Eastern exposure 2015

EASTERN EXPOSURE

Student Literary Journal 2015 Eastern Connecticut State University

Student Literary Journal 2015

Eastern Exposure EASTERN CONNECTICUT STATE UNIVERSITY

Eastern Exposure 2015

Eastern Exposure Eastern Exposure, Eastern Connecticut State University’s student literary magazine, is published annually by the Eastern Writers Guild, a student club at Eastern Connecticut State University, English Department, 225 Webb Hall, 83 Windham Street, Willimantic, CT 06226.

Email: easternwriters@my.easternct.edu Phone: 860-456-4570 Fax: 860-456-4580 Faculty Advisor Dr. Daniel Donaghy, Associate Professor of English Eastern Writers Guild Executive Board President: Kelsey Haddad Vice President: Sabrina Scott Secretary: Seth McCullock Treasurer: Jennifer Mouland 2015 Editorial Board Assistant Editors: Cody Dolan, Colleen Hart, William Jeckel, Matthew Mollica, Christopher Morris, Eden Rivera, Rachel Scrivano, Ben Seraphin, J Silva, Sharon Suchecki, Jenna Vinelli, Amanda Wilson Cover Art Angela DiLella, ‘14 Eastern Exposure showcases the literary work of Eastern Connecticut State University’s student writers.

In doing so, it promotes the university’s mission to be “the state’s public liberal arts university” and “to be a model community of learners of different ages from diverse cultural, racial and social backgrounds.”

SUBMISSIONS: Eastern Exposure accepts submissions of student poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, scripts, and one-act plays from the start of the fall term until 4 p.m. on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.

All Eastern students are invited to submit their work (up to five pieces; a total of ten pages) as a single Word attachment through the Submittable link on Eastern Exposure’s website (http://www1.easternct.edu/ writersguild/eastern-exposure/). Each student must include a brief (15-word) biographical note with his/her submission.

Eastern Exposure is distributed free to members of the Eastern Connecticut State University community.

Current issues are available in the campus bookstore, the Student Center, Smith Library, and the English Department Office (225 Webb Hall). Back issues may be available through the Eastern Writers Guild Faculty Advisor and the English Department.

All print rights for individual works revert to contributors upon publication. However, Eastern Exposure’s editors reserve the right to reprint work printed in its journal on its website and in retrospective anthologies.

Special thanks to Miranda Lau (English Department), Kevin Paquin (University Relations), Chris Ambrosio (Student Affairs), Karyl Bulmer (Fiscal Affairs), Communication student Kendal Reed, and everyone in BAM for their guidance and support. © 2015 Eastern Connecticut State University. All rights reserved.

“In this world, there is a kind of painful progress. Longing for what we’ve left behind, and dreaming ahead.”

Tony Kushner

CONTENTS Angela DiLella

Divine Electric Lights

7

Kelsey Tuller Night-Blooming Cereus 8

Rebecca Rubin A Hero’s Burden 9 Moriah Perrett

Bon Fire

10

Zach Watson

Emily Dwelley

The Effect of Atomic Bombs on Puppies

11

An Ode for Potterheads

12

Maddy Kobar Hopeful Holnap 13

Rachel Scrivano Pocket Watch 14

William Jeckel Waits 15

Eden Rivera Javapaloosa 16 Erin Drouin Dignity 17 Joshua Measimer The Ballad of Thomas Manta

Christopher Morris My Pen Pal, Libby

19

Jonathan Kirby

29

The Devil You Know

22

Maddy Kobar Depression Talks 30 Emily Dwelley Suppressing Witch Queens and Evil Stepsisters 31 Renee Drouin

Toxic Boy, Bitter Girl

33

Jordon Thompson Steps 35 William Jeckel Jazz 36 Eden Rivera The Wait 37 Sabrina Scott Raisins 38 4

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CONTENTS Jonah Craggett Pious Woman 39

Emily Dwelley Discovering Red 41

Julia Rathbun Alice Appleton and Her Struggle to

Sacrifice the Amazonianae Elephant-Bipes Flavis Asteroidea 42

Alexia Kurtz A 12th Birthday 45

Shanna Steele The First One I Call 46

Emily Dwelley A Purse-Eyed View 48

Sharon Suchecki Without a Sound 49

Moriah Perrett Albini’s Funeral Home 57

Maddy Kobar The Ballad of the Burning Bridge 59

Renae St. John To My Buxom Babes 61

Rebecca Rubin Cashews 63

Contributors Notes 64

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Angela DiLella Divine Electric Lights Painters gave angels wings in the tenth century, Not the other way around.

Before that, they were painted with luminous skin To showcase their divinity.

Of course, in this Year of Our Lord, Two Thousand Twenty-Six, This tradition has been revived–– It’s fashionable to get the Surgery: Miniscule bulbs inserted under the skin, harmless, But very trendy, Controlled by the most sensitive hair triggers: So sensitive they turn on with a sudden gust of wind, a movement,

the tiniest breath against the flesh And we flash on, sometimes in embarrassment at being Suddenly as alive as New York City at night.

A million tiny glowing bulbs under the first layer of our skin merge–– And we are smoothly whole and soft We glow in the night

We have no wings.

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Kelsey Tuller

Night-Blooming Cereus I lost a bracelet in your room somewhere–– maybe it rolled off my wrist into the sheets or fell behind the bed onto the floor where no one who knows what it is will ever find it.

It was a cheap, beaded thing.

A man I’d met earlier that night bought it for me from a street vendor, a passing immigrant loaded down with glittering trinkets and false jewels for our amusement, who still wanders in the night somewhere in Rome or Florence or Barcelona, far from home.

I’d asked the man to buy me a rose.

No, because it would die, he said.

He never buys girls flowers.

He wouldn’t give me something that would be gone tomorrow.

A noble sentiment for a man who didn’t even stay until morning.

A man who told me his name, but I couldn’t tell you what it was.

He’s in the gutter somewhere, or lost behind your bed, or in mine.

I know you’re not supposed to tell your lover about the ones before, but one way or another I tell you everything while the morning ages gracefully and we don’t get out of bed.

He was gone before dawn, before the hangover set in, the street lights turned off, the flower started to wilt.

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Rebecca Rubin

A Hero’s Burden He grabbed my mom In her sleep around the neck With one arm while the other Fought something off.

He flailed, punched, mumbled something I couldn’t understand while a movie Flickered in the background.

The look in her eyes: not panic.

She had seen this before.

A possession took over, A demon only to be seen in the Darkness of the unconscious.

She whispered to me, “Its OK, he’s having a nightmare.”

The photographs he showed me: Human beings, disintegrated, Ashes, a thin layer of black snow Crumbled in his hand, Vision blurred by smoke, Simmering human flesh, he held onto his mask, Careful not to inhale the poisonous gas That lingered in the air, That will kill those unprotected years later, As he searched for survivors at Ground Zero.

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Moriah Perrett

Bon Fire The dripping saccharin an addiction given like rewards from a slot machine well, maybe a bit more than that. enough to make love out of bits of ash plucked from my hair or from soft hard words said rumbling into my ear all curled around me and laced between my fingers. both enough and leaving want making jealous rage boil bubbling from a deep place I’ve never seen before never needed. but there it was heart racing lump forming mind speeding ugly and stunning like dragonflies mating rear end hooked to thorax in flight together a wonderment yet unseemly but fascinating unable to look away I forfeit sleep and reason for a little while at least soaring fire billowing smoke disguise metallic taste that fades beneath warm calloused fingers

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Zach Watson

The Effect of Atomic Bombs on Puppies Dead are your dogs Questions dodged from our Government officials Pluto is dead, So is Snoopy and Clifford Information remains unsaid Classified While vultures glide by Dead are your puppies Purposely for profit Taken away by radioactive decay While vultures glide by Unscathed Dead are their newborns Birthed in nuclear warfare Reasons why, still unclear Authority scorned and Satisfied with your loss Dead are your dogs While vultures glide by As blood money covers the Congress floor

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Emily Dwelley

An Ode for Potterheads There’s just something about that name that gets me whistling the theme song to the bathroom or muttering Lumos! in the dark.

It’s like a religion. I’m a Catholic Potterhead.

I kneel before the cross and the Deathly Hallows.

I worship the Virgin Mary and Albus Dumbledore.

I have the 7 Commandments to which I devoutly study and the Marauder’s Map to guide me.

I’ll wear an obnoxious yellow beanie with a badger on the front and not give two chocolate frogs about it.

I’ll wear knee-high socks to match that beanie dress up in my Forever21’d Hogwarts uniform because there’s just something about believing in magic that catches my snitch and butters my beer.

It dips my veins in glitter and amortentia; makes me want to scream EXPELLARIMUS! until my lungs are two deflated Quaffles.

I was that eleven-year-old waiting for my acceptance letter and when it didn’t come, I submerged a piece of paper in tea and made my own. I duct taped a stick to make my wand.

I dream of the day I go to his birthplace across the pond to explore the creation of a world a homeless woman wrote for me.

There’s just something about that world which I have immersed myself so tenderly that makes it worth spending galleons to behold.

And you know you’re not the only one, because there are Potterheads reading this and shitting Remembralls thinking of the first time they read the first book, the first time they asked for a Hippogriff for Christmas, the many times they wished they could Apparate.

And there’s just something about that sense of community that squashes the haters because you know a Potterhead when you see one and we Potterheads stick together.

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Maddy Kobar

Hopeful Holnap Holnap, hold me in your arms And whisper to me our great dreaming With fates forever tied, you and I I say Holnap because I know I haven’t yet met you But that doesn’t stop me from believing Someday our lives will intertwine Holnap, I hold your hand Proudly and preciously For you are the one that chose me Holnap, it will be the end of our lonely lives Onward into a joyous life of nomadic bliss When no one will keep us down Where nothing will hold us back From wandering like our ancestors before us Holnap is gloriously unwritten All possibility––our entire kingdom––lies here Holnap, then I will call you Kedvesem and we will dance on the banks of the Danube Singing the songs of long ago With a new tune of our own Maybe the ghosts will raise a toast to us Holnap, crown us royalty King and Queen or Queen and Queen Honestly now, I cannot say For Holnap is when you will be with me And it is Holnap that brings you to me But until then, in our dreams we stay Notes: Holnap (hole-nap) is Hungarian for tomorrow. Kedvesem (ked-vesh-em) is a Hungarian term of endearment translates to “my darling” or “my dear.” The Danube is a river in Central Europe, which flows through Hungary.

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Rachel Scrivano

Pocket Watch Each tick marks a moment in life that you’ll never get back, never sustain, never recall.

Grasp it tight between your frail fingers and hold onto the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the hopes, the dreams, the desires, the pulse that keeps your blood warm, the pulse that keeps you sane even when in pain.

Hold it close to your chest so it vibrates against your clothes, against your skin, against your heart.

Lower your lids so your eyelashes tickle your pride and adjust your perspective of the room, the world, the universe, the future, the past, the reverse, the darkness that keeps your faith strong, the darkness that keeps you sane even when in pain.

Listen until everything you knew falls apart like a cookie, like a tower, like a rumor.

Clasp your hands together to form a bond and squeeze tight for yourself, your devotion, your life, the joy, the sorrow, the strife, the tick that keeps you going, the tick that keeps you sane even when in pain.

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William Jeckel

Waits An old man taking a drag in the night An empty bottle of bourbon at his feet Neon and rain making love in his sight At the corner of Lyric Avenue and Rhythm Street He’s got a trilby resting on his head, An Oldsmobile in his drive, A gorgeous ghost waiting on his bed, And a Baby Grand that keeps him alive He stands on stage with backbeat and bass He walks with a six-string pace At home, music and tears run down his face In his sleep, stories and songs find their place

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Eden Rivera

Javapaloosa Crackpot city outside this door: Sparking up my cigarette I see it skip hoppity do.

There’s a giant coffee cup skip hoppity do dadding.

It sways from side to side in its happy java jig running its mouth off, like so, “Javapaloosa! Let’s go crazy!

Swing your hips to the entrance, and let’s go crazy! $1.99 to sip up some soul for your belly!

It’s all right here people, Welcome, welcome, to crackpot cit-t-t-t-y!”

Eyes on the streets of jamocha tweek out, roll up and blaze glossy white in the crowds.

All the caffeinated bimbos fall to their knees as they revel in the sound of hot lips kissing the sweet licks of bliss.

“Jamba, java, jamma, mocha, loco! Let’s go crazy!”

Knocking back shots of shit they express so much about.

While that loco coffee cup on the corner spout his shit off, still dancin’— “No more loungin’ in the mud, perk up your ears, keep track of the shit we all love to brew. $1.99 to those who can afford!

How could you not? This is Crackpot City!”

I stand by the caffeine freak show, Everyone tappin’ on by with clickety glass cups, teeny tiny plates, smashing them up, and hollering about.

“Java, jamba, palooosaa! Sip it up, sip it up, and WoW!” All of them kickin’ their heels with Mickey Mouse jazz hands.

My foot tap tap taps through the vibe drownin’ out Some 5th floor bass bumping, A dime-bag hustler whistling on a stoop, the tambourines of empty cans filled with pennies, a mother’s baby coughing in her arms, the ghetto clamor of a busy, cracked-out, city street.

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Erin Drouin

Dignity Among other requirements, patients who wish to obtain a prescription under the law must be: 1. 18 years of age or older

I love(d) hearing stories of you in the city:

nineteen with five roommates in two bedrooms,

spending more happy hours than working hours.

I more than love(d) hearing you tell the story of how we met. You said “Sure, why not?” when I asked you to dance. You said it again when I asked you to marry me.

2. Diagnosed with a terminal illness that will lead to death within six months

We were playing thumb war in the waiting room. I wish

I knew that it was the last time your hand would look

strong to me. After that I was afraid to squeeze too tight.

Nine days later they took a piece of you and never gave it back. It didn’t help, so then they took another. And all of a sudden they said you were losing your mind and I was losing you.

There’s never enough months to say goodbye.

3. A resident of Oregon, Washington, and Vermont.

I don’t remember how you brought it up, maybe we were in bed

wondering how our lives became this: arguing about whether

or not we’d both pack up and leave just so that you could leave me.

Like everything else it wasn’t my choice, it was yours, but all I can remember now is how hard you cried when we left the home that we spent the last year building; it was the last time you’d ever see it.

4. Capable of making and communicating health care decisions for him/ herself

It’s so twisted how it worked out: t wasn’t my decision, it was

yours. It wasn’t for yourself, it was for your family and

me. You didn’t want to make me watch you waste away.

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Erin Drouin And I can’t help but love you even more for saving me from

seeing it. I would have hated seeing you in all of the pain,

I would have hated myself for wanting you to die to get away from it.

If a patient qualifies for all the requirements, with a confirmation by two physicians, then the prescription is written.

The prescription sat on the counter for weeks. Neither of us were

sure where to put it, no one wanted to talk about it. So it sat there,

your ticket to no-more-pain and my ticket to life without you.

I hung the bird feeder outside your window so that you were

surrounded by everything beautiful. You kept your contacts in

so you could see them as you mixed the drink.

I wish I wrote down the last joke I ever told you so that if I told it again, maybe I’d still be able to hear your cackle.

Maybe I’d be able to relive your lips on mine as we said goodbye.

You taught me how to do the taxes, pay the bills, but I don’t remember. I wasn’t listening as hard as I should have been.

Life without you was something that I wasn’t ready for.

I’m still not ready. I don’t know how to be me without you.

I guess I’ll have to figure it out.

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Joshua Measimer

The Ballad of Thomas Manta Thomas Manta To those who knew him, a man held dear.

To his enemies, a man well feared.

His life began in a small home.

To a family of chefs, he desired to fly and roam.

To reach new heights, make a difference in the world.

Oh, if only he could see how this difference would be unfurled.

His first love was science, a craft he excelled in.

At a young age, with his friend Richard Robinson, He entered a science fair in hopes of a prize to win.

However, it was there that instead his own heart won.

Wendy Nora, a lady fair, Daughter of a great ruler, the youngest heir.

She was a bright mind, rivaling the greats.

Their encounter at this junction, one of fate.

Thomas and Wendy–– Rivals at first, but eventually lovers–– fought for fame and recognition.

Their passion to one-up each other would eventually transition Into what at the time seemed to be a grand marriage.

Where happiness took hold, tragedy would follow.

Two years after marriage, Wendy would give birth To her creation of the greatest worth.

A little boy named Wallace, hair of golden blonde.

However, what should have been joyous was instead hollow.

Wendy had died.

This was Thomas’s first meeting with despair, An acquaintance that would eventually be his only friend.

Alone with a baby boy, he needed help, but where?

From his brother-in-law, the hand would be lent.

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Joshua Measimer James Nora, a general in line to be king, Sought to exploit Thomas’s great mind, Create an army of machines. His enemies to their knees he’d bring.

Around James’s finger, Thomas was twined.

“Provide me these machines, and I’ll provide for you.

Defy me, and you and your son are through.”

So Thomas worked, for seven long years, Developing with Richard the army that James so desired.

Caring for his son, while knowing his actions would bring tears.

In the end, however, Thomas was jaded and tired.

Tragedy, that oncoming storm, Struck once more.

An argument with his son summoned its form.

Running into the street, Wallace was struck.

The rain continued to pour.

At his lowest, in infinite sorrow and frustration, Thomas Manta begged for any sort of salvation.

The source he didn’t care where, only for the pain to end.

That was when he met it: Tragedy, his old friend.

Taking a form cloaked like an agent of death, Tragedy spoke in faded breath.

“Thomas, my friend, your son will return.

Build this machine, and learn.”

Tragedy gave him a device and said it held his son’s soul And built an android to accomplish his goal.

However, while his son returned briefly, the android went awry.

To save his son, Thomas deactivated him, as if to once again die.

He screamed “Tragedy, you brought my son back, but made him a demon of madness.Come back to me and fix what occurred.”

Tragedy returned and responded, “Thomas, you are unwarranted with your sadness.

I said your son would return, but his soul remains blurred.

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Joshua Measimer “To return him to life, as you have once done for that other man, You must work as my agent, a herald, if you will.

Fulfill the tasks I assign you, accomplish a greater plan.

Otherwise, death will grasp hold of him with permanent chill.”

Thomas was sent out into the world to gather other agents: A woman full of greed for the things she could not have; A man, envying his accomplished brother; A close friend, who had become a power hungry glutton; A boy, slothful after losing a brother; A grand ruler, ready to destroy a country under his wrath; A restricted soul, lusting for adventure.

These six and Thomas, the heralds of Tragedy, Played into the creature’s hand so masterfully.

At the pinnacle of Tragedy’s plan Would come the death of man.

Poor Thomas Manta.

Tragedy played him for a fool, Never intending to keep his promise. He was simply a ghoul, Himself an agent for a grander design.

Thomas Manta would come to be feared, A dark agent for a great and terrible master.

He had unwittingly volunteered To usher in the greatest disaster.

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Christopher Morris

My Pen Pal, Libby

I didn’t drink or smoke because I thought it was cool, even though other people thought it was. Heck, Diondra Roosevelt sauntered over to me in the hallway one morning with her click-clack-click hot pink heels, tapped me on the shoulder, and tossed me a pack of Marlboro’s right in front of Mrs. Charleston, who laughed and wagged her finger at Diondra like she was a toddler who needed to eat her greens. I’ll be honest: I drank and smoked because I was that kid, the one who looked at Mom and Dad’s wedding photo and gave it the finger because I’m not your prissy little girl. I did what I did because they couldn’t act all proper, pinkie finger raised, chin turned up towards the ceiling, and say, “Well, Libby is a burgeoning alcoholic and a firmly established chain smoker.” Drinking and smoking were off limits. So was being gay, of course, but that was just a bonus; I didn’t even know about about that until after my first boyfriend tried to play what he called the snuggle game with me in ninth grade.

Granted, I should never have degraded myself by going out with a guy who called the snuggle game the snuggle game, but, naturally, the objective of the snuggle game wasn’t to snuggle, and, a few seconds into it, I realized that he did literally nothing for me. All that time he was convinced his ex, that back stabbing little . . . frigging Ellie, was jealous of us, I think I was jealous that she was out there, single, and I was stuck with this idiot.

“James,” I sighed, really fed up with the snuggle game he was still trying to play after I had already waved my hand at him and left him sprawled across the bed in some pose he thought was seductive so that I could nab a bowl of ice cream.

“I don’t think this is working out.”

“Babe?” He touched the base of my spine with my fingertips, which I used to think turned me on, but it actually just felt good––I have pretty bad back problems. My Mom did it the same night after I told her we’d broken up, and, well, that was a revelation.

“Sorry.” I felt so bad about doing this, especially considering he was now out of both Lay’s sour cream and onion potato chips and Friendly’s chocolate ice cream, that I almost shut myself down and decided to give him another three months worth of a chance.

“Is it because of the BMW?”

“What?”

“The BMW. I know that’s how you lost your sister.”

That’s when I left.

At the time, though, I was adamantly against even considering the fact that I could have a crush on a girl, even Ellie Abel, who was Diondra Roosevelt’s arch nemesis and the only other girl at Waterford High who even had a shot at 22

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Christopher Morris stealing away Homecoming Queen. My parents––ha!––probably thought to themselves, “Oh, well, James sure was nice, but at least Libby’s not gay.”

That’s how their brains worked: If I didn’t get an A on a test––which was always the case in math because my teacher clearly hated her job and the fact that kids with the ability to think for themselves were a part of her life––it was okay because, you know, at least I wasn’t Asian, or even Asian-esque. If I didn’t make the basketball team––which I didn’t even want to try out for in the first place––everything was hunky dory because, hey, I wasn’t black. Everybody hated my parents: Teachers, their other snooty rich friends, my friends.

Me.

It was a bit of a culture shock––actually, I think it was more like being thrown in the electric chair––when Ellie came over to work on our English project, and we ended up making out on my bed.

“It wasn’t my fault,” I had pleaded that night. And that wasn’t a lie.

“So,” Ellie had drawled out, throwing her backpack onto the floor and sitting down on the edge of my messy, candy wrapper cluttered desk. “Are you gonna apply for National Honor Society next year?”

“Why?” I’d asked. Most kids with a 3.5 GPA didn’t get it. We weren’t, as my guidance counselor, Mr. Edwards, stressed, “Ivy League material, Libby. You see what I mean, Libby? That’s how it is, Libby, that’s just how it is.” He got sweaty when he talked to kids, and, by the time you’d heard him squeak out your name fifty billion times within the span of ten minutes, you were ready to throw up.

Ellie shrugged. “Lot of Smarties over here. There were, anyways.”

I giggled girlishly, took out the assignment sheet, and tried to get going on the project when she snapped her fingers at me and leaned in closer. My heart practically exploded, and, once I realized I was literally dying to know if her cherry lipstick would taste good, it became pretty tough to continue convincing myself that the only reason I had left James was because of the snuggle game.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I breathed.

“Were you looking at me in the locker room yesterday? Like, looking?”

That’s when she started kissing me, and I started kissing her, and my mom walked in with milk and cookies, which ended up all over my bedroom floor.

After my parents threw Ellie out on the curb with a promise that they’d call her parents, which I knew wasn’t ever going to happen, I remember sitting on the ground, criss-cross-apple-sauce, my cheeks burning, watching the warm cookies sop up the milk, and all I could think was, Man, what a waste.

“Not your fault,” my father muttered. “I can’t believe you.”

The next day, I sat beside my mother in the waiting room, my arms crossed sullenly over my chest, my foot tapping furiously against the musty carpet as if to some angry, mute beat. I hated physicals––still do––almost as much as I hated my Eastern Exposure

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Christopher Morris parents. As cruel as it sounds, I didn’t cry at either of their funerals; I felt like it would be insulting to Lily’s memory.

“How’re you feeling?”My mother puckered her lips like she’d kissed a lemon, tilted her hand mirror slightly to the side, smiled, waved bye-bye to my reflection with the corners of her mouth.

“Fine.”

“I thought you said your stomach was acting up this morning.”

“It was.” I rolled my eyes. Not only were my parents showy bigots who were proud of how bigoted they were––they called it being conservative, as if that were the same thing – they were also extraordinarily stupid. Maybe they were accountants, but being good at math isn’t the same thing as being smart. Ellie was right; there were a lot of Smarties wrappers on my desk. There were a lot of candy wrappers everywhere I went, perpetually trailing me like they were hunting and trying and failing and trying to fix my bouncy blonde hair in the crosshairs. Pow! I was a scrawny little thing who, at age sixteen, barely came in at five foot one and eighty-eight pounds, but I was all sugar and saturated fat; if I didn’t have a stomach ache, it was because I hadn’t had breakfast yet.

My phone buzzed on top of my thigh, and I snuck a glance at my mother out the corner of my eye, smiled.

Ellie: “Where r u? Need to talk”

Me: “Physical. Will txt u in 40”

She sent me back a smiley face, and I blushed.

Of course, it was hours before I talked to her again, and I called, didn’t text, screamed into my pillow when she didn’t pick up, biked over to her house, which was six miles away.

Thankfully, Ellie was the one who answered the door. Her parents didn’t need to see me like this, even though her father was, according to Ellie, the worst driver on the face of the earth and would fold like a leaf if you pointed it out. She immediately handed me a cigarette when she saw the fat tears streaming down my cheeks, sat beside me wearing skin tight yoga pants and a blue cashmere hoody. “Deep breath,” she said, tossing the lighter into her pocket, “and tell me what happened.”

After I told her I had stomach cancer, I sat criss-cross-applesauce in her front yard and watched her smoke until the sun went down and the pale grey moon slinked away and hid behind the clouds in embarrassment at having stumbled upon such a private-public scene.

My phone died three hours after I woke up from surgery, so it was dumb luck that Ellie came down the hall from the left as my parents exited to the right. I was tempted to believe in God for a moment, only a moment, but 24

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Christopher Morris then I remembered that He had allowed me to get sick while Kobe Bryant was making $23 million playing a frigging game.

“Hey, Lib, sorry I’m late.” Ellie sat down on the edge of my bed and played with the tube coming out of my arm. I didn’t tell her to stop.

The beeping of someone dying floated through the air vent instead of the cool air the nurse had promised me when I started sweating and weakly fanning myself. Her smooth, dark skin reminded me of my father’s shriveled, bearded face: At least she’s not black.

“Oh, Diondra wanted me to give you these.”

I stare at the Marlboro’s and laugh. “Is she nuts?”

Ellie shook her head. “Probably. But who isn’t anymore?”

That struck a cord, but I don’t know which one, and I didn’t recognize the sound.

“Ohmygod, Libby!” Diondra squealed when she saw me lazily tossing my math textbook into my locker and taking a big bite out of a Hershey’s bar. “How are you, my girl?”

Ellie tugged gently on my sleeve and snickered as Diondra started playing with the top of the red cap my parents got me from the Good Will.

“I’m fine,” I said, pulling away. “Thanks for the cigs.”

She threw her arms into the air and sighed heavily. “Mmm-hmmm, you bet. God, if I were in your place, I would have taken a puff right from the tailpipe of an eighteen-wheeler if it meant settling my nerves.”

I was pretty sure she’d done that already. Once or twice.

Diondra leaned in close like what she was about to say was the juiciest piece of gossip ever to hit Alabama. “If you ever need anything, you find me. ‘Kay? ‘Cause, if I’m gonna be totally honest, I probably would have killed myself if I had had to . . . You take it easy, Libby.”

Ellie flinched, banged her elbow against the edge of my locker door, didn’t seem to notice.

After rattling off her phone number at a pace that made my head spin, Diondra skipped away, today wearing a pair of scuffed up tennis shoes which still looked impossibly expensive, and I turned to Ellie, gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

“Do you want to meet up after school?” I asked. “We could get a smoothie.

Make out a little. You know, something normal.”

“Can’t tonight. This weekend? Saturday? No, Sunday.”

I grinned. “It’s a date.”

After six hours spent daydreaming about Ellie’s strawberry lipgloss and warm body huddled up against mine–––the only thing I missed from the hospital, where nobody read into two teenage girls playing the snuggle game––my mother picked me up and surprised me with a trip to Dairy Queen.

Eastern Exposure

25

Christopher Morris

“I’m popular now,” I joked, glanced up from my ice cream, sighed when she looked away. “Okay.”

For a while, I thought she was on her phone, but when I dropped my napkin on the ground and bent over to pick it up––no litterbugs here––I noticed she had her wallet open in her lap. And she wasn’t gawking at her Capital One card.

I threw what was left of my Blizzard away and climbed into the car. When she joined me, her eyes wet, I put my feet up on the dashboard, rubbed my sticky hands all over the heated leather seat. “You suck, you know that?”

“Libby.”

“She’s dead, Mom.”

“I know, Love.”

“Don’t,” I snapped. “You don’t love me. I know my picture’s not in your wallet.”

My mother glared. “How can you say that? We visited every day, every single day you were in the hospital. We hired tutors, made sure you didn’t fall behind in school. We bought you a flatscreen. We’re paying for the treatment.

My heart sank. I said some things. She said some things.

And I got out of the car and started walking. A BMW passed me by, it’s windshield wipers banshee-wailing almost as loudly as its breaks. I though I saw Lily running across the street after her basketball, practicing, practicing, practicing.

She was going to make varsity. I never even got to look the driver in the face; the coward skittered away with his tailpipe between his legs.

I found myself, only somewhat intentionally, standing on Ellie’s front porch. “Let me in!” I shouted over the downpour, pressing my forehead to the knocker, feeling sick.

Ordinarily, I could hear Ellie’s flat feet flip-flop-plop clashing against her hardwood floors as she jogged to the door, but all I could hear then was an abandoned tea kettle sobbing on the stovetop.

“Ellie!”

I whipped out my phone, sucked on a wet strand of my hair.

Me: “I’m here. Going through garage. Need to see u”

She’d given me the code the first night I slept over, and I’d written it in pen on the inside of my wrist. Whenever I forgot it, I’d flex my arm, imagine the veins twisting into 5-7-8-3.

“Ellie, it’s Libby.” Nothing.

“Mrs. Able? Mr. Able? Anybody home?” I felt like I was intruding; if they weren’t home, did it count as breaking and entering? Would God see me sent to jail, too?

As I turned to leave with a chocolate chip cookie sticking out of my mouth, I noticed two pictures atop the mantle. One was of me and Ellie, our arms around each other, our cheeks pressed together, our matching dresses spinning round us in sync with the dying leaves of autumn.

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Eastern Exposure

Christopher Morris

The other was of Lily. Lily in the overalls I’d always teased her for wearing, me, a butterball babe of six, curled up in her arms, sucking my thumb, a habit it took me far too long to break. The picture used for her obituary.

I turned away and peered through the front window. Only Ellie’s mom’s car was parked in the driveway, so I assumed that they had all gone for a drive in her father’s . . .

The picture from the obituary.

Her father was the worst driver on the face of the earth and would fold if you called it.

“. . . BMW.” It dropped out of my mouth along with the cookie, and I stood there, in Ellie’s living room, my heart pounding sporadically and painfully against my ribs. The scar running across my belly glowed red, hot beneath my cashmere hoodie.

“Ellie! Ellie!” I charged up the stairs, not angry, not sad, not much of anything but passion. Passion was my entire being, pumped through my veins instead of blood, collecting beneath my tongue instead of saliva.

Outside her empty room, passion turned to something else, and I barely made it to bathroom sink in time to spit up a river of blood and sinewy mucus that looked like it belonged in a John Carpenter film.

“Ellie?” I moaned, fishing around in my pocket for my phone. My vision was swimming, and I was on the floor before I realized I was falling. Warm water was running out from under the drawn shower curtain, and my phone, now lying limply in my palm, beeped desperately once before going dark.

“Help.” It was more of a gurgle than a word. I remember I thought I was going to die as I was pulling the curtain back. Nobody would be able to get me to the hospital in time. Even if they somehow did, the doctors wouldn’t know what was wrong with me, and I would expire while they all huddled around the secretary’s computer and hopped on WebMD. As it turns out, I was wrong on both accounts: I was discharged three days after Ellie’s parents found me passed out in their bathroom. She was the one the doctors couldn’t do anything for.

But I knew that the minute I saw what was behind curtain number one.

That picture of Lily raised a lot of questions for a lot of people, but none of them were all that hard to answer. Even ditsy Diondra had figured it out by the time she visited me in the hospital, her manicured hands wrapped around a box of ice pops.

I tried to tell her that there was nowhere to put them, that she should have brought Marlboro’s instead. She glared at me and exclaimed, “Are you nuts?”

Ellie’s dad turned himself in for what happened to Lily, and I stopped following the story as soon as the papers started covering it. I didn’t want to think of her mom as anyone other than the woman who I would have hated had she not dropped by my hospital room the day Ellie was cremated–––there was no funeral service, so I didn’t have to feel bad about using my condition as an excuse to blow it off–––and given me a thick stack of weatherworn envelopes addressed to me in Eastern Exposure

27

Christopher Morris her daughter’s perfect pink cursive. Going off the dates, she was eight when she wrote the first one to “my pen pal, Libby,” thirteen when she realized she loved me and promised she’d stay away, sixteen when she broke that promise.

She broke a lot of promises that year.

My parents let me go without much of a fight. Aunt Dorris didn’t want me, Grandpa Kevin either, so I ended up with my cousin twice removed, who, as it turns out, ran away from his parents when he was only a year older than me. He’s in his late thirties now, and he likes to think of me as both his daughter and his cousin, even though I don’t want to be anyone’s daughter anymore.

I’m worried he’ll ask me to do something I won’t be able to do.

They write me, sometimes, my parents do. I throw their letters in the fireplace, mute the TV while I listen to them burn, and then it’s back to Family Feud. Diondra sends boxes of girl scout cookies and pictures of her and James.

They’re always addressed to “Libby!” I wish she’d quit forgetting the rest.

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Eastern Exposure

Jonathan Kirby

The Devil You Know There’s a light on somewhere across the street and it carries through the air and falls over shadows and stumbles across the lawn the way my stepdad used to do on nights when he drank too much.

Sometimes he would lurch into my room through a crack in the door the way the light does now and sit by my bed, pat my head for a little until I would wake up, eyes filled with the dreams of children, and kiss me on my forehead without a word.

So this light is shining into my room now and for once I wish it was him here. For once I miss the reek of booze, the cold of a winter’s snow following like a dog on his heels. It seems to me that the devil you know is far better than the one you don’t and I am sick of this fear which cripples me lately, turns my bones to brittle and my words to whispers. And now just this once I pray it were him shaking me out of dreams, rather than this light which keeps me awake.

Eastern Exposure

29

Maddy Kobar

Depression Talks It speaks to you in a low voice that only you can hear, Weighing you down with worries and doubts.

It makes you beg, plead, and cry To be left alone.

It refuses to listen.

It keeps on talking.

It warps reality with its unseen hold: The colors of your world are drained out, Bled from your mind until All you have left is an ashy, unending gray.

You are unable to see beauty any more.

It killed all that was beautiful And left you to flounder in the ugly abandon.

Its voice is like a chilly gust of wind.

You are forever shivering, Unable to feel the warmth and light that surround you.

Finally you can no longer perceive reality as it is.

Depression has you in its midst: It’s a cruel god And it refuses to let you go.

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Eastern Exposure

Emily Dwelley

Suppressing Witch Queens and Evil Stepsisters My teeth have pierced the shimmering flesh of the reddest apple.

The poison oozed black liquid gum against my tongue to coat my cheeks.

I’ve been that blonde in the blue dress trapped in a crystal vial, drowning in the sea of my own tears.

The witch queens and evil stepsisters burrowed deep within me, around a rusty cauldron stirring my malicious insecurities into a potion shoving the apple between my teeth I was part of that world once upon a time a beauty in a beast a poor unfortunate soul I dreamed of a once upon a time, of a peaceful wonderland inside my head for glitter to shine behind my eyes.

I prayed for it on the second star to the right but the witch queens and evil stepsisters burrowed and cackled.

I crossed a threshold of a fantastical world created by a madman who trained mice in a studio.

Ball gown’d children laughed silver bells.

It smelled of carpet rides and castles.

Once upon a time glass slippers molded on my feet and I danced with mermaids under the sea.

I choked merrily on faerie dust and the rusty cauldron began to chip.

Eastern Exposure

31

Emily Dwelley I was part of that world once upon a time a beauty in a beast and I received a message from a king and it read as thus: See? Dreams do come true.

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Eastern Exposure

Renee Drouin

Toxic Boy, Bitter Girl At times that boy was good–– Masquerading as a human being Mourning Michael Jackson Screaming Thriller into the dark Charming my mother with wit, Volunteer work.

I still loved him.

Usually that boy was bad–– Not made of blood or oxygen But of poison, of tear gas Permeating the breathing space As he exhaled As I inhaled.

With that boy inside me–– I thought I was going insane, Wanting to claw my skin off So my organs would rot away quicker Get me gone faster.

I still loved him.

I still loved him.

I thought (I prayed) that boy would die young–– He pressed a cheap, plastic gun to his head Violently squeezing the trigger tapping his temple Ignoring me screaming Over the “out with a bang” boy Who would take me with him To hell.

I still loved him.

That boy could kill me–– Dreaming of baking me in an oven So hot a downpour couldn’t control My combustion.

He made me want to kill myself.

I still loved him.

I could kill that boy–– Scooping his brain matter Out of his thick skull Like ice cream, Eastern Exposure

33

Renee Drouin Painting warning signs For the barrier between me And the next boy

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Eastern Exposure

I might have loved.

Jordan Thompson

Steps The first steps I take will be the happiest moment of my life.

Tears of joy will run down my face.

It will be a moment like no other, A feeling I’ve never felt before.

To you, those steps might seem simple, but to me, they’re like climbing a mountain.

Children take those steps when they’re two years old, But I never have.

No proof of me walking will ever exist.

All I wanted was to run to first base Or make a game-winning catch in high school.

I’ve missed out on so many important events Just because of my body’s limitations.

I’m just like everyone else, But the world doesn’t see me that way.

I want to be normal.

I don’t want the world looking at me differently anymore.

The moment I walk will be the happiest day of my life.

The moment I walk will be the saddest of your life, because you know I won’t be here anymore.

It will happen in a place far away from here.

Look up to the sky and know that’s where I am.

All that will be left will be the shell of myself.

Lay me down to rest, but know I took my first steps that day.

Don’t cry, just give me a kiss goodbye and let me go.

For the past 25 years, half of my body has been dead.

On that day, my whole body will finally be alive.

The next time you will see me, we will walk hand in hand.

Eastern Exposure

35

William jeckel

Jazz A crowded club on a midnight avenue, A tight combo lays into Bop, Blues, and Bossa.

Tuxedoed cats shooting eight ball in the back, Hipsters, writer, beats and patrons sit at the bar Or at tables near the floor where couples, gents And beauties move bodies like strings and keys.

Dresses shimmer and flow in the neon. Like the notes Making sweet, rhythmic love in the air. The jazz, Journeys from New Orleans to Chicago, New York and Havana. Where Latinas and Sisters Swing and Samba. Giving life and soul To the music, are players who have seen Crime, addiction, love and heartache of Every tempo and in every key.

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Eastern Exposure

Eden Rivera

The Wait I’ve counted 998 steps to travel to her door, cautious treads in these beat down Tims.

They’re a half size too big and the heels scrape in time to a triple 1/8th rhythm, blaring through my headphones, bass bumping my heart beat.

It’s the quickening that gets me, and I pause before texting her that I’ve arrived.

I rock my head, beating brain against bone, and subtly sway as I wait in the cold, to the heavy tempo that rides through my blood stream.

I’m tight-lipped, drowning in lyrical gangstas, weed, money, and bitches, fragmented thinking…

Distracting false images, to anyone else I’m either high or wasted.

All I know is that I’m anxious, getting lost to release the tension in my chest.

I breathe, Gathering strength within the atmosphere, Just to say, Just to say, “Hey, I’m here.”

Eastern Exposure

37

Sabrina Scott

Raisins

We were on my bed.

Dude, why did Wendy pick this movie?

We wanted a break from the stressful week of classes we had just survived.

For some reason, that translated to sitting in my dorm, watching a movie with a bag of raisins between us because no one else in the world liked raisins like we did. I was shoveling the sugary wrinkles into my mouth to distract myself from the Lifetime movie that played, as per Wendy’s request, on the television. I hated Lifetime. The acting was bad, the storylines were predictable, and someone always ended up either sobbing or dead. Personally, I had hoped to watch something really stupid: a weak, two-star comedy that Wendy and I could make fun of while we drank from cheap nips. Admittedly, I was amused by the lead character’s best friend, who served no other purpose but to agree with said lead, not even with words, but with dramatic facial expressions. And there were probably a handful of raisins on the floor––“Not my precious raisins!” Wendy had screamed––when they missed her mouth in the toss for the fourth time.

Now the movie was coming to an end––cue the sappy closing song–– Wendy was sniffling––Weak, I thought––and I could almost laugh at the PG turnout of our night, elementary school snack and all.

I looked over at my pitiful friend whose eyes were glistening from the tears she shed during the bittersweet final scene. I tried to give her a look that said judging you, but instead I actually burst out laughing. Wendy’s short hair was pushed behind her ears and her features were blotchy with emotion, and she really just looked ridiculous. Adorable.

“Oh come here, you big baby.” I closed the small distance across the bed by jumping into Wendy’s arms, knocking us both over in the process.

“Mya,” she screamed and laughed.

I ended up on top of her, and was rewarded with strands of Wendy’s hair in my mouth. We continued laughing as I got up on all fours, trying to catch my breath.

Except I found that I couldn’t catch my breath.

Instead, it felt like all the air had been knocked out of me as I stared at Wendy. First I saw her bright eyes, messy hair. Then the tongue that barely peaked out of her parted lips. Everything about Wendy seemed so sweet and appealing in that moment. I felt the not so unfamiliar pull towards my friend by some unknown, dizzying force. I wanted––

“Mya,” said Wendy softly.

I lifted my fingers to Wendy’s soft, full bottom lip.

“Your lips,” I said, smiling, “they’re––”

Wendy’s eyes fluttered and her chest stilled, as if she were waiting intently.

“They’re the color of raisins,” I finally said.

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Eastern Exposure

Jonah Craggett

Pious Woman Pious woman You endure the sun.

The dry sting of its rays presses itself onto your skin, invading every pore.

Every follicle.

It is an unrelenting heat.

Your faith grounds you.

But you still blossom. Even when rooted in your pain.

Pious woman, Fighting back your tears Your eyes puff and swell Locking away a spring of waters within you That drown you from the inside, dampening your soul. And your mind.

You carry that weight.

You’re an aquarium, full of many things.

Pious woman Your faith is a sign that you carry, hiked over your left shoulder Like Jesus going to die.

Plastered with the fingerprints of Job And Daniel, Shadrach, Meshack And Abednego.

Yet you’ve only come a tenth of their way.

Pious woman Kneading coils Just to keep your hands busy.

Don’t you know his eyes are on the sparrow?

Don’t you know he’s watching you too?

Pious woman You’ve let yourself go; Living in the autumn When your son suckled on your breast.

And you were his universe And you were his god And you had your God That would protect you both always.

Eastern Exposure

39

Jonah Craggett Pious woman Why deny yourself any longer The wailing and the tearing The gnashing of your teeth?

As if calling to question The whys in your spirit Will destroy your grace.

The same grace that God worked so hard to give you.

Pious woman Don’t think too much.

Pious woman Lay it all to rest.

Pious woman Don’t think too much Pious woman Lay yourself to rest.

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Eastern Exposure

Emily Dwelley

Discovering Red Smeared in matte, smeared in gold shimmer.

Red lips part, in awe, gazing into a sunset. Pressed together, smoothly sashaying. Red lips that quiver, dancing with salt streaming from your cheeks collecting at the corners of your mouth like miniscule tide pools. Red lips that spew lies, that say “I’m fine.”

Red lips that pucker before our mirror, brushing against the glass, pressed against the front of a cell phone neck arched, breasts out, soaking in the beauty of that angle.

Red lips that devour your paleness, cloaking your insecurities like Little Red’s Riding Hood demolishing biscuits and cookies, licking sweet chocolate from fingertips. Teeth carve into red lips, grating against sanity releasing a warm flow that I wipe away with a thumb.

Body tense, eyes strained. Kiss me from red lips, baby, exchange lust with passion, engrossing, merging, morphing, wandering down my neck, stamping against my collarbone.

Like the devil, grin seductively or grin mercifully.

Tug the corners against their will, dazzling like Christmas.

Behave. Be strong. Oh, darling, red lips look great on you.

Eastern Exposure

41

Julia Rathbun

Alice Appleton and Her Struggle to Sacrifice the Amazonianae Elephant-Bipes Flavis Asteroidea March 7th, 1952 10:00 am Florida State Mental Institution Stuart, Florida Age: 25

Now, looking at Mr. Dillon Bleuler cringe at the touch of Dr. Gordon’s hand, I question that statement again. If Dillon sacrificed his reality, would it be worthwhile in the long run? If we could somehow convince Dillon that his hallucinations and delusions about the world were false, would his life be improved? Would he have a better quality of life if he didn’t have a reason to draw such beautiful diagrams, and have such amazing experiences “scuba diving” during hydrotherapy?

When Dillon gives me a look of exasperation, because of Dr. Gordon’s presence I can’t help but giggle behind my clipboard. Dr. Gordon’s look shuns the smile away, however. I think he believes me to be too foolish to work here.

He thinks that “there’s no place for friendship between us and the patients.”

How does he imagine we will help them get better if they don’t trust us?

As I follow Dr. Gordon out of the room Dillon grabs my arm, and he says, “Why do you want to work for that loon when you could be working for a genius like me? If I could have an assistant, I’d wish it were you. Do you know why, Alice?”

“Why?” I ask. All I can think about is whether Dr. Gordon will have me come into his office after this is over.

“Because Alice, I can tell that you want to find the Amazonian ElephantFooted Yellow Sea Star too. I see it in your eyes when you look at my diagrams, and in your face when I tell you how it, like other sea stars, can regenerate limbs.

You want to see me resurface with the yellow star almost as much as I do.”

I don’t want to get in trouble with Dr. Gordon, but I also can’t ignore the fact that Dillon is reaching out to me. I reach for his shoulder to let him know that I do wish the sea star existed, but he pulls away, and my hand caresses nothing but the air between us. I turn and follow Dr. Gordon out of the room.

Once in the hall, I hear, “Don’t forget, you’re taking me scuba diving tomorrow at noon!”

June 17th, 1943 12:16 pm Backyard of 12 Foster Street, Savannah, Georgia Age: 16

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Eastern Exposure

Julia Rathbun

My mother was a nurse during World War I. She met my father in a field hospital in France where he admitted with a fever and severe tremors.

From what they told me, she stayed by his side, and it was her “steadfast dedication” to him that made my father fall in love with my mother, and my mother see how rewarding it was to commit yourself to the well-being of another person.

I was raised in Savanna, Georgia where I played with my cousins, chased frogs in the yard, and would drape myself in Spanish moss pretending to be a flapper in New York City. My childhood was idyllic––that is, until the war. Now, my mother reminds me every day that “the sacrifices we make today will be worthwhile tomorrow.” However, many of my recent “tomorrows” are spent wondering what’s been worthwhile about not having nice clothes, my father losing his job during The Depression, and saying goodbye to friends like Albert Crossfire, who was dragged into a war caused by our parent’s war.

What’s so worthwhile about sacrifice anyway?

March 8th, 1952 3:00 pm The Hydrotherapy Room of Florida State Mental Institution Stuart, Florida Age: 25

What I wouldn’t give to escape this dreary day. It’s raining once again today here in Florida. It falls in diagonal sheets, and pelts the windows.

I’ve been working a six-hour shift, and Dr. Gordon’s words are still stuck in my head from earlier today, “I know you sympathize with him; you’re a better person than I am. However, you can’t expect him to get better if we aren’t direct with him. I’ve told him time and time again that the starfish isn’t real. You need to support that. How else will he abandon these delusions and hallucinations?” I didn’t leave Savannah to work for someone so self-absorbed on endlessly gray and dismal days like today.

So why should I make someone else experience this dreadful day for what it really is? In Dillon’s reality, we are in Key West right now. He’s scuba diving in search of his sea star, and I’m waiting for him on the boat to emerge, sea star in hand. Honestly, what I wouldn’t give for that to be the truth. If I were in Key West, I’d drink a martini and toss these ugly white, scuffed shoes into the turquoise waters of the Gulf. I can see it now. The golden light bulb dangling above our heads is really the beautiful sun above.

The squealing of the wind outside is the call of a seagull.

Dillon’s head rises out of the bath, and the water glistens golden in the light of the room. I offer him my hand to pull him up, and he’s smiling from ear to ear. In his other hand, he’s holding something against his heart.

Eastern Exposure

43

Julia Rathbun There it is, it must be true! This is why I’ve been “steadfastly dedicated” to this man’s reality. The sea star is real, and it must be true that we’re basking in the beauty of Key West and not in the abysmal gray of a state-run mental institution.

He extends his palm to me and, while trying to contain my excitement, I look down. His palm is pruney, the way mine looked as a child after a day playing in the pond. With each undulating ripple of his hand, I look for something, anything. All I need to save me from this unpleasant labyrinth of the meek and the confused is one small, miniscule, infinitely tiny sea star hiding within the promising ripples of Dillon’s palm. But of course, despite my sacrifice, and despite his unwavering desire, there’s nothing.

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Eastern Exposure

Alexis Kurtz

A 12th Birthday He’s in his room now, the dark shade pulled, blocking out the cheerful sun.

By now, he’s got this puzzle down.

The dark shade pulled, his mother is crying.

He’s got this puzzle down.

He clicks the red blocks of the Rubik’s Cube into place.

His mother is crying.

But he smiles, a small plastic cube saving him from his thoughts again.

He clicks the orange blocks into place.

Faster! The green blocks snap into their places.

He smiles, the plastic cube saving him from his thoughts as his father arrives home with his mistress.

Faster now! The yellow and blue blocks snap into their places.

His pulse races. He can’t wait to finish.

As his father cackles with his mistress, the boy has run out of colors.

His pulse races. He can’t bear to finish as the last white square ends the puzzle.

The boy has run out of colors.

So he wails in pain as the last white square ends the puzzle.

He’s alone in his room now.

Eastern Exposure

45

Shanna Steele

The First One I Call I want to ask my dad why he refuses to be happy.

I want to ask him about that night fifteen years ago when my mother outgrew him and broke his heart while I watched from the corner, a doe-eyed child, as he packed a duffle bag full of memories and left, with car keys in his hands, a wedding band on his finger and the promise that he would see me tomorrow.

I want to thank him for standing alone in court and fighting for me, fighting for Tuesdays after school sipping Slurpees at 7-11, for pancakes on Saturday mornings and afternoons coaching softball, for father-daughter Valentine’s dances, and summer vacations in Long Island, for late night drives blasting The Eagles, and for Christmas Eve. I want to tell him that he deserves more than working his life away in a Price Chopper, stocking pallets of yogurt, milk, and orange juice, waiting for someone to come along and watch Red Sox games and eat dinner with him, for someone who will remind him that he is more than just an extra set of hands.

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Eastern Exposure

Shanna Steele I want to tell him that I can’t do those things anymore, that I am not daddy’s little girl, wearing braids in her hair and laughing through a gap-toothed smile, and that I want to see what the moon looks like from the other side of the world, that I don’t plan on staying in this town, in this house, forever.

But I am not my mother and I don’t look at him the way she does, with resentment in her eyes and an obligation in her smile, and I want to tell him that even if I am three thousand miles away, preoccupied by catching trains, talking to strangers, and gazing up at the stars, he will always be the first one I call when the light of the moon begins to fade.

Eastern Exposure

47

Emily Dwelley

A Purse-Eyed View I see you staring at me, technically staring at yourself through my luscious mirror. Your nose upturned, nostrils flaring, fogging the golden MK gem on my tassel.

Get that ugly breath away from me, or at least pop in a Tic-Tac. That rabid perfume running lose over the veins that stretch towards me, oily fingertips molesting my skin inside and out.

Haven’t you heard of look, don’t touch? You, over there, look totally lost. You, in the beaten flannel, eyeing me suspiciously as if I’m the potential shoplift.

Take it from me, dear, your wife doesn’t deserve me even if you could afford to swath me in cheap tissue and box me for the road.

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Eastern Exposure

Sharon Suchecki

Without A Sound Three scenes Run Time: 10 minutes Characters: KELSEY: Main character, about fourteen. She constantly looks at her phone.

SMART PHONE: The voice of Kelsey’s phone, nobody sees him. Has a loud voice, like a radio broadcaster.

FRANK: Kelsey’s father, he is very concerned with his daughter’s social habits.

SHELBY: Kelsey’s best friend.

TYLER: Kelsey’s love interest.

Overview: Kelsey is a young girl who does not seem to communicate outside of the realm of social networking and text. Her father, Frank Howley is very concerned about her. Kelsey’s phone is depicted through a man that speaks like a broadcaster.

Every time the phone is speaking the characters are reading on their phone, they never acknowledge him. Kelsey’s best friend is Shelby, another girl who barely speaks, except to help Kelsey with her love interest, Tyler, to whom who she’s never really spoken.

Scene 1 Lights up on a girl sitting on a chair using her cell phone. She does not look up from her phone as a man enters from the left. She makes an exaggerated jab at her phone and then smiles to herself. She does not look at the man as he begins to speak in a loud, booming voice.

SMART PHONE Kelsey has just updated her Facebook status. It reads: HEY I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my number, so call me maybe. Hash tag, real life.

The girl (Kelsey) continues to look at her phone while the man stares off into space. The phone goes off.

SMART PHONE

Eastern Exposure

49

Sharon Suchecki Shelby Young, friends with Kelsey has just commented on Kelsey’s Facebook status. It reads: o m g j k s f t ; 4 d s. H M U A S A P. Hash tag, text me slut.

Kelsey smiles at the phone and begins to text.

SMART PHONE Kelsey has texted Shelby, it reads: n b d, just met the boy of my dreams.

(Short pause, Shelby replies) Shelby has replied, it reads: OHHH EMMMM GEEE Where?!?!?

(Short pause, Kelsey replies) Kelsey texts back, it reads: He’s in our history class! He just friended me.

Smiley face, smiley face, winky face.

As Kelsey is still smiling at her phone an older man enters from the left, he doesn’t acknowledge the other man but smiles when he sees Kelsey. He takes out his phone and smiles as he does something, as if it’s a secret.

SMART PHONE Frank Howley, her father, has liked Kelsey’s Facebook status.

(Say her father with an eye roll) Kelsey looks at her phone, horrified and then glares at her father.

SMART PHONE Kelsey’s Facebook status has been removed.

Kelsey’s father sits down next to her and she doesn’t look up, it is clear that he is trying to get her attention. He begins humming “Call Me Maybe.”

FRANK I love that song! I didn’t know you were such a big fan Kels! Hey I just met you...

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Sharon Suchecki (Hums the rest) He looks at Kelsey for a response, when she doesn’t look up he looks upset.

FRANK Kelsey?

Kelsey rolls her eyes and looks up.

KELSEY What, dad?

FRANK I was just saying I like that song, too.

KELSEY I don’t like that song.

She looks back down at her phone.

FRANK Oh. Well, then why did you?

(Kelsey cuts him off) KELSEY Dad, I know you find it necessary to control everything in my life, but do me a favor and make the fact that we’re friends on Facebook discrete.

Kelsey goes back to her phone.

FRANK Well, maybe if you weren’t constantly glued to that thing, I wouldn’t be so desperate to read about what’s going on in your life. We used to have conversations.

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Sharon Suchecki Kelsey hasn’t heard any of this.

SMART PHONE Kelsey has tweeted: Dads... flat face. Am I right? Hash tag how long until graduation?

Frank’s phone goes off and he looks at it.

FRANK Hey! That’s really not cool, Kelsey!

KELSEY You follow me on Twitter!?

Lights go down.

Scene 2 Lights up on Kelsey sitting one seat away from a boy at a table in the cafeteria.

Neither of them acknowledges the other’s presence, but they are both looking at their phones. The man is standing off to the side of the stage.

SMART PHONE Kelsey is having a Facebook message conversation with Tyler Kennedy. Kelsey has sent: I’m so done with cafeteria food, flat face.

(Pause while Tyler responds) Tyler replies: Yeah, it’s like a science experiment or something.

(Pause while Kelsey responds) Kelsey replies: L O L The Man looks at Kelsey to see if she actually laughs, or even smiles... she doesn’t.

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Sharon Suchecki SMARTPHONE Kelsey asks, did you do the history homework?

(Pause while Tyler responds) Tyler replies: Yeah, I did it last period; Europe is sort of cray right now... Ha ha (Pause while Kelsey responds) Kelsey replies: O M G, I know.

Both of them put down their phones and continue to ignore each other.

SMART PHONE Kelsey receives a text from Shelby. It reads: Hey bitch, where you at?

(Pause as Kelsey types) Kelsey responds: In the cafeteria flirting with Tyler, smiley face with hearts as the eyes.

(Shelby responds) Shelby writes: Whore. I’m on my way.

Kelsey’s phone goes off.

SMART PHONE Tyler has sent Kelsey another message via Facebook. It reads, you’re really easy to talk to; we should do this again sometime.

Shelby walks in.

SHELBY Hey, Tyler! Hey, Kelsey!

She sits down in between them.

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Sharon Suchecki TYLER Bye you guys.

Tyler exits without looking at either of them the way Shelby came in.

SHELBY Ohhh emm geee, did you see the way he looked at you?

Kelsey looks confused, so does the man.

KELSEY I didn’t notice...(Shelby cuts her off) SHELBY He’s so into it.

KELSEY You think?

Kelsey’s phone goes off.

SMART PHONE Rebecca Wallace has posted on Kelsey’s Facebook wall. It is a video of a puppy and a kitten helping a baby bird learn how to fly while a baby laughs in the background.

The girls lean in to Kelsey’s phone to watch.

KELSEY & SHELBY (At the same time) Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww

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Sharon Suchecki Lights go down.

Scene 3 Lights up on Kelsey and her father next to each other at the dinner table.

Kelsey has her phone out and is looking at it as her father stares down at his plate.

SMART PHONE Tyler Kennedy has liked eighteen of Kelsey’s profile pictures.

FRANK So who is this Tyler Kennedy kid?

Kelsey does not look up from her phone as she answers.

KELSEY Nobody. He’s a friend from school.

FRANK He sure does show up a lot on your Facebook page.

Kelsey does not respond, but shrugs her shoulders.

SMART PHONE Tyler Kennedy has poked Kelsey.

Frank sees the notification on her phone.

FRANK What does that mean? Tyler poked you? Is that slang for something?

Kelsey looks at her father with a look of pure disdain.

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Sharon Suchecki FRANK Don’t give me that tone!

KELSEY I didn’t say anything!

FRANK You never say anything!

Frank gets fed up and leaves the room. Kelsey goes back to her phone.

SMART PHONE Are you sure you want to delete your Facebook?

(Kelsey pushes the phone, with emphasis.)

Kelsey’s Facebook has been deleted.

Lights go down.

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Moriah Perrett

Albini’s Funeral Home If they put beds in funeral homes, people would shack up for lots of reasons but mostly to feel alive and live and feel as though they were saying a big f--- you to death or God or whoever died for having the damn gall.

Looks of fondness born of death like those made of late-night darkness and whispers well wishes said softly over shoulders swelter hovered grass held by green plastic and red roses heavy gray stones stick out like ancient broken teeth the man holding the bible looks like a mobster when its over, should we kiss his ring? everybody’s got a rose don’t trip over the board suspending 6 feet over where it will be finished.

It’s all empty now but feels so much better it’s cleaner 92. 18. like the difference between a surgical scalpel and Jack the Ripper’s hacksaw so much cleaner pain but not ripping.

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Moriah Perrett The honesty of a look was not offered by the sing-song balding actor before us in the basement that they called “sanctuary” clouds of frankincense stifled and dulled And there were the squawking birds almost necessary to all clerical function I wished I had sung sweet speeches spared from ugly lessons Beautiful pain and reverence wedging into the cracks in the walls. however nothing compares with the eyebrows paired with forehead wrinkle lips pulled tight and eyes leaking out the testament to love.

The words of an ancient poem choke us suit jacket sleeves grasped awkward yet perfect clusters nobody knows if this is the natural order of things and no one cares but a body’s just been slid.

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Maddy Kobar

The Ballad of the Burning Bridge Before you light it up, Douse it in generous amounts of gasoline.

Make sure everyone knows exactly what you’re doing; Invite them to what promises to be a good show.

This bridge you nearly broke your hands to build, Has declined from beloved to burdensome.

There is no saving your efforts now, So you might as well destroy it all.

There will be no going back, But you don’t care about that.

Now your longing to be free Outweighs all else in your strained mind.

You think you’ll only breathe easy once it’s gone.

This is why joy consumes you As the flames consume what now torments you.

Watching your ugly burden brake, moan and tumble, Releases your loudest laughter you’ve ever heard.

You couldn’t be happier watching it dissipate.

Your problem crumbles into the abyss.

You didn’t realize it yet, But you’re left with an even uglier void.

It will take some time to sink in completely: All the damage you’ve dealt cannot be undone.

The longer you look into the empty space, The deeper your regret grows.

Maybe it wasn’t a very stable bridge, But it allowed you to escape your limited world.

It was beautiful in the beginning, Before you knew the heavy cost of upkeep.

You keep on wondering what drove you To set it ablaze and cast it into the chasm below, Cursing its name all the way.

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Maddy Kobar That was an awfully violent end to a once brilliant bond.

Do you wish you could undo it?

Of course, you do.

But there is nothing for you to do now: Your bridge is no more than Ashes catching in the wind.

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Renae st. john

To My Buxom Babes, You stand at attention: Two round, firm planets affixed to the axis of my ribcage, pointed toward the horizon, pushed up toward the stars.

You pull all who gaze upon you into your innate gravity, the black hole in the cleft of your cleavage.

All are drawn to the crown of light Where the crest greets the first gleams of the sun In V-necks, sweethearts, in crop tops, tank tops, tube tops.

You rebel against button-down shirts, tearing spyholes, popping buttons, stretching the view from my one piece black swimsuit with the gold buckle reveal to expose the pale and untouched valleys at the foothills of the ample mountains.

Large.

An understatement of size: cup size D, Double-D, triple-D, E, F, G, size I-need-two-sports-bras-to-look-balanced when I already am!

These girls are weighted with greatness, rolling tremors in my step wielding power, commanding respect, presenting like a proud bird pompously puffing its plumage To impress––

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Renae st. john Quivering, like Jell-O pudding, in the grip of a corset; undulating, like mochi dough, at the brim of a bodice; sugary and delicate at first sight, yet thick and heavy, like molasses, to the taste and the step.

These buxom babes may only be brandished by the most dignified of women who know and can name the shames of which they’ve been blamed, all for a chest of such caliber, tantalizing and grand.

Ta-ta to past pains!

My amicable assets, you will never be slaves to extra padding or old school principals or the jeers of jealous Judies–– my best bosoms, you will never be obligated to calm yourselves, show yourselves, or be told you should hide in a shirt out of shame for your spherical shape.

You are truly the most jovial jugs, wholesome hooters, gratifying gazongas, knock-out knockers ever to grace the form of womankind!

By God, what memorable mammaries you are!

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Rebecca Rubin

Cashews My parents loved each other here, I like to think.

A home they created together And, just as successfully, destroyed.

Where we set up the menorah every year, Dad with his yarmulke on, Derek with a hand on his head, pretending he had one as well.

Soon after, the Christmas tree, Where mom would arrange our presents On either side, mine in red, his blue.

“Cashews,” I would call us.

Here, I struggled through my teenage years, Fought with my dad, Made my mom cry.

Here, I watched my brother grow up–– he’s almost ready to leave for college now.

Here, I saw flowers on the kitchen table, Morning after morning, When my dad knew he did something wrong.

Here, where I realized that silence Is worse than arguments.

Where the shiny hardwood floors Lay dusty with neglect.

Here, I watched my parents Marriage disintegrate.

Here, I am leaving all of my childhood behind.

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Contributors notes Jonah Craggett is a senior English major from New Haven, CT. He plans to change the world!

Angela DiLella is a recent graduate of Eastern with a B.A. in English, and has previously served as president of the Eastern Writers Guild. This fall, she will begin pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing (Fiction) at The New School.

Erin Drouin is a junior Political Science major who is also the President of Honors Club and the Secretary of SGA. In her spare time, she enjoys buying dresses, political discourse, and procrastinating with Netflix. The best day of her life was when Madeleine Albright kissed her cheek.

Renee Drouin is a senior English major with minors in History and Writing.

She spends her spare time watching Chicago Blackhawks games, playing video games to the point of excess, and loaning her sister money. Next year, she will be going on to get her Master’s in Rhetoric.

Emily Dwelley is an aspiring writer who has never been so excited to be published before in her life. A lover of lipstick with an anthology of shoes, she strives to make dreams come true.

William (Billy) Jeckel is a member of Eastern’s class of 2018. He is a Music major and active member in the Music Society, Billiards Club, and Pride Alliance. He grew up in North Stonington, CT. His literary inspirations include the music he is always listening to and the environment around him.

Jonathan Kirby is a junior at Eastern majoring in English.

Maddy Kobar is currently finishing her English degree with minors in Communication and European Studies. She plans to apply to graduate school in Germany where she will pursue a degree in teaching ESL and learning other languages. She loves reading, writing, drawing, Eurovision, cosplay, and Project Runway.

Alexis Kurtz is a psyched-outta-her-mind Junior at Eastern who hails from Andover, CT! She’s also a bunny-lovin’ Theatre major in the Honors Program with a concentration in Acting/Directing and minors in Music and English (Linguistics). Alexis loves to sing, act, dance, read, craft and write, but this is her first publication of any sort! For this, she’s super grateful to the Writers Guild and to Dr. Donaghy and his amazing Writing Poetry course that gave her the confidence to submit her poems.

Joshua Measimer is currently attending Eastern for an English major and a Writing minor. He has created multiple fantasy-adventure novels over the past eight years and counting, one of which served as the inspiration for “The Ballad of Thomas Manta.”

Christopher Morris is a freshman majoring in History and (paperwork pending) English. A longtime creative writing enthusiast, he is currently revising a clumsy whodunit of his own with the lofty dream of one day seeing it on store shelves.

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Contributors notes Moriah Perrett is a senior this fall and is a double major in Music with a concentration in Vocal Performance and Psychology. This is her second time having poetry published in a collection and she is very excited! She has two cats, two magnificent parents, and only one lone brother, who’s pretty great, too.

Julia Rathbun is a 21-year-old from Gales Ferry, CT. She is a Communication major with a Writing minor who plans to join the advertising industry post-grad.

Eden Rivera has been writing poems since her time in the military. She has been highly influenced by the work of Latino poet Luis J. Rodriguez, but does not consider herself a poet inany aspect. The process of writing remains in her life as a constructive outlet and she is often humbled by the creative result.

Rebecca Rubin is junior English major, Writing minor at Eastern. She is an avid fan of Sylvia Plath and Harry Potter. She one day hopes to be an English professor.

Sabrina Scott of Windsor Locks, CT, is a graduating senior English major with minors in Spanish and Theatre. She is Vice President of Eastern Writers Guild and participates in Eastern Performing Arts Department productions. Her post grad plans are a mystery, but she hopes to work in a theatre or with children.

Rachel Scrivano is a sophomore Psychology major and Writing minor. She enjoys writing in her spare time, as well as playing sports such as tennis and racquetball.

Shanna Steele recently graduated from Eastern with a B.S. in Communication.

Renae St. John is a queer poet and musician from Jewett City, CT. She is currently a senior at Eastern, double majoring in Music Voice Performance and English, with a minor in Writing. When she isn’t writing celebratory poetry, Renae helps plan events through Music Society, performs with Eastern’s all-female a cappella group Key of She, and is heavily involved with Music Department concerts and events.

Sharon Suchecki is in her sophomore year at Eastern. She is studying English and has always had an interest in scriptwriting. She hopes to continue writing as a hobby until someone (seriously, anybody) decides to pay her for it.

Jordan Thompson is a senior Sociology major from Storrs, Connecticut. In his free time, he enjoys horseback riding and doing poetry. Upon graduation, Jordan would like to work with individuals with disabilities and continue writing poetry.

Kelsey Tuller is a graduating senior majoring in History and minoring in Anthropology, Art History, and Writing. Her plans for life after Eastern are vague and undefined, but will definitely include a lot of archeology, writing and travel. This is her first publication.

Zach Watson is a part-time rapper and full-time scholar who goes by the name of Zach “Killawatt” Watson. He self-published his own book of poetry, The Curious Life of a Romantic Suburban Hip-Hop Nerd, last year.

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“If art doesn’t make us better, then what on earth is it for?”

Alice Walker

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Reader’s Notes

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Dear Readers, Thank you for taking the time to read the 2015 Eastern Exposure. We hope that you enjoyed it!

If you are an Eastern Connecticut State University student, we invite you to submit your creative writing to be considered for the 2016 issue. (You’ll find full submission guidelines on page 2 of this issue and on Eastern Exposure’s website (http://www1.easternct.edu/writersguild/eastern-exposure/).

In addition to publishing the Eastern Exposure every year, the Eastern Writers Guild welcomes visiting authors to campus, holds creative writing workshops, and hosts open-mic coffeehouse events throughout the year.

We are who we are because of our members. If you share our love of reading and writing, please join us. We always welcoming new members!

If you have any questions about club membership, Eastern Exposure, or our activities and events, or if you would like to be added to our email list, feel free to contact us at easternwriters@my.easternct.edu.

Once again, thank you for reading the 2015 Eastern Exposure!

The Eastern Writers Guild

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