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Spring 2020 1
ellipsis .
EXECUTIVE BOARD PRESIDENT EMILY SIDOR
VICE PRESIDENT LINCOLN MCCARTER-NYBERG
HEAD EDITOR EMILY SHEREMETA
SECRETARY
CONTACT US / SUBMIT
PATRICK EARNS
ellipsislitmag.club bingellipsis@gmail.com @bingellipsis on Instagram & Twitter
TREASURER
Ellipsis is a literary magazine that showcases the literary and visual arts of Binghamton University’s students. Candidates for our printed magazine go through an editing and selection process, and everyone who submits receives feedback from our editors and is elligible to be published on our website. Along with organizing many fun events and fundraisers, we also hold workshops that are run like informal creative writing classes. Fresh faces are always welcomed; we hope you’ll stop by. Ellipsis does not own the rights to any content included herein. All contributors maintain the rights to their work.
PUBLICITY COORDINATOR
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KEVIN TOPOLOVEC
CAIT ROBERTS
GRAPHIC DESIGNER KAI DACOSTA
EVENT COORDINATOR PATRICK COGNATO
TABLE OF CONTENTS Cotton Candy Floss - Patrick L. Cognato
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I Scratch Her Back, She Tears Mine to Shreds - Laura Deluca
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Fracture Incarnate - Jesse K. Ikker
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Murphy’s Lawn - Kristin Weyhrauch
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this is a poem for my sister - Samantha L. Boucher
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Sparrows/Scent of Longing - Emanuel J. Campo
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Body Count - Ethan P. Knox 14 Emerald - Livia Zarge 16 The Last Minute - Gel Castronova
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Escapism - Blanca E. Perez 19 Returning - Nicole E. Zilker 20 Size Down/Twenties - Christopher Bacalla
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Even the Nurses are Praying/Still - Maximilian Kurant
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The Myth of Someday - Emily Sheremeta
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Cover photography by Rebecca Lynch
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Cotton Candy Floss Patrick L. Cognato
I twist open my big numb skull. The wretched ridges squeak apart as I lift the upper piece of my cranium. As I stare forward, the hum of my machine whirs above me and my head gyrates with it. Good, it’s still working. The first little strand of cotton candy brain chances its way into the air and drifts down before my eyes. It falls into my fingers and I brace it from breaking. I let the strand dissolve on my tongue, sweet. My finger probes deeper into my mouth where I beg it for flavor. Sucking deeper, knuckles graze my teeth to no avail. Reaching up, my wet fingers massage into exposed brain, my saliva melting pink matter and fusing it to my fingers, sticky.
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I Scratch Her Back, She Tears Mine to Shreds Laura Deluca
I tuck my Trauma into bed beside me, Kiss her forehead and braid her hair Nurture through reading her a nightly tragedy I take great care of her, I swear In return, she leaves bite marks on my neck Jabs me in my side every time I try to trust To me, she’s the universe; to her, I’m a speck Of translucent nonsense, mere futile dust. Engraved beneath my eyelids, it just won’t erase She’s inscribed within my cyclic thought patterns Realizing there is no fire escape in this burning place Forever circling rings of regret, I tell myself they’re Saturn’s Lace my corset with all the unsaid goodbyes They strangle me, hold me tight Restrict my breathing with unwarranted lies Goodnight Trauma, goodnight.
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Fracture Incarnate Jesse K. Ikker
Suppose yourself a spotted deer Within the realms of forest, Tracking immortality, Each mottle marking life You drift through thickets and groves Of liminal loneliness, Coiling streams without water’s end, Lost in silent boscage Until - a meadow finds your soul, Warming, rolling Reminds you of home before birth, Life’s locus spent Suppose yourself a spotted deer Bare fur ripe for lives: Would you wander unknown woods, Or cling to who you are?
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Marie Taylor
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Murphy's Lawn Kristin Weyhrauch Denise Mullins-Murphy couldn’t bear to tell her husband, but she was experiencing the early symptoms of a mid-life crisis, and it was merciless. Every other night, she lay in their king-sized bed, awake, agonizing over the usual business that was her life: driving her daughter to her Irish step dance lessons in rush-hour traffic, baking fresh cookies for her son’s Boy Scout troop on Thursday, submitting an article for The Murphy Review before the weekly deadline, and, when she did manage to fall asleep, waking up with a palpitating heart, her bumpy skin cold and damp from her own sweat. Rest, her physician had told her after she listed her symptoms, You need to get some rest. Rest. Oh, how desperately Denise desired it, but her buzzing mind wouldn’t let her have it. Sleep wasn’t rest. Hell, sleep wasn’t even sleep; it was an eerie state of existing without clarity, without distraction, and without company. Sure, she had her husband, snoring loudly to the right of her, but he hardly counted as company. Every night he cradled his wife in his arms, but, as he inevitably gave in to the spell of exhaustion, his steady grip loosened, his arms retreated to his sides, and his round body rolled across the mattress. Even on the other side of the bed, his body was still mere feet from hers, close enough for her to caress with her toe if she stretched her leg, but his consciousness was far, far away. “Babe,” Denise said, “Babe.” Robert Murphy grunted and pulled the satin
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comforter over his head to drown out his wife’s shrill, high-pitched voice. "Oh, sorry if I woke you." Denise exhaled. Conscious or unconscious, it didn’t matter. Her husband never listened to a damn word she had to say. She reached for the framed photograph of them on their wedding day, held it with both hands, and concentrated on his face. Robert Murphy wasn’t smiling in the photograph, but his mouth was slightly open, his ear was turned to her, and his eyes twinkled in anticipation of what she was going to say next. This thirty-year-old wearing plaid suspenders under a tuxedo jacket was the real Robby, the best version of the man she devoted her life to twenty-seven years ago; he was perky, diligent, and ravenous for his wife. “Robby, did you put the trash can by the curb?” Denise said to the photograph. She spoke at a low volume to not wake her slumbering husband. “It’s Tuesday night, and the garbage man comes every Wednesday at 7:15 AM.” She squinted her eyes at the bedroom window that overlooked their front lawn. The artificial turf was still covered in snow, and, just as she had suspected, the trash can was not in the appropriate spot. “Not yet, Dee,” she imitated her husband’s low, gravelly voice as she gently shook the photograph. She imagined that Robby was shaking his head like a puppy drying itself after a bath. She found the predictability of his movements endearing. “I had a long day at work, but I’ll take care of that right now.”
Carrying the photograph, Denise opened her husband’s closet. An unorganized mass of clothes, shoes, and neckties poured out onto the bedroom floor. Did Robert Murphy even care that Denise had spent hours tidying his mess last Sunday? She groaned and looked at photograph Robby’s innocent face for an explanation. “Robby, what happened?” she said, “I worked so hard making everything nice and neat for you.” “It’s been a hectic week, Dee,” Denise said quietly in that husky voice, waving the picture frame as if it were one of her Barbie dolls from her childhood and she were making it talk, “I’ll clean that up after I deal with the trash.” She pressed Robby’s laminated mouth against her cheek, puckered her lips, and made a smooching sound. When she concentrated hard enough, it almost felt like a real kiss. Almost. Denise took Robert Murphy’s bulky, grey winter coat off the wooden hanger and picked up a brown fedora hat and a striped necktie from the closet floor. Her husband hadn’t worn that necktie or that hat in years. They were old anniversary gifts. As Denise put on the oversized coat one arm at a time, she blinked away tears. “Don’t cry, Dee,” she imagined Robby speaking these words to her and running his fingers through her greying hair, “I’m going to wear them again tonight. As a matter of fact, I’ll put them on right now. You know I love your taste in fashion.” “You know I love-” she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her short, brown-grey hair was tucked into the fedora, the necktie hung loosely around her slender neck, and the extra fabric of the coat sleeves was bunched up at her wrists, exposing her small, clammy hands. “I love you.” That frail, monotone voice she spoke those three words in didn’t sound like her Robby, and it didn’t sound like her either. She couldn’t tell whom those words were for and whom they were from. “Goddamnit, woman,” Denise swallowed a gulp of air and clenched her hands into fists. “Just take out the trash.” She kissed the framed photograph and gently
placed it back on top of the bedside table. She thought of kissing Robert Murphy, too, but he barked at her whenever she disturbed his sleep, no matter the reason, so she resisted the temptation and tip-toed to the door. Before walking out into the hallway, Denise made sure to check her surroundings. She couldn’t have her two twelve-year old children knowing that their mother was sneaking out of the house at three o’clock in the morning, dressed in their father’s clothes. What on Earth would she tell them? That she was bored? That she felt safer walking outside at this hour dressed in men’s clothing? Or that she cherished the lingering scent of shaving cream on the coat collar and the memory of Robby putting this coat around her shoulders when they walked out of the airport during their honeymoon in Alaska? No, she could never tell her children that. Simply thinking about it made her chest ache from the weight of her strong, melancholy desire. Never mind saying it out loud. Denise blinked her eyes dry again and wiped her nose with a handkerchief from the coat’s left breast pocket. It still had marinara sauce stains from the spaghetti and meatballs Robert Murphy ate last month with his coworker “Vicky” at Fellicino’s Kitchen. “Vicky Sanchez is just a friend,” she sniffled, stepping into the dimly lit garage. She thought of Vicky’s large, voluptuous breasts and winced as her bare feet touched the cold, concrete floor. Although Denise could never find a picture of Vicky on the internet, she was certain that Vicky was very well-endowed, much more endowed than she was. “Get a grip, woman,” Her voice trembling, Denise walked towards the trash can, “Vicky Sanchez is a lesbian and she’s just a friend.” She lifted the lid, closed her fingers over her palm, and pantomimed throwing away a small piece of garbage. “You have to take those toxic thoughts and throw them into the trash,” she heard a shrink say on T.V. once, “Grab that jealousy by the hooves and put her in the trash like the filthy whore she is.” Those words didn’t make much sense, but
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they made Denise feel as if she had agency, as if she weren’t an automaton programmed by her nagging anxiety and loneliness. She was a grown woman in control of her own feelings. She took hold of the trash can and flicked a switch. The garage door opened, and she strolled outside without checking for witnesses. All her neighbors were elderly, and it was impossible for their old eyes to recognize Denise Mullins-Murphy wearing her husband’s clothes in the dark. Denise rolled the trash can to the end of the wide driveway and stopped. Her job was done, but she wasn’t ready to go back inside. The sensation of the chilly air blowing on her face had revitalized her, and the winter atmosphere was breathtaking. The blanket of snow on the lawn glistened like the diamond on her lost engagement ring. Three years ago, it fell down the drain as she was taking a shower. She rubbed her naked ring finger and remembered that Robert Murphy promised he would buy her another one. “But that was three years ago, you lying bastard!” The words escaped her mouth without warning and reverberated around the block, taunting her and forcing her to accept them as the truth. Her husband was a bastard. A lying, lazy, distant, ungrateful bastard. And she knew it this whole time. Denise cupped her tingling hand over her mouth and fell to the ground. Tears streamed down her cheek as she crawled across the dry asphalt to the end of her lawn. “Robby is the one I love.” She picked up fistfuls of snow, pounded them into two spherical shapes, and put one sphere on top of the other. “Robert Murphy is a bastard.” Denise Mullins jabbed two holes into the top sphere of snow and drew a curved line underneath with her fingernail. She took off the fedora and the necktie and gave them to her snowman. His smile seemed to widen as she tied the necktie into a knot. Finally, someone showed appreciation for her gifts. “You’re my Robby.” She hugged her snow-husband close and sniffled into its chest. The cold stung her nostrils, but she felt more comforted cuddling up to a pile of snow than her own living, breathing, human husband. “And Robby is the one I love.” With the sleeve of Robert’s coat, she wiped the clear snot dripping from her nose. She tried to balance the coat on snow-Robby’s back, but it kept falling to the ground. “Goddammit, Robby. It’s okay. We’ll keep each other warm.” Half-chuckling, she cradled his head in her hands and pressed her forehead against his, her tears and her snot intermingling on his frozen face. “Tell Robert I want a divorce.”
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this is a poem for my sister Samantha L. Boucher
it was autumn, when she sat across my mom and dad at the dinner table. i imagine, the light was soft. she didn’t eat her peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. the house turned haven. my family turned coordinates. a misshapen triangle between three bodies. just loose wheels teetering, trying to make sense of words that will never make sense. mom measures the weight of a threat. mom says, just go to school tomorrow. dad keeps quiet, picks at a scab on his left hand. i think of my sister’s hands, how they must have been shaking. i think of a boy who lives on a farm i pass on my bicycle every day. his small plea, his stolen grief. his want, more than anything to be big and noticed. i think of my sister again. knee deep in the fear of before. the buildup before something terrible happens, an unbearable crescendo. my sister reminds mom that she is a good hider. that she knows to survive is to stay quiet. i think of my sister at four years old. curled up under my flower rug, only giggles gave her away. once she hid so small, so hushed we couldn’t find her. the cops came, i remember the flashing lights. the terror in mom’s voice, begging for her baby back. maybe, stay until fourth period, mom suggests, your classes are all on the first floor, right? no, no the driveway dips down by the parking lot, so the fall would be longer from the window in history class, if it happened then. wouldn’t that hurt? yeah that would hurt. it’s better than the alternative, i guess. should we be scared without proof? should we turn away? should we scream? haven’t we always been screaming? since columbine? since sandy hook? since today? this could never happen here, not us, no way. not our cornrow town. not our from scratch, quiet town. never us. until it is.
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Sparrows Memories are fleeting things like sparrows in the arms of trees with mottled wings and unseen sights they bear: green mountains, clear streams the fingered feathers of flighted sounds, shapes, flying, switching between the branches where only some light can penetrate. Fog may fall over the boughs rest billowing around the trunks and small sparrows may be obscured, lost in the white shadow.
Scent of Longing
Yet healthy sparrows will emerge as fog is pierced by rising dawn and birds that carry sights will soar from morning branches into afternoon air and evening thoughts will think on sweeter scenes, languages our minds have forgotten but remain indelible to the soul.
Emanuel J. Campo
It’s the sweetest scent of autumn leaves green to yellow and red then browning like the butter she made caramel with, and just breathing in is enough to make all the decaying smells sweet and all the sweet aromas terror. Pure and raw is the farthest thing from fake or fabricated yet still the addiction’s still the same heal and hurt. Candles turn the air sour with scented saturation and tea, steeped beyond bitter. I like it bitter. I like it so much.
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Brooke Harrington
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Body Count Ethan P. Knox
I could have sworn, on any other day, that his hair was the color of flames. But in this bed, it looked brown and dingy in the dark light, not quite any distinct color in particular. It made me think of dirt, and in a strange way, he smelled like that too, the color of dirt, what you imagine it should smell like. Crushed fireflies and justmowed grass and summer fires. And he smelled like his wife, too; her perfume lingered around his neck where her hair had grazed him in bed. The one he laid in hours before he came to this hotel room and took off his clothes and tried to forget the curlers she wore and the crying he knew she did silently sometimes seconds and sometimes hours after she woke up, alone, with only a cold spot next to her. As he tried to forget the silver stud in her ear that matched mine. I breathed into his back and wondered if he dreamed. Was it her lips, her pink lip gloss-the one that sometimes stained his collar-- that he felt when he rolled over in the middle of the night and touched my mouth with his thumb? What smooth skin did he think of when his arm reached around to touch my back? Did his dreams include her long legs, her quiet laugh, her not-quite-silent snore? Did he dream of the man before me, the one who had introduced us? Of the park bench we had sat at and pretended not to notice each other while he slid me cash and the name of a motel on the opposite side of town? I wondered if he knew the curl of hair on the back of his head that always seemed to stand on end, or if he remembered the neon signs of the Chinese restaurants we walked by. I wondered if I reminded him more of the woman who slept in his bed, or the last man, all fiery eyes and unrequited passion. I knew that he hardly thought of me at all.
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A woman, too, that paid with her credit card and laughed when I asked if she wanted me to unclip her bra; who smiled when I touched her shoulder but grimaced when I grazed the scar on her back. She was older, calm and warm, and after we both finished, she looked out the window and told me she wanted a cigarette even though she’d stopped smoking when she was twenty-three. Her apartment was quiet and clean; there was no art or photography on the walls. It smelled like Lysol disinfectant and I imagined that if the lights turned on, they’d be a hard sort of fluorescent, almost strong enough to bleach her skin. An ambulance passed and the sound reverberated through the house like radio waves through the cracks of the walls. Her breath wasn’t quite even, and I wondered if the silence made her upset; I tried to breathe a little louder, just in case. I wondered if she had family. Maybe a son or daughter, who lived far away, and only visited once a year. Maybe I reminded her of a high school crush, or her ex-husband; or maybe I reminded her of no one in particular but filling the space at night was an affordable comfort. Did she wonder, I wondered, how long she could hold out? How long we could sit in silence in this bed and not say a word? I watched as her fingers drummed against the purple bed sheets and wasn’t surprised when her hand reached out to the desk and picked up a pencil pockmarked with bites. She tapped the end against her lips while we sat, comfortably, on opposite sides of the bed. When I pulled on my jeans, I grabbed the pack of Eagles from my back pocket. The pairing of the smell of the smoke and the look on her face after she took that first drag was almost more pleasing to me than the one she had made in bed earlier that night.
Marie Taylor
And then the couple, who walked with me in a park after we met in a downtown bar. All we did was talk. The man's voice sounded like sugar and honey, gritty but sweet. The woman was almost the same, but in a richer way, a molasses like sound. Their eyes were warm, and they smiled at each other while the walked, in tiny sideways glances. Sometimes, their hands would link together as they paced beside me. We talked about morals and the meaning of life and the stars in the sky, whatever came to mind. Otherwise, it was a mix of sounds and near silence. The world passed by in tiny bubbles of noise; cars from a nearby highway as their engines backfired like gunshot, creaking wood from man-made bridges, honking geese. I watched them walk away later and tried not to smile too much when their voices meshed together to say goodnight, their sum that much sweeter. How do you tell someone, in those moments, how you love? How you love the feeling of their skin, warm to the touch, as it bubbles to goosebumps? How you love the tiny marks their teeth leave in the pencils they hide behind their ears? How you love the sound of the sighs that escape their lips when birds take off from a lake and no words pass between you? Do you hold the cotton strings when you walk out and tie them around your memories of naked flesh, of pencil marks and words that mean more than you realize when they leave your mouth?
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Emerald Livia Zarge
She seared herself to the backs of his eyelids. He was destined to forever be chasing every particle of matter that made her up, couldn't help but reach out, practically bled for her. If love was a being it would look like her (at least in his eyes). She's the beach facing the ominous sea, he belongs in the sand but his feet remain submerged. If love was a thing she'd be the lighthouse eternally guiding him home promising solace.
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The Last Minute Gel Castronova
In the end it was quiet There were no more jigsaw puzzle pieces to put together. No more crosswords to fill in, No longer a television to turn up when the surrounding chatter grew too loud, Or blankets to request in a lukewarm room for uncirculated feet. No more mugs full of water sitting atop the cranky old radiator Or mangey old pillows on hard chair surfaces to make them softer. No more junk mail piling up on the kitchen table Or scattered shopping lists written on Sunday mornings. No rooms full of family, bickering and laughing Or hands coming together in hopeful prayer. In the end it was quiet. A bright, white, cold room. Slow beeping on dim monitors. A daughter’s hand placed in a mother’s. There was not much in the room: A bed A TV A whiteboard Two chairs And hope. Then there was a moment. A last breathe An unnoticed final second as the clock ticked 2 am And the mother’s hand goes limp But the daughter still held on gently, asleep Before all of the voices and machines ruined it, In the end it was quiet.
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Aissata Diallo
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Escapism Blanca E. Perez
Infestation of my mind! Ghost ever-present you have proved, This embrace will not loose. How hast thou hold over me, Delirious untouchable ecstasy? Mocked my attempts of fresh air, With panging flashbacks of when you were there. And how now everything is a bore! I seek sensations you have born, Through a drag of glass and exhale of smoke. I surrender to memory’s synthetic elope! Smile languidly in a schizophrenic haze, Visions of laughter and your soft graze Heat my lips And stroke my hair Lapping lazily, as I lay bare. Till finally I reach out. Reciprocate your hold, and admit in a whisper, “You are felicity, that which I searched for.”
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Returning Nicole E. Zilker
The moonbeams that taunt me With false day, false hope, Do not tremble at my step. They do not fear my worship, My moondance. But so does the world resist my hymn. After so long without the music Of my prayer, my praise Echoing between strokes of green And strokes of blue, And the shadow of my touch Cooling the glade for dawn, It fears not my absence, Apparently accustomed, But my return. The reversal of the poles by the very wink That once turned the tides against themselves And spoiled the sky unto her drinkers. But I have returned. And My submission is unlimited. I have settled between clouds, And my song will be delivered. At first reflected off the hard earth Maybe. But soon swept up in the voice of day: The whimpering yawns of morning The honey hum of late afternoon And the deep, cascading sigh of dusk.
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Size Down
When the world is feeling large I need only look out and see the electric wires that are but a man's length from my window, a low ceiling over the cozy home town. They droop shamelessly, a fancy can and string tethering.
Christopher Bacalla
Twenties I run along the edge of a hill. As I begin the sprint: legs youthful, eyes worn. Elementary athletics on a collegiate quad epitomize the edge of man and child. Others are researching significant scientific whatevers while I try to turn the past into forever.
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Even the Nurses are Praying To the nurses who gathered in the prayer room as my mom received her life-saving liver transplant and are now risking their lives to save those of others. Oh, How one person’s pain can be so powerful. How tears can heal. How the heart can open up to pray for a stranger To get a new piece of themselves, For are we not all damaged And just want there to be a bit less rubble, A little less crumble for somebody even if not us? How we want to see one battle won because we’ve seen so many lost. How we know forfeit is loss and therefore We will not.
Still He still draws me pictures Every time I come home And I hope He never stops For even when it feels he has nothing To hold
Maximilian Kurant
I want him to know that No matter what
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He always has me And his crayons, Reminders that he is always My little brother.
The Myth of Someday
Emily Sheremeta
Right now, walking the dog, you think, maybe this memory will resurface eventually for no particular reason. It will not be perfectly preserved. No one will wrap it in acid-free paper and keep it dry for you. But maybe the smell of the fresh cut grass or the way the dog’s legs seem too small to support the rest of him will seep into an afterthought an impossible decade later. Who knows what you will be doing then or who you might be? You might be standing solidly in your new present watching someone mow his useless lawn, and that will be enough to call to mind how the dog trundles a little too far ahead, forever just out of reach if you keep going at your pace, before pausing at the edge of someone else’s fence and lifting his leg.
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