Issuu

Fission

publishing short-form creative writing and black-and-white graphic art from students across the Pennsylvania State University system www.sites.psu.edu/falloutshelter

Fall 2024

Student Editorial Staff: Lauren Ajebon, August Mallott, Brennan Quigley, Lindsay Rogoze, Antonia Santanna, Tony Tong, and Phoenix VanSkyhawk

Faculty Adviser: Dr. Eric Bliman

Penn State Harrisburg | 777 West Harrisburg Pike | Middletown, PA 17057-4898

Front Cover image credit: “A Rabbit with Hope” By Mya Weber

Front Inside Cover image credit: “Evidence that I Exist” By Robin Weir

Back Inside Cover image credit: “The Street Vendor” By Aratrika Chakrabarti

Back Cover image credit: “Palimpsest 1” By David Wolpert

The design and printing of this year’s issue of Fission was made possible by the generous support of the School of Humanities and the Student Initiated Fee team, a group whose purpose is to enhance students’ co-curricular experiences on the Penn State Harrisburg campus. From all of us to the School of Humanites and the SIF team: We thank you for your support!

My Father’s Daughter

By Sumana Moosavi

I was his reflection, his face, his demeanor, his echo, And it was cute back when shadows were just shadows, Not burdens.

His stubbornness felt like iron, a pillar I could lean against, Unbreakable.

I didn’t see the rust blooming quietly, or how silence could fill a room, Pressing against your chest Until it hurt to breathe.

I followed in his footsteps, Unaware of the cracks I’d fall into one day.

Now, his anger sits in me like a coiled wire, Twitching under my skin. His words slip out not like whispers, but stones, sharp-edged, breaking the surface of everything.

When did I become this reflection? Why is this glass showing only the shards?

I am still his daughter, But now his shadow is a cloak that clings, Growing heavier with each step, I wonder if I can take it off without tearing it apart.

The Oak at the Edge of the Field

By Zhanbo Zhang

I’ve been standing here so long, I’ve watched stones turn to dust and rabbits return season after season, digging their homes in my roots. The field is still wild, still untamed, even though you keep trying to carve it into lines, plowing the earth, sowing your seeds. But you don’t know the soil the way I do its cool dampness after rain, the scent of wet moss, the earthy sweetness of mushrooms pushing through the loam.

You call it dirt, but to me, it’s lifeblood.

You think you own the field, but I know better. It owns you— every step you take, every breath of air you draw carries a trace of me.

I am the smell of firewood and dust, the feel of bark rough under your palm. Even when you burn me down, I return, sprouting green, because this earth remembers what you’ve forgotten.

August

By Alexandria Smith

The searing sun is frying my milky skin, And I think the dragonfly on my shoulder will soon Peel off me and fly away in a mess of ink and thin scabs. I hate the sun. It makes me bitter without fail. Every summer morning I crawl out from under my bed, Cursing the world for the lurid heat. It makes my hair flat, and the back of my knees sweat. It makes my feet swell

Like I’m a mother of six. It’s not attractive. I’m a woman and I’m not that hard to please, All I really want is a private income and good sex, And to not have to pump my own gas, And no more godforsaken armpit sweat. I wish summer would wave its heated goodbye so that I can finally bask in autumn’s

Sweet serenity, with a thick cardigan and a steaming mug, With autumn’s icy fingers wrapped around my limbs. I want her to refresh my bitter, fiery soul and I just Want to be gentle again.

Common Beauty

By Matthew Fanous

“The lotus, stunning, beautiful and effervescent, it blooms in the rays of dawn light”

The words on the girl’s homework page painted an image to her with precision. Paintings of flowers, of transience, symmetry, and ethereal radiance.

The girl pulled her weighted eyes away from the page, and towards her window, hoping for a resemblance in the sight.

Peeking through, she did not see a lotus, but nestled in-between her house and her neighbor’s lay merely a dandelion lit by the dull glow of a nearby lamppost.

The girl was disappointed by this display. The poems she labored over were dissimilar to the things she saw in her everyday life.

Dejected, the girl let her face droop back, and resigned to her banal and plain life.

In a thousand different ways, she related to the dandelion more than the lotus. That much would be evident to anyone watching her work with such veracity even as starlight crests the sleepy city street.

However, what the girl did not see, peering out of the window as she did, was the wholly ephemeral charm created even by the most common of life’s sounds and sights.

The dandelion, providing, marigold, and hardy nonetheless, blooms even in the dull glow of a lamppost.

It is just as beautiful as any lotus.

“The Moon” by Logan Saunders

He Has a Heart

By Faith Braun

And in that moment, my father - the Navy sailor, the muscleman, the adopted son, the backbone of our family, the man I had never once seen cry in my eighteen years of life – was nothing but a child sitting at his mother’s side, knowing it could be the last time he would ever see her.

Father’s Day

By Charli C. Nowak

In his jacket was a photo of my mother’s ultrasound; that photo will always be the closest he ever got to holding his daughter.

Woman

By Emelia Heisey

I believe the last of my innocence died the day I realized I cannot be viewed as anything other than a woman.

Home

By Ereny Hanna

Once upon a time, a family of five left behind all they’d known, all they’d owned, fleeing a country that once brimmed with peace, now swallowed by horror, by tragedy— a place no one any longer called home. They promised their children a life that was stolen from them, a life of safety, of comfort, a place they wished to call home They stepped into a new world, the one so many left behind dream of. The one some take for granted until they hear the heartbreaking news— another life was taken, another soul was silenced, for a religion they love, for a practice they cherish, in a place none of them can any longer call home.

Once upon a time, a family of five left behind all they’d owned, because it no longer felt like home.

A Brief Musing on the Changing Season

By Zhanbo Zhang

How crisp the air since Summer passed, And Autumn took her hold

O’er hill and vale, o’er reaches vast, A marvel to behold:

Her auburn hair like waves that crash Upon some distant shore Turns red and orange the oak and ash, And brown becomes the thorn.

Come, gaze with me ‘pon mountains yonder In their festive dress, And come with me to softly wander Autumn’s wilderness

Now painted all with Autumn’s brush Of warm and muted hues; Contrast with Summer’s verdant lush, Or Sky’s eternal blues.

This Season now has come at last Which makes the Muses bold, Inspiring verse with shadows cast In copper, bronze, and gold.

Summer Heat

By Mia Elise McEvers

Our skin melts and drips off our bones. Heat that burns like a fiery candle melting the waxy Earth. Sweat coats our skin. It runs like raging waters of a river. To sweat and to melt, the cursed ways of summer heat. My sister groans like an old door. Her coal flesh burns in summer’s grill. The sizzling curb cooks our butts. We sip our Cola. Our throats soak in the drink like a greedy, gluttonous sponge. The cat yowls in discomfort. He pants like a parched dog after a long run. The shade he lies in to alleviate his misery. He’s smart.

My skin is the color of a rotisserie chicken. C’mon kitty. We’re going inside.

Winter Wind

By Tyler Duverna

Hail strikes down like sharp talons of ice. Dark black trails collect sleet and snow as Ground-movers pause from their routines. This is the only instance when time halts while I stand alone perched on a branch.

The winter wind’s abrasive air jabs at the nostrils of those who choose to endure. Those whose featherless bodies perish in the cold. For I am a winter owl, the overseer of the season, a divine being.

The one who witnesses yet will never understand. What does it mean to be a ground-mover with four featherless wings?

The forest is lonely these days, yet they always have someone to hunt with. My head revolves around searching not for prey but a companion.

Maybe not this winter, but hopefully someday. As the stormy winter wind blows and the night goes dim, all that remains is me, an owl longing to be seen.

“Finley” by David Wolpert

Hercules vs. The Bank of Hades

By Tyler Duverna

I wake up in terror. A hero as mighty as I thrown into a sea of unfathomable sorcery: It must be the workings of Hades himself.

A curse of mystical devices floods the streets as idle gazers stare into enchanted mirrors. Soft of flesh and weak of will. My test, it seems, is navigating this.

Aye-Tee-Emm?

An escape route, perhaps! This gleaming portal is bound behind a glassed casing.

I vow to slay this oracle of currency, and stride once more toward Olympus. I strike its rigid abdomen then aim for its crown.

I garner a crowd of seemingly inspired mortals. Each adorned in black visages and dark hued raiment, as a nimbus of red and blue surrounds them. I urge them to get back from the danger that ensues.

The mad ones clasp flimsy metal rings around my wrists until I hear behind me, “You are under arrest, sir.”

Serious Baby

By Adrian Dulgheru

There is a doll I have

Whose name is Serious Baby.

He looks angry and astounded and minute all at once

With a dark suit and bowtie wrapped around his throat

Flushed cheeks of heat that will never truly be regarded.

In the way that I am,

I have tried all my years to be mature

To wield intelligence as my weapon of choice, but I am no good at fencing.

Serious Baby is a biologist.

He is a researcher and a writer and a reader,

A deep thinker, a contributor of the world,

But his exterior can never be erased from one of immaturity.

He will always be just that: baby-faced, hollow on the inside, Filled only by empty promises and a desire to be greater than he truly is,

To push his flaws to the roots of his soles and forget about them all.

He is a great pretender–

Whom does he draw inspiration from?

For I made him and he makes me.

Carry On

By Grace Duong

I woke up with a headache in

The form of your judgment

For every step you take

Every doubt you have Is another pin to my hippocampus

I think the radio silence makes me

Want to believe in God again

For He must feel the same way

About me

But I would happily shoot out the sun

If it means you’d get to grieve properly

Your back towards me in bed

Is no different from roadkill

Along with every other bad omen

I pass on the highway

I get jealous of scavengers

Cause at least they have something

To latch onto.

And suddenly I’m reminded of silence

You’re my favorite creature

The only one I can justify devouring me in the end

Because from a distance it may look like A lone hand reaching out to you

From the dirt but it turns out to be

Just carrion

Resting on the side of the street

Tribute to Dor Doi

By Khonzodakhon Mukhamedova

Inspired by the poem “Ode to Jackson Heights” by Usman Hamadi

Past the cities, far from the highways, nestled near the mountains.

The uneven roads, trash littered on sides, the sounds, smells, and sights.

The sound hits you first.

A racket caused by people talking over each other, the shoppers yelling, babies crying, and Aunties chatting.

The smell is redolent.

Mixed with hot piroshki, sour kurt, and fresh fruit.

Huge metal cargos, towering over each other.

All the way to the alley, the cargos are filled with clothing.

Set next to colorful hijabs hung on every wall, pajamas, undergarments, and the cheap Chinese toys.

This is Dor Doi.

Across the street, merchants are bargaining, wanting every coin you got.

But you must be smarter.

Like the Mamays who came from miles away to buy the newest kuynek.

On the left of the street, you have the workers yelling “joldon çıguu” so you must move quickly from the heavy crates.

The sound, the smells, and the sights are all chaos.

Yet it all works together.

The tranquility you have yet to see.

Like the Buvays nestled between the cargos, sitting peacefully whilst smoking a cigar.

Like the children playing and laughing amidst the chaotic sounds of the bazaar.

Like the youngsters eating in the cafes, carelessly chatting away.

Like the mothers singing lullabies to their babies as they rock them to sleep.

Whilst the rest of the world transforms into modernization. Where culture and history are gone.

Praise the generation who have kept the piece of home.

A piece of Dor Doi.

And something I will take with me as I leave the streets of the bazaar.

My mind filled with nostalgia.

My nose filled with scents of piroshki and pastries.

My tongue still tastes the fresh sour drink, Ayran.

And my heart remembers the tranquility.

I am home.

This Is Why Relationships Are Haram

By Sumana Moosavi

Haram: prohibited in Islamic Law

Because love isn’t simple when your heart Is carved from centuries of tradition, Each beat heavy with the weight of duty, Like stones in a pocket Pulling you down into shadows.

Because desire pulls you toward a horizon You’re not supposed to see, Where your name and his name Whisper too close for comfort, Like secret prayers in a crowded mosque.

Because the world is watching, With every glance a watchful eye, Every stolen moment a spark That ignites the fear of hellfire— The rebellion you can’t afford.

Because how do you explain That your love is a contradiction? A dance between faith and fear, Between the yearning for freedom And the chains of expectation.

Because you are an Indian-Muslim girl, And every step toward him Feels like a step away from everything You were taught to hold sacred, The threads of your identity unraveling.

Because maybe they’re right. Maybe you’re wrong,

But in the quiet of your mind Where no one is watching, You still trace the lines Of what could have been, Even if you never speak his name again.

Centerpieces

By Charli C. Nowak

A dead toad, a dead bat, and two dead spiders. She keeps them on the table as constant reminders of death.

She calls them by name and claims they are her friends, But, when the heat turns off, all I can see is my breath.

“Mom, we are hungry, cold, and sad!” “Kids, think about how these animals felt . . . you’ll realize we don’t have it that bad.”

“A Parasite Blooms Within” by Adrian Dulgheru

Richard Papen Considerers The Secret History Of Hallucinogenics

By Alexandria Smith

We, the Hampden College classics majors, are the maddest of them all. Here I am, covered in blood, barefoot, and so drunk I can barely stand up straight, slow dancing in the forest

To music composed in my head, ignoring the corpse

Of the Classics golden boy, Bunny, dumped over the cliff.

But I’m blaming it all on the hallucinogenics and the fullness of Camilla’s hips. Her name leaves my lips in a breath of pleasure and praise.

Bacchus, a drunk voyeur, meets us in the rustle of the trees, And as the earth around us breathes solidarity, Camilla leans closer to me And whispers, “The universe expands to fill the self,”

An echo of Watt’s teachings, the discontinuation of duality and ego.

The self is consumed by inhibition, filling the boundaries of an otherwise pallid life. I lift my head to answer, but I’m hypnotized

By the way her irises are swallowed by her pupils and her jaw hangs open.

I’m high on ecstatic abandon.

I’ve been freed by our Dionysian passion.

I’m Richard Papen and this is my raison d’être.

I’ve found my muse and it’s made of fire, I’m moon-soaked and dawn-enlivened.

This is ignorance in the modern World, the unfettering distance from gruesome reality.

I’m savoring the feeling of blood smearing between us.

There’s dirt under my nails and this ritual, an orchestra of carnality, Is all stomachache and solace. I’m on my knees, starving, In awe of this sacrament that leaves me shaking.

An Alligator’s Journey

By Morgan Byers

I am awakened by the sound of something moving past me. It is an alligator moving through the swamp. I slither away giving it a wide berth. I watch as he travels through mangrove shadows and tangled roots, the humid air clinging to his scales.

I see his struggle to try and lift the weight that he carries and sense his annoyance because of his ability to only move a foot each step that he takes. His path is marked by streaks of mud and indents from his body.

The Florida sun beats down on us with unrelenting heat. While I relish it, he is searching for relief. He finally sees it, a promise of coolness and peace ahead. He navigates the maze that is the swamp, his eyes fixed on the distant shimmer before him.

He passes the continuous chorus of cicadas and croaks of frogs. The swamp opens to reveal the whispered secret, the pond. Its surface glistening in the distance, a sanctuary among the tangled foliage.

The remaining journey is long, but hope guides his way. It is like every step is a negotiation with the muck, each breath is heavy with anticipation.

Finally, he reaches the edge where reeds sway gently. The water embraces him with a soothing touch. In the quiet of the pond’s clear depths, he finds the solace he sought through the swamp’s trial.

A Rancid Mattress

By Ava Amato

“Laird, I believe the bed has gone rancid,” Alice said. A foul odor wafted from the mattress, filling the bedroom with a pungent aftertaste.

“Maybe we left it out of the fridge for too long.” Alice swatted her husband lightly at the remark. The two had just purchased it from a marketplace two weeks prior.

Perhaps the issue was that they purchased it from a marketplace rather than a furniture store. Perhaps the issue was that Laird has a tendency to drool whenever he sleeps, or that he prefers the room sweltering hot in comparison to Alice, leaving her sweating like a dog. It was probably the former. “Do you think they’ll give us a refund if I cry?”

Alice mulled it over. “Probably not.”

Laird pouted as the two vacated the room away from the smell. They settled on the beat-up couch they had since they had graduated college two years prior, barely able to fend for themselves.

“It smells like something died in there,” Alice said thoughtfully, stretching her arms to the ceiling. Laird looked at her pointedly.

“We could say our cat died inside the mattress.”

Alice furrowed her eyebrows. “You’re allergic to cats.”

“They don’t have to know that.” Laird shrugged, intertwining his legs with Alice’s on the couch.

She sighed. “Where’s the body?”

Laird smiled. “The freezer.”

“This is stupid.”

Laird admired the urns, checking how sturdy each one was in his hands. He looked at his wife. “What if they want to know where the cat is when they come pick up the mattress?”

“What happened to the freezer?” Alice asked.

“We got him cremated,” Laird replied, holding up a blue urn. Alice squinted.

“We came to the thrift store for new sheets,” Alice reminded him. He huffed, placing the urn in their cart.

When the movers took the spoiled bed, they apologized profusely to the couple for their loss. Alice awkwardly nodded, glancing haphazardly towards the urn Laird insisted upon. Her husband, ever the gentleman, was stuck at work while the movers came.

The short and stout man took off his hat to pay his respects to the cat. Alice had never seen someone so devoted to a feline before. Was he like this for all cats, or just fake ones his mattresses had accidentally killed? He wiped his face and apologized once more, handing her a few hundred dollars for all he had caused. After excusing them, she sat on the couch.

Alice squinted at the urn. It was a beautiful blue. A shame it belonged to a cat who didn’t exist. She picked it off the coffee table, running her fingers on the markings. Engraved on the side was an epitaph.

Loving Husband and Father.

Creative Writing at Penn State Harrisburg

At Penn State Harrisburg, we love creative writing! Each semester, our experienced faculty offer introductory and advanced courses in fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction, as well as multigenre introductory creative-writing courses. Each year PSH publishes two literary journals, Fission and From the Fallout Shelter, both of which are edited by students with faculty advisors. Writers of all levels of experience, from beginning to advanced, are all very welcome to join our staff and our classes!

In creative-writing classes, you’ll have the opportunity to write and revise your work for an audience of your peers, the instructor and fellow students giving you feedback every step of the way. Creative-writing coursework demonstrates our ability to communicate originally and persuasively. It’s also a great way to push ourselves toward meeting our personal writing goals, such as writing and publishing collections of poems, nonfiction essays, short stories, or a novel. If you’re an aspiring writer or would like to learn more about creative writing and how to expand your skill set, you’ll have fun taking our classes, and find them useful both in and beyond college. Even if you don’t want to major in it, consider adding a Creative-Writing Minor to your existing major since job recruiters from across all disciplines admire applicants who communicate clearly, creatively, and convincingly for audiences.

Be sure to check https://lionpath.psu.edu for an updated list of course offerings in creative writing at HBG. If you have questions about a course, feel free to reach out to any of the listed professors for more information—or ask Dr. Eric Bliman or Prof. Ashley Cowger who to contact by reaching out to them at their emails below.

To get involved as a student editor, please reach out directly to Dr. Bliman (emb35@psu.edu, for information about Fission) or to Prof. Cowger (afc11@psu.edu, for information about From the Fallout Shelter).

For more information, please visit https://harrisburg.psu.edu/ or find our English program details here: https://harrisburg.psu.edu/humanities/english/bachelor-humanities-english/curriculum

Fission is Penn State Harrisburg’s Fall-term literary arts magazine. In the spirit of splitting the atom to create more energy, Fission features smaller, shorter written works which stand alone under their own artistic power. While we primarily publish poems, short-short stories, mini-essays, and hybrid works, the magazine also showcases black-and-white photography and artwork. The campus of Penn State Harrisburg is near the nuclear reactors of Three Mile Island, and our main building serves as a fallout shelter, so the names Fission and From the Fallout Shelter, our Spring-term literary magazine, are a nod to our region and our past.

Fission publishes writers from Penn State’s 24 branch campuses alongside Harrisburg’s own.

The Street Vendor by Aratrika Chakrabarti

Penn State Harrisburg’s Literary Arts Magazine