I will admit,” said Elias, “I haven’t been completely virtuous with my part of the funds either, but it amounts to a few pounds, not the one hundred pounds sterling that the workers claim have been removed.”
Carlton thumbed his waxed mustache. He coughed. “I spent thirty-seven pounds and invested another fifty with my brother.” “Did you plan to tell me this at some point?”
“I have ten pounds already to return to the funds from the investment. In a week’s time, Elias.”
Elias mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “The investments may appease the laborers, but the spending will certainly not. I demand you get our money back from that chandelier at once.”
“Alright,” said Carlton, feeling strangled. “First thing tomorrow it will be gone. We’ll tell the workers we were holding back money for strict business purposes, but we’ve changed our minds and will start putting the money toward our efforts again.” “No, they deserve the truth.” Elias broke a small piece of bread from the loaf and ate it plain. “Carlton, I know that you want to help these people. I’ve seen it in your eyes. But I warned you of what would happen if we started thinking of the union funds as ours.” “I know.” Carlton nodded slowly, looking down at his newly-purchased shoes.
“If you are attempting to match your brother in wealth I am sorry to say it won’t happen quite so easily.” Elias ran his fingers across the uncovered table. “Do you know how much he gave me after our father died?” “You’ve told me. Two hundred pounds.”
“And the country estate alone is worth at least fifteen thousand.”
“Carlton, you aren’t seeing clearly.”
57 | Page
“And yet you’re making me sell back my chandelier.”
Elias stood up and walked over to the window. “What do you see, down there?” “People, dog carts, buildings.”
“For St. Michael’s sake, come over here and tell me what you see.”
Carlton laid down his knife, wiped his face with a napkin, and strode to the window. “I see two little boys playing with a mangy dog. A few men walking home from work. A girl playing with a doll on her doorstep.” “And how do the people look?”
“The little boys seem happy. Some of the men appear haggard, others rubbing their eyes, but otherwise quite well. The girl appears amused. Why are you asking me these questions?” “Because I want you to look at them. The poor and the rich. Some of those men can hardly make their way home, while the more affluent stroll along with decorative walking canes.” Elias pointed at a graying man coated in soot, his face covered in half a week’s stubble. “That man is from our own factory. He cannot even afford a shave.” “And what do you want me to...I see.”
“We can help them. Your investment may prove wise to our efforts, but for now I beg of you to restore as much as you can to the funds. I will be happy to give ten having taken thirteen.”
Carlton stooped down and removed his shoes. “I will return the shoes and the chandelier. The other seven I spent on pipe tobacco and whiskey.”
“Whiskey?” Elias examined the fine shoes Carlton had been wearing. “You have never been one to drink.” “My brother gave me a bottle when I went to see him about the investment. I
Page | 58
must say that I’ve taken a liking to it, unfortunately.”
“That brother of yours.” Elias shook his head. “If there is a demon named ‘Jealousy,’ surely he makes his living in your heart.” “But he’s a good man, Elias.” “By what markers?”
“He didn’t have to give me anything when our father died. And he always gives alms to beggars when he walks around town.”
Elias laughed. “I have seen him in town several times, and he never gives alms. He is more likely to kick beggars as he strolls by.” Carlton crinkled his brow. “You must be mistaken.”
“He always gives alms when you’re around. That would make good sense. You are a man of charity.”
“Do you mean to suppose that my brother is jealous of me? That is preposterous.” “No, no.” Elias examined the faint blue wallpaper of the parlor. It was lifting at the corners and had been for as long as Carlton and Elias had known each other. “Your brother is ashamed.”
“Shame. I do feel that.” Carlton rubbed the corners of his eyes. His throat burned. “You made a mistake. You were caught up in the moment and you took from the funds. I don’t condemn you for it. Your brother is a different sort entirely.” “Do you mean to insult my brother?” Carlton felt his face heating up.
Elias smoothed his mustache. “I do. You are better than him, Carlton.”
“Surely you don’t mean that.”
“But I do. London has thousands of his type. There are only a handful like you.” 59 | Page
Carlton pulled Elias into a tight embrace. “Thank you, my dear boy. I needed very much to hear that.” “Just so long as you have it, would you mind pouring me a glass of whiskey?” Elias asked as the men separated. Carlton laughed. “You have never been one to drink,” he mocked. “It was a hard day, my dear friend.”
Carlton retrieved an open bottle and poured them both a glass. “I propose a toast. To the union.” “To the union.”
“May we be united in our efforts to improve each other in brotherly love.”
Elias took a draw. “I could not have said it any better.”
Carlton Drivers sat down at his table. He swirled the whiskey up to the brim of his glass. -Patrick Stahl
Page | 60
Miriam
Characters:
Miriam: She’s different...we’ll leave it at that. Audience
(A bare stage. A black curtain hangs in the back. The lighting is dim, eerie. It’s cold, perhaps she’s outside. Perhaps, she’s not. MIRIAM enters wrapped in a knitted scarf, hands in pockets. Her clothes are ragged and torn. She shivers, looking around.) MIRIAM
My oh my oh my oh my. It is freezing. This damned scarf doesn’t do a damned thing. I can’t see a damned thing either. My oh my oh my oh my oh my. (Squinting.) Well, who do we have here? (Walking to the edge of the stage, she inclines her head.) The name’s Miriam. Miriam Fletcher. How’d you do? (Pause.) No? Well, my oh my, I suppose you all aren’t the friendly bunch, huh? That’s okay, people never are. Hey, wanna hear a secret? It’s a big’un so you gotta keep your damned mouths shut you understand? Okay, okay. Here it is. (Miriam mouths words.) Did you get that? Did you? It’s a big one, right? My oh my oh my, I can’t believe I just told you. You’re the first I ever told; I never tell no one my secret. It’s crazy, my oh my I hope you don’t look at me differently for it. Do you? No? Okay, okay. That’s good because I didn’t mean to do it, you know. It was her fault, you know. I didn’t start it she started it, you know. My oh my oh my. It was cold out when it happened. Just like it is now. So damned cold. It made it harder, you know. When your hands are all numb you can barely move ‘em -Wanna hear another secret? (Mouths words.) That’s right. You heard it right. My oh my. I nearly lost control. I didn’t, clearly, because I’m here to tell you. But I almost lost control. It was a close one, a damned close one, you know. I didn’t have any other choice, you know. My oh- (Gasps.) Did’ya hear that? I’m serious! Did’ya? No? (Beat.) Okay, okay. Must be my imagination. It’s a crazy one. Gotta lot going on up there, you know. I’m sure you understand. (Beat.) You won’t tell anyone my secret, will ya? I need to make sure you won’t tell anyone. My oh my. If anyone found out...well, let’s not think about that. I trust you; I trust you lots. I trust you
61 | Page
more than I trusted her. She was awful, you know. Tell her one thing and next thing you know the whole world knows. She was awful. Awful, awful, awful. Now you understand better, right? Why I had to do it, right? You’d do the same, right? My oh my oh my I just knew you’d agree. Can’t have those kinds of people in your life. People like her. No good backstabbers with pretty pretty faces. Makes me sick. Simply can’t have them in your life, simply cannot –What’s that? What’d you ask? Oh, how I did it, you ask? It was simple, you see, if my hands hadn’t been so damned cold at the time, it would’ve been a piece of cake. Here, here, let me explain. (Mouths words.) Brilliant, am I not? I know, I know. I’d be terribly miserable if I hadn’t done it. It took me a while to figure out, you know, but it was worth it. I wouldn’t change my decision no way no how. Uh-uh. I feel lighter now. Just like a feather. Nice and soft and light. What a wonderful- (She pauses abruptly, looking off stage. She shakes her head.) Ha! Must be my imagination again. My oh my. You didn’t hear anything, right? No? I thought so. Just my imagination. That crazy, crazy thing. (Beat.) I’m glad I found you all. You’re not very talkative, but that’s okay. I prefer it that way. Talk too much and you might just drive me insane. My oh my she would talk a lot, you know. Talk, talk, talk. That’s all she ever did. Made my ears nearly fall off. I simply couldn’t take it anymore. I hope you all don’t mind my talking. Do you? No? Okay, okay. Perfect. That’s why we’re getting along so well. There needs to be more people like you in the world, my oh my wouldn’t that make me joyous –wanna hear another secret? (Mouths words.) Yep. Got prescriptions and everything. I never took ‘em, of course. Never needed ‘em. What’s that? You understand? I know, I know. (Miriam sits at the edge of the stage, finally revealing her hands that are drenched in red.) Something tells me we’re gonna get along just fine, you know. My oh my. Just don’t do anything stupid, you know? I’ll do nothin stupid and you’ll do nothin stupid, deal? Okay, okay. (Smiling, lights fading.) I can see us being the best of friends. (Her voice drifting off.) My oh my oh my oh my, the best of friends. (Black out.)
-Breanna Berkebile
Page | 62
Pulse
“Did you hear about that shooting?”
“Yeah, the one at a nightclub?”
“There was a shooting at a nightclub?” “The shooting in Orlando.”
“I was talking about the lady from ‘The Voice’ that was killed at her concert.” “I didn’t hear about that. 50-some people were killed at that club.”
I was in the middle of a Kohl’s when I first heard about the Orlando club shooting. Having rushed out of the house that morning, I avoided all the news reports. I was disturbed when I finally heard, like anyone would be. Mom didn’t know details, though. So I skimmed online articles on public Wi-Fi. Pulse: the name of the nightclub, the thing that shows us we’re still alive, what fifty people lost that night.
Mom hurried to the bathroom. I leaned on our cart, reading more. My own pulse skipped a beat. Pulse is a gay bar. Breathing suddenly became much more difficult. I felt sadness. I felt anger. I felt fear.
A saleslady finished helping a customer and spotted me. She asked me if I needed anything. Yes, I did need help. “No,” I told her. “Thanks.”
Mom came back. While she browsed, she noticed my despondence. She asked if I was tired.
I looked at her. “The shooting was at a gay nightclub.”
She didn’t say anything. She looked sad, I guess.
My heart cracked in a new place, but it still pulses.
63 | Page
I messaged my girlfriend, asking if I could come over earlier than I had planned. I let Gram know I wouldn’t be home. I couldn’t go home to someone who doesn’t understand these aching emotions. An infinite drive later, my girlfriend opened the door. I saw her face and knew she was just as upset. “How are you?” I asked.
“Good. How about you?”
I hesitated, trying to keep control. “Okay.”
“Just ‘okay’?”
We reached out and pulled the other one close. No more words. Minutes went by. My pulse quickened with the overwhelming emotions. My shoulders shook once, and tears threatened to fall.
Finally, we step back. She wipes an eye.
She would later write, “The victims of the shooting could have been our friends, our loved ones; us.” Even though we didn’t know any of them, they were our friends in a way. We were brought together by our similar identities. The same shared identities that bring together the LGBT community.
Although I don’t personally know the victims, Stanley Almodovar III, Amanda Alvear, Oscar A. Aracena-Montero, Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, Alejandro Barrios Martinez, Martin Benitez Torres, Antonio D. Brown, Darryl R. Burt II, Jonathan A. Camuy Vega, Angel L. Candelario-Padro, Simon A. Carillo Fernandez, Juan Chevez-Martinez, Luis D. Conde, Cory J. Connell, Tevin E. Crosby, Franky J. Dejesus Velazquez, Deonka D. Drayton, Mercedez M. Flores, Juan R. Guerrero, Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, Paul T. Henry, Frank Hernandez, Miguel A. Honorato, Javier Jorge-Reyes, Jason B. Josaphat, Eddie J. Justice, Anthony L. Laureano Disla, Christopher A. Leinonen, Brenda L. Marquez McCool, Jean C. Mendez Perez, Akyra Monet Murray, Kimberly Morris, Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, Luis O. Ocasio-Capo, Geraldo A. Ortiz-Rivera, Joel Rayon Paniagua, Enrique L. Rios Jr., Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, Christopher J. Sanfeliz, Xavier E. Serrano Rosado, Gilberto R. Silva Menendez, Edward Sotomayor Jr.,
Page | 64
Shane E. Tomlinson, Leroy Valentin Fernandez, Luis S. Vielma, Luis D. WilsonLeon, and Jerald A. Wright, I grieve for them. The community grieves for them. The families grieve so much more and so much harder. We grieve for the lives and love lost.
The media made a mess of the situation, as it usually does. This tragedy isn’t about the shooter’s possible connection to a terrorist organization. This isn’t even about the ridiculous ease with which someone can acquire a semi-automatic rifle. This is about the festering hatred felt towards LGBT people. I didn’t hear the media talk about that. Does the right to marry seem so progressive now? “What more do we want?” We want to live.
We want to walk together without receiving judgmental glances, without hearing barbed insults, without fearing for our lives.
We want to be free to show our love.
We don’t want the constant fear that one (or two, or three, or hundreds) specific person will find out who we really are. We want acceptance. We want love.
“Love is love is love is love is love is love is love is love,” said Lin-Manuel Miranda. Our love isn’t tainted because it’s different. Those that died did so because of others’ ignorance and hatred. Their love, our love, is our pulse. -Erin Cain
65 | Page
In Remembrance of Forgetting This is remembering not remembering.
This is forgetting what has already been forgotten.
This is learning, learning anew.
This is pain –happiness – sadness – carelessness – freedom – wrapped into a perfect presentation of reaching toward the sun, praying to be set alight. This is what not knowing is.
Cheers to the unknown and cheers to trespassing.
Cheers to the sun, the big fireball, and cheers to the moon, the taupe sea. Cheers to the giant hay bales: “I’m sorry, random stranger, for sitting on them. Yes, your farm is beautiful.” Cheers!
Cheers to my beloved friends whose souls are more beautiful than mine will ever be. Reach with me, won’t you? Reach toward the east and grab the moon as I reach toward the west and grab the sun.
Oh, isn’t it stunning? The way the sun and moon align up here on this hill, on this hay bale. Doesn’t it make you want to forget? Don’t you already forget?
...What are we doing up here?
...We’re not allowed up here. Quick!
Get to the car. Let us leave, the sun is almost gone anyway. On our way out remember: leave our woes, leave our worries, leave them with the sinking sun. So long! Farewell!
Let us descend down the windy road to-and-fro, laughing, laughing so. What’s funny? We don’t know. Page | 66
The windows are down. The breeze, oh the breeze, trapped the warmth of the sun, how wonderful it feels To be alive To be free
-Breanna Berkebile
67 | Page
Author Bios Breanna Marie Berkebile is a junior studying Journalism, Creative Writing, and English Literature. She enjoys reading and writing...and she really, REALLY loves coffee.
Coltt Winter Lepley is a junior communications major and writing minor at UPJ. His hobbies include writing essays, songs, poems, and short prose. He can often be found performing covers as well as his own songs at local music spots in the winter. In the summers, he spends his time racing winged-dirt sprint cars.
Erin Cain is a fifth-year senior and is graduatiing this semester. She has loved her time on the Backroads staff. She couldn’t wait to read the stories that students’ crafted and presented. She will miss having a hand in the magazine process, but she’s looking forward to reading what others have to say in the future.
Jacey Hunter is a triple major in Communication, Professional Writing, and Thematic Clusters of Humanities- English Literature. After graduation she plans to attend law school and one day hopes to work in the legal department at a major publishing company.
Jaclyn Reed is a senior at the University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown dual majoring in Creative Writing and English Literature. Along with her love of British literature is a deep fascination with the dark depths of humanity, specifically mental illness and its profound impact on individuals. Upon graduation in the spring, she plans to get her Masters of Fine Arts in Writing with a focus in fiction.
Jane Stueckemann is a Journalism student originally from Lancaster, PA. She now lives in Johnstown with her husband, Ryan, and loves to write, cook, and eat chips and salsa.
Josette Saunders is a University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown freshman. She is a dual-certification Early Childhood Education with Special Education major. Page | 68
Joshua Calandrella is currently a Junior at UPJ who studies English Literature, Creative Writing, and Spanish. In his free time he likes to write, study foreign languages, read thick books, play various stringed instruments (guitar, ukulele, banjo, and violin) and cook, primarily Indian food (curry by the way is the purest form of all foods) as well as any dish solely comprised of vegetables.
Patrick Stahl is a mando-playing sci-fi/fantasy/horror writer, manual laborer, and (on occasion) fill-in preacher from Somerset County. He double-majors in Creative Writing and Multimedia & Digital Culture and minors in French.
Richard J. Audu is a UPJ student and an African-Canadian author based in Toronto, Canada. He has been writing for a little over a decade, been published twice, and received recognition from The Academy of American Poets. Though stylistically versatile, R.J. Audu specializes in the genres of afro-futurism, science fiction, philosophy and fantasy. R.J. Audu's work is the ascendancy of the black millennial writer, his literary ambitions serve black culture, and push its boundaries.
Rachel Logan is a sophomore engineering student who has always had a passion for writing in all its forms. She likes to make up words for things that are already named, and spends most of her time dreaming about robots and space. Rachel has a cat, a brother, and a (somewhat imaginary) dragon.
69 | Page
Submission Guidelines
We accept submissions of short stories, short plays, poetry, personal essays, creative nonfiction, literary journalism, photography, and drawn or painted visual art of any medium. We accept submissions from students currently enrolled at the University of Pittsburgh-Johnstown, as well as from faculty and alumni.
Please send submissions to backroads2@gmail.com, with your submission attached as a separate file. Multiple submissions are accepted, but must be included as separate files. The file name of your attached submission(s) should be the name of the work, but the document itself should not include your name (this is done to ensure unbiased reviews of all submissions). The subject line of your email should be "Backroads Submission." In the message of the email, state your name, the titles of all works attached to your email, and a brief (one to three sentences) third-person biography about yourself.
Specific Guidelines: Prose: Short prose includes short stories, personal essays, short creative nonfiction, literary journalism, and short plays, and should be included in a .doc file, .rtf file, or .docx file. We advise that you check your work for grammar and other kinds of errors before submission. We recommend a maximum length of five to six pages but will accept longer submissions. Poetry: Poetry should be included in a .doc file, .rtf file, or .docx file. Art: Visual art includes drawn or painted art (either digital or traditional) and photography. Visual art should be included in a .jpg, .bmp, or .png file. We recommend that drawn or painted art be captured using a scanner and that photography be of a decent resolution. Remember, Backroads editors and staff select the best quality work for publication.
Page | 70
About Us Backroads is the University of Pittsburgh-Johnstown's art and literature magazine. We publish the best of student-submitted short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, plays, and visual art. We also accept submissions from faculty and alumni.
Mission Statement: We strive to promote and share the love of literature and creative works across our campus and beyond. We want to provide a comfortable, fun, creative, and supportive space for students to experiment with new kinds of writing and art techniques. Overall, we strive to share the love of expressing oneself with any who will listen. Submissions are open until mid-January and the magazine is released every spring.
To be involved on campus, consider joining as a staff member or attending our open mic nights to share your favorite authors or poets or your own work, and enjoy the written word with fellow enthusiasts (and coffee).
For regular and up-to-date info, like us on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/upjbackroads
And check out our site for more detailed information, to contact us, or visit the online archive: http://upjbackroads.weebly.com/
71 | Page