Eastern Exposure 2017

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Ea s t e r n ’ ss t ude ntl i t e r a r ya r t sj our na l 2017

2017

Eastern Exposure 2017

Eastern Exposure Eastern Exposure, Eastern Connecticut State University’s student literary magazine, is published annually by the Eastern Writers Guild of Eastern Connecticut State University, English Department, 225 Webb Hall, 83 Windham Street, Willimantic, CT 06226. website: http://www1.easternct.edu/writersguild/ email: easternwriters@my.easternct.edu Phone: 860-456-4570 Fax: 860-456-4580 Faculty Advisor Dr. Daniel Donaghy, Professor of English 2016-17 Eastern Writers Guild Executive Board President: Christopher Morris Vice President: Amanda DeMaio Secretary: Christina Rossomando Treasurer: Amanda-Marie Goode/Justin Berak 2016-2017 Editorial Board Poetry Editor: Amanda DeMaio Fiction Editor: Christopher Morris Readers: Julia Bonadies, Brooke Cochrane, Trey Geisman, Christina Rossomando Copy Editors: Justin Berak, Amanda DeMaio, Christopher Morris, Christina Rossomando Cover Art Deirdre Volk 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 creative writing from the beginning 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, up to ten pages total) via our Submittable account: https://easternwriters.submittable. com/submit.

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. 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, the editors of Eastern Exposure reserve the right to feature work printed in journal on its website.

Special thanks to Chris Ambrosio (Student Activities), Miranda Lau (English Department), Ed Osborn (University Relations) and Kevin Paquin (University Relations) for their guidance and support. © 2017 Eastern Connecticut State University. All rights reserved.

“Life beats down and crushes the soul, and art reminds you that you have one.”

––Stella Adler

“Who wants to become a writer? And why? Because it’s the answer to everything. … It’s the streaming reason for living. To note, to pin down, to build up, to create, to be astonished at nothing, to cherish the oddities, to let nothing go down the drain, to make something, to make a great flower out of life, even if it’s a cactus.”

––Enid Bagnold

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CONTENTS Editors Note 6 Susan McLean

I want to write a poem to celebrate

7

Jessica Miclon

It is the way

8

Amanda DeMaio The Falling Leaf 9 Mom,

10

Julia Bonadies

A Pocket-Sized Poem about Lydia

12

Amanda DeMaio

Another Typical Night with You

13

Julia Bonadies

AA

14

Robin Morris

On the half shell,

15

Sambuca

17

Trey Geisman

Color

18

Robin Morris

The Slave Ship, 1840

19

Ce’Nedra Darragh My Puppeteer

20

Trey Geisman

Ode to Propaganda

21

Paula Berson

Do You See Me?

22

Natalia Torcaso H-Home

23

Amanda DeMaio The Table

25

Julia Bondaies

26

I Want to Write a Poem to Celebrate

Young Mothers

28

Amanda DeMaio Murderer

29

Susan McLean

31

Pizza

Julia Bonadies 8.14.15

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CONTENTS Kelly Huhtanen Justin Guiel Kellyann Enright Nicholas Khan Elizabeth Hadfield

Haunted by Humans

33

Artwork

Jacob LaFreniere

Therapy Always Works

34

Samantha Carman

A One-Way Mirror

39

Lexis Foster Stuck

40

Christopher Morris

Kali and I Get a Mazda

44

Justin Berak The Auto Mechanic Who Does Not Like Eggs

50

Amanda DeMaio

52

Introduction to Maria Mazziotti Gillan

Christina Rossomando Walking through Grief into Survival: An Interview with Maria Mazziotti Gillan

53

Contributors Notes

60

Readers Notes

62

Spring 2017

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Editors Note Dear Reader, The Eastern Writers Guild is proud to share the 2017 edition of Eastern Exposure.

This year we centered the journal around the theme of belonging.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines “belonging” as “be[ing] a member of a particular group or organization,” as “having an affinity for a specified place or situation,” and also as “hav[ing] the right personal or social qualities to be a member of a particular group.”

We, as the editors, carefully sifted through submissions in hopes to find the greatest pieces of writing and artwork around campus that really portrayed what it means to belong—to a culture, to a nation, to a religion, to a community, a family, a team, a friend group, a club.

We are excited to share what we found and give you the chance to explore what belonging means to your peers around campus. We believe we managed to showcase a wide range of voices that reflects the diversity of Eastern’s student body.

We hope you enjoy our issue of poems, stories, artwork, and an exclusive interview with Maria Mazziotti Gillan.

Thank you to everyone who shared your personal experiences and memories.

Sincerely, The Eastern Writers Guild E-Board Christopher Morris, President Amanda Demaio, Vice President Christina Rossomando, Secretary Amanda-Marie Goode and Justin Berak, Treasurers

Eastern Exposure

Susan McLean

§7

I want to write a poem to celebrate my mother’s fingers in the hard church pew, wooden and unwieldy when she laid her hand in my lap, letting me play with her rings–– her wedding ring with the diamond on the gold clinking against the plain gold band–– letting me work the rings back and forth over her knuckles, giving me something to focus on, something other than the droning sermon, other than the lilies by the altar that made me sneeze.

I want to celebrate her generosity, her willingness to give me anything, even her hands.

Spring 2017

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Jessica miclon It is the way You watch me struggle In the kitchen; it is the way That your arm wraps around The small of my back; it is the way You apologize for ruining the moment By always asking for consent; it is the way you Can sketch me a portrait in ten minutes and cook me dinner In twenty, but cannot write an email in thirty because you type With two fingers; it is the way you thank me, head to my chest, For putting up with you, like I am a church and you are my sinner: You, the mess of a man who sleeps on top of his bed and spends more time Fixing his hair than I do showering; it is the way that you tug on my arm Like a post-surgery patient on the string that will pump your morphine, Until, behind a shed, in a hidden closet, beside your bedroom window, You kiss me like you have a fever and I am the medicine You must drink to the last drop; it is the way you handle This mess of a woman who can finally be empowered In her submission to you instead of submitting To her dominance that makes me feel Like you are the fire and I am Your oxygen.

Eastern Exposure

Amanda DeMaio

§9

The Falling Leaf It’s strange, really, how a leaf dancing effortlessly through wind carries the smell of firewood as it lands on my windshield, brings me back to that one time you danced in the kitchen when I was six, pan full of batter in one hand, mixer in the other, your apron folded and tied at the waist, crusted with years of recipes and hard work that went into every meal as it followed your body, back, forth, left and right.

It’s sad, really, how the same falling leaf reminds me now of you transitioning into your next life, falling effortlessly into sleep, your muscles never dancing, your apron never being used, now your tubes the only thing following your body, back, forth, left and right as you try your hardest to turn over in bed.

Spring 2017

10

Amanda DeMaio Mom, It’s hard to say what I love About you because I love it All– The way your eyes light up When you see chocolate or the way you Grab my shoulder, Pull me in Close, The drive you posses, whether it’s To out-work your coworker or outDress your best friend or me, Your youngest daughter, Biggest fan– The one who would strut down the hallway In your cheetah heels from the closet As if it were my runway or stick a pillow in my pants And dance to “Baby Got Back” Just to make you laugh. It worked Every time.

I’m the same little girl who now Undresses you, Slowly, carefully, Being sure not to tangle a tube, Whether it’s the oxygen that keeps you alive Or the urine bag that keeps you comfortable Then picks up your legs, swings them To the floor before transferring you to your wheelchair, A process we’ve now mastered from too many Years of unwanted practice.

As strange as it is, Those are the things I love about you– Your plain face with no makeup That you complain Is wrinkly and worn, your body in just an oversized Shirt that you complain makes you look fat as it hangs Off your 110-pound body of nothing but skin and bone Because it’s all you could manage to get on, The way your shaking settles when my hand Touches yours,

Eastern Exposure

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But most of all The way you make me feel Needed, Needed like I never was before.

Spring 2017

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Julia Bonadies A Pocket-Sized Poem about Lydia I have only known you For a few minutes But somehow I am already convinced That all eight years Of you is perfect.

Youngest of ten You are the spitfire bookend Of this Edwards legacy.

I try to teach you How to do cartwheels On the soccer field At the middle school— Your red bow Unravels with each Flip of your Half-grown limbs— I watch in admiration As you chase after your Biggest brother, Threatening to hit him If he doesn’t throw The frisbee to you, Tiny fists waving Like a little warrior.

You are obstinate In your refusal To go unheard, Something I am Still learning how to be.

I’d like to ask you To teach me how How to shout At the top of my lungs For the things I want, For the dreams I have, For the people I love.

To teach me how To speak.

Eastern Exposure

Amanda DeMaio

§ 13

Another Typical Night with You I climb the stairs after another night at work dealing with complaining customers and convict cooks to see you stumbling off the couch, Bud Light in one hand, remote in the other, to see you look at me with the same slumped shoulders, the same chilling eyes–– glossy, bloodshot, gone––to see you look through me as if I were the work boots you kicked off in the middle of the room, not the daughter you promised to protect all those years growing up.

You grab the wall and slide towards the fridge, grab another beer, and head back to sunken corner of the couch.

You try to make conversation as I eat my dinner from work at the kitchen table, but it’s always the same small talk––not about my great grades this semester, not about how sick mom is getting, and not about my future plans.

I can no longer pretend that I enjoy your company, so I make my way to my bedroom, where behind my closed door I hear you screaming at Hillary Clinton, the stupid bitch, and the niggers from Black Lives Matter on the news. From Bud Light cans to loud screams, you’re always going to haunt me.

Spring 2017

14

Julia Bonadies AA I am a rare breed of daughter, In all of my meager twenty years Never made witness to drunk parents.

Always brought up to believe we were A family clean of bad habits.

But on the road In-between somewhere and home My mother calmly confesses A family secret.

My uncle is a recovering alcoholic.

Born in the blood of a great-grandfather Who is only stories to me.

A legacy of addiction That miraculously skipped Her own father Bore its ugly head in the birth Of her second big brother.

Every day he goes to AA And brings cookies.

They are his secret second set Of family I never knew about.

The uncle I know by his laugh, Crooked teeth and love of food, Cars and cats— The one who almost died Before they gave him a new aorta, Has cheated death more times Than last I counted.

I understand now Why my soft mother Hardens over at the thought Of her babies getting drunk On a summer Saturday night.

We are the seeds Of chance she has planted.

Only time will tell Of the things We grow inside of us.

Eastern Exposure

Robin Morris

§ 15

On the half shell, they sit on a pile of crushed white ice, bathed in red wine vinegar, shallots, and chives, waiting for the moment they will slide down our throats.

I ate my first when I was young, a daughter of a raw bar enthusiast.

My dad ordered a half-dozen on the half shell at every seafood restaurant we went to.

“Like a gulp of the sea,” he’d say, squeezing a lemon wedge on the grayish, wet oyster before knocking it back.

When I had my own, it transported me to the mouthful of Atlantic Ocean I swallowed one day on vacation as the crest of a storm-powered wave engulfed my body and spat me back on hard, wet sand.

The brackish taste lingered on my tongue; I wrinkled my nose and refused to try another.

But oysters, like wine, cheese, and coffee have levels of flavor complexity that yearn to be acquired and explored.

The discovery of playful salinity, the heavy metallic brine of one from Cape Cod juxtaposes the sweet creaminess of another from Washington State.

Oysters are not an inherent love, but something learned through patience and cocktail sauce–– the simple mixture of ketchup, lemon juice, and horseradish, all staples in our fridge during summer months,

Spring 2017

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those humid afternoons when my dad would pick up a couple dozen Matunucks for 88 cents apiece and shuck them all, placing each half shell on a plate of ice he crushed himself.

Matunucks, farmed in a salt pond about a mile from the Rhode Island shore, the first oysters I remember enjoying, small and sweet, sliding down my throat with swift, yet gentle ease, a sensation I grew to love.

Now I’m wading through their world, testing each with a squeeze of lemon and a slight tip into my mouth.

Eastern Exposure

Robin Morris

§ 17

Sambuca I pour the thick, clear liqueur into the snifter, drop three coffee beans—health, happiness, and prosperity—and watch as they plop, sink, and float back to the surface.

Chef told us to sell more after-dinner drinks, that the warm burn of an Irish coffee or the bite of single-malt scotch whiskey is the perfect conclusion to a rich meal.

The aroma of licorice fills my nose and I think of my dad, whose disgestif of choice, a decision after three or more glasses of Merlot, was always Sambuca neat.

Licorice, a scent that shoots into my nose and makes me dizzy with memories of dimly-lit nights at local Italian restaurants, my dad with his hand wrapped around the short stem of a glass filled with that clear liquid, idle coffee beans meandering the surface the way Japanese beetles drift in our pool on July afternoons.

Licorice, a smell that hangs in the air long after it’s been consumed, lingering in my nostrils every time we left a restaurant, when my mom would say to my dad, gently, “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”

I look at the blue label wrapped around the bottle: Romana Sambuca, in brilliant silver, printed under a graphite sketch of the Colisseum, the same brand my dad kept high up in the liquor cabinet, next to the bag of coffee beans he never brewed, but only dropped in threes: health, happiness, prosperity.

Spring 2017

18

Trey Geisman Color You are a color. One without meaning.

You are called by that color and respond to that color.

People see your color and talk to your color.

People reject your color.

You see other people’s colors.

Someone told you that color is important.

Someone told you that your color is right.

Someone blames your color.

But you aren’t your color, Your color is what other people want to think about you.

What we see in strangers is the deepest shame We know about ourselves.

Eastern Exposure

Robin Morris The Slave Ship, 1840

§ 19

after J.M.W. Turner’s painting

Even before they threw you overboard, it was decided that your life was worth less than the rotted, wooden crates stacked beside you as you lay among masses of warm and cold bodies in the damp, dark hold of the ship.

You, with your ankles and wrists chained, sat in the filth of blood and sweat, the thick stench of decay and putrid flesh filling each nostril as you waited cold nights and long days for the quiet relief of death to engulf you.

But now, submerged in the screaming cold of salt Water, each molecule like fine point needles piercing the surface of your skin as each bone turns to blackened ice, you understand how close to dying you really are.

A blazing orange sun you haven’t seen in months is dipping into the angry green ocean as black waves whip against the ship’s hull, splashing onto the deck while gusts of wind thrust the sails farther away, towards the bloodied sky, a trail of bodies in its wake.

The heavy chains around your ankles and wrists beg you to give up, to let death win. All around you, shackled arms reach out from the choppy surface, cries distorted by gargled water, choke and echo, only to be swallowed by another surge.

Even before they threw you overboard, your body was nothing more than cargo to transport and sell.

You are drowning now, arms too numb to endure the fight, your bones, lead heavy, sink deeper into the sea.

Spring 2017

20

Ce’Nedra Darragh My Puppeteer You are the strings attached to my joints

That lead up toward a wooden cross from which you control me.

I do as I am told and nothing more.

I know I shouldn’t stray from the spotlight you beat down on me.

You propose with a sparkling diamond ring

That is breathtakingly beautiful, so beautiful it masks the ugly of us.

I do as I am told and nothing more.

I know I should say yes. The audience cheers and congratulates us.

Here comes the bride, all dressed in white,

A lovely beach wedding, friends and family betting how long we’ll last.

I do as I am told and nothing more.

I know I should say yes to prove them all wrong. We can make it last.

The shiny diamond ring, the dazzling wedding

Euphoria dances through my body, praying you will be able to change.

I do as I am told and nothing more.

I now know that you are who you are and I cannot make you change.

You flirt with other women, seduced by their bodies,

Slap their asses, tell them they are so hot right in front of me. I speak up.

I do as I am told and nothing more.

I know I shouldn’t have angered you. I have to stay strong and stand up.

A man flirts with me at a bar and I flash him my ring.

Yo, man, that’s my wife, you say to him, but you can keep talking to her.

I do as I am told and nothing more.

I know I shouldn’t speak to him. You get so angry and willing to fight.

You are the one who treats me like property.

You think it is okay to joke about my body, like we aren’t going to fight.

You throw me into our bed to make love.

To me, this is not love, but something forced. You know I don’t want it.

I do as I am told and nothing more.

I should give you what you want, right? My wifely duty after all, isn’t it?

You think you have full control over me:

My body, my mind, the words from my mouth. You are my puppeteer.

I do as I am told and nothing more.

I know I shouldn’t let you have so much power over me, my puppeteer.

You dangle me in front of everyone,

Telling me what to say or how to act, all by the attached strings.

I do as I am told and nothing more.

I know I shouldn’t follow your lead. I just want to cut the strings.

Eastern Exposure

Trey Geisman

§ 21

Ode to Propaganda I’ve seen you on the television.

You’re the one who is always warning us.

You tell us about the state of our world, sitting behind A designer tie in the studio.

There is always a threat that we must be informed about.

A new group of people to stereotype in the store when They walk a little too close.

We’ve heard about them on the news.

We know that their people are misguided.

Thankfully you let us know who to watch out for.

Because of you, we know that there is an Us and a Them.

You show us how right we are.

You run programs with people who look like Us. They are happy, smart, successful.

You show us how wrong They are, Characters that confirm our suspicions.

Our televisions drip with propaganda.

We like the taste of your truth.

You make us feel superior in a world full of spiders spinning webs through the night.

Spring 2017

22

Paula Berson Do you see me?

Build that wall! These people are a threat!

They’re dirty and lazy, not American!

This poison rolls off your tongue, infecting the people around you, seeping into their brains and spreading like a disease.

I wonder, as you preach this hate, so certain in your convictions, do you see me, just two years old, clutching my mother’s arms, a vice grip so tight it leaves tiny bruises behind, my blonde pigtails bouncing as the waves crash against our boat filled with immigrants desperately hoping to see the shores?

Do you see my mother, scared beyond belief, choking back tears so that her baby girl won’t see the panic that fills her chest, the pain on her face as she tosses our clothes overboard, the boat now too heavy with desperate souls praying together to make it through the night?

They’re criminals, send them back!

They’re stealing our jobs!

You demand justice.

Do you see my father, desperation so great he risked his life to cross a border into a land filled with hate for a man they had yet to meet, a man who worked 16-hour days, no breaks, no glory, who skipped meals and sacrificed to save my life?

Do you see my grandparents, their hearts breaking as they say goodbye to their young son, not knowing if they would ever see him again?

As your words get uglier, your voice louder, I wonder, do you see me?

I certainly see you.

Eastern Exposure

Natalia Torcaso

§ 23

H-Home I’ve been to eight schools, Lived in sixteen homes, Moved to twenty towns, How am I supposed to know where I belong When all I know is change?

I’ve entered a new school Wh-what?

Every other year?

Molded into a-a hippie stoner, menacing jock— Some person I never was— Spent time with people I never would Just to make some God-goddamn friends In a place I knew I’d be leaving.

That’s just how it has worked.

It’s all temporary.

But when I’m-I’m alone Alone in a Home Depot truck Or cold and barren storage cube Collecting some bullshit memories from past pals And putting them into cardboard boxes I-I feel nothing.

I fe-feel isolated.

I feel sad-sadness.

That shit’s permanent.

Shouldn’t I feel grateful to have been so many places?

Having met s-so many people?

Is my numbness because my life’s An Etch A Sketch, Doodles of meaningless Homecoming dances, graduations, high school parties, Just to fade away at the slightest shake?

I see girls talk about sleepovers, Girl Scout trips, Sunday night pasta dinners.

I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to relate, To be able to say S-something

Spring 2017

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When they ask about my life.

Instead, I’m stuck S-speechless, Hinting to them that it was nothing but Sleeping in living rooms With a pillow on the floor, Waiting for the next relocation.

It-it-it’s hard to identify When all I know is the backseat of a ’99 Legacy, Two dozen apologies for never settling down, For never having one childhood friend, For transferring me to different schools midyear, For making me fall behind on work, For being made fun of for my engine-like s-stutter.

It’s hard to know who you are What you want, where you be-belong When you have no place to call your home.

Eastern Exposure

Amanda DeMaio

§ 25

The Table The napkin holder, placemats, and salt and pepper shakers now share a home in the cabinet above the microwave while medical papers, hospital bills, and medication bottles flood the table.

The table once used for Wednesday night pot roast and Friday night tacos is now used as a surface for dad, Ashley, and me to sort your life, keep you happy, alive.

The levocarbidopa to treat your tremors took the place of the shakers, the Northera to treat your hypotension, the napkin holder, the medical marijuana to ease your pain, the placemats.

The table that once caught the food that fell from your mouth when you laughed too hard now catches the drool that falls when you can’t swallow your saliva.

Underneath is the same table from years ago, same cracks, marks, heat stains, just like behind the lines on your face, the cracked skin on your legs, and the tears on your cheeks, you’re still the same woman–– beautiful, strong, fearless.

Spring 2017

26

Julia Bonadies I Want to Write a Poem to Celebrate my grandmother’s brain and the few things it forgets.

The rotating library full of acquired cataloged knowledge, memories, random family artifacts, bits of trivia, recipes for food, and remedies for healing yourself.

The names of anyone she has ever met and the long lists of people she prays for.

I want to celebrate the way all five feet of her body move in the process of remembering.

How her hands, alongside words, paint pictures in air.

The way she adjusts her glasses, fixes her silvered hair, wipes the edges of her mouth with her forefinger and thumb, rubs her palms on her thighs, repeats.

When her voice raises and pace quickens, she builds momentum, filling entire rooms with passion and colors they have yet to name.

At family gatherings she recounts each child or grandchild’s flawed moments with tender affection.

The time I ate too many of the brownies she baked and felt sick, or the time my uncles threw my mother down the laundry shoot.

Her goofy laugh is a sound I will not quickly forget.

Once she starts she never stops remembering—

Eastern Exposure

§ 27

each newspaper article, book, photograph, or face she has read serves as a domino— triggering another piece of past to fall from the corners of her mind.

I want to celebrate her steadfast pursuit of truths and knowledge— the way she always makes room in her mind for more of everything and anyone.

While my grandfather’s memories slowly turn to dirt in the senior center garden, she recalls enough of our collective histories for the both of them— The matriarchal oracle who holds our entire past, present, and future within her.

She is everything I am and all that I hope to be.

Spring 2017

28

Julia Bonadies Young Mothers Surrounded by ten full wombs, My empty one is out of place.

My co-workers’ swollen bellies Grow each month With ripening promises While mine is a home For potential Not yet sown.

I have just aged Out of teenhood And they, Just a few years ahead, Are verging on motherhood.

Just as unsure As I am now About bringing more life That is not my own Into a world So tumultuous.

I watch them rub Stomachs and backs, Their bodies ache To each other In sympathy.

Joking, they warn me not To drink from the faucet tap— Not to water my womb With Miracle-Gro That does not grow miracles.

But like funhouse mirrors I see a distorted me In them— A future I am Both eager and afraid To meet.

Even now, They are teaching Me what it means To be a mother.

Eastern Exposure

Amanda DeMaio

§ 29

Murderer You may not have penned the letter she left on the counter Or turned the key in that closed garage While your granddaughter, my mother, Lay in bed thinking about snowmen And sleds in the day ahead, You may not have told her you Wanted her dead But you did your best to give her Death in life, Taking away anything That ever made her happy–– The men, the house, and the Money.

You may not have seen your daughter Sitting on my mom’s bed, Mascara running down her face as she whispered Goodbye as she laid out her outfit For the next day, You may not have blood On your hands, But how could they not Drip with guilt when you visited My mother at her aunt’s, your sister’s House, when you tried to comfort her, Before you drifted off, never to be seen again, Leaving my mom with not only one ghost, But two, and leaving me with no one to call grandma And my mom with no one to call.

They say old age was the cause Of your death, but I doubt that.

Even you couldn’t live knowing you Killed your own daughter Because soon enough the guilt Had to suffocate you too, filling Up your lungs the way you filled your Daughter’s with poison.

I’d like to believe you felt pain,

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I’d like to say inside your heart, But you would have had to have one To feel it there.

Eastern Exposure

Susan McLean

§ 31

Pizza Fingers chalky with flour, I press into the dough, soft and supple under the weight of my palms.

The dough expands back with little more than an indentation and I know it needs to rest, time to sit, to wait, to expand.

The acidity of the tomato sauce makes my nose itch, but I like it.

Suddenly, inevitably, I feel the warmth of your hands resting gently, casually on my hips.

You step closer to me, pull me in.

You brush the hair from my neck.

I lean into you.

The dough needs to rest I explain as you kiss my neck even though you don’t know what that means.

You turn my hips.

I am facing you now, hands still powdered in flour.

You kiss me.

Spring 2017

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Julia Bonadies 8.14.15 “How thick & heavy the night was, it hung in The oak trees. How the stars were so close They left bruises. How there was so much light in me.”

-Anis Mojgani

I could count on two hands All the shooting stars I saw that night.

Beginnings and endings collided.

It was like being frozen In a slow-motion Meteor shower.

Resting in the shoulder Of the Milky Way, We lay in cold grass And gazed at its spine Stretching out in the hazy Night sky above us.

We traced it with our pupils Until we lost it In burnt orange Light pollution.

But when we spied on stars Through telescopes, Our field of vision Made the night appear To be the hole In the middle of a sheet Of black construction paper, Our dark minds illuminated By a single light.

Humbled by our insignificance, We accepted our role as spectators Of the Creator’s beauty.

We found comfort existing On the outskirts Of millions of miles As we watched the stars Creeping across the scope, Matching the speed the Earth Was spinning us to.

Eastern Exposure

Kelly Huhtanen

§ 33

Haunted By Humans

“You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables” ––Death (Markus Zusak)

Have you ever held a child’s soul?

I have.

Its featherless weight licked at my fingertips as I placed a kiss on unmarred skin.

Those were the only souls delicate enough to cradle their soft heads in the crook of my arm.

Have you ever taken a life too soon?

I have, many times.

I waited for hours as resolve began to fade and the permanency of unfulfilled desires settled in.

Those were the souls who fought me.

Those were the souls whose last words resonated with me, every time.

I am supposed to flit between wilting souls, gently wisping them off to beyond, But my feet are beginning to drag.

Have you ever been forced to retrieve a soul that was sacrificed by its own volition?

I wish I hadn’t.

Their broken bodies mirrored their broken souls as I, caught by surprise, rushed to their sides.

Shattered hearts rushed alongside me, but the broken souls laying before me were ready.

They shouldn’t have been.

When you take the time to notice the minute details of each and every inexplicable day, you notice raw humanity.

And I am left with one thought: I am haunted by humans.

In Memoriam Elizabeth Hadfield, 11/4/2016

Spring 2017

34

Jacob LaFreniere Therapy Always Works INT. THERAPISTS OFFICE – DAY A typical office consisting of a large chair facing a large sofa. A coffee table lies between them. Enter Susan Strongarm, a woman of 28 with straight, dark hair, and Dr. William Portman, a 38-year-old therapist wearing business-casual clothing. Both of their clothes and hair are messy and they are out of breath.

WILL (sitting down) Okay, now how did that make you feel?

SUSAN Are you asking me that as my therapist or as my lover?

WILL Susan, please, I’m purely a professional. Everything I do is as a therapist.

SUSAN So the several sessions we’ve had of lovemaking?

WILL Business as usual.

SUSAN (not believing him) Really?

WILL It’s something I do with a lot of clients. A person is at their most...primal state when engaged in sexual activity. Sometimes it can dislodge something in their minds that’s been hiding.

Eastern Exposure

§ 35 SUSAN And you still think there’s something that needs to be dislodged after eight sessions?

WILL There’s something in there. I can feel it. (grabbing his clipboard) Now if you would please answer the question.

SUSAN It made me feel good. I mean, you were great. I was great— She cuts off as Will snickers at her last statement. He continues writing.

SUSAN (cont’d) Was something funny?

WILL No, no it’s just...I find your self-confidence interesting is all.

SUSAN You’re saying I wasn’t great?

WILL Did I ever say that?

SUSAN I feel like you were implying it.

WILL Can we get back to the matter at hand, please?

SUSAN Fine. (pause) Yeah, it was great. Except for one thing.

Spring 2017

36

WILL (looking up from his pad) And that would be?

SUSAN It wasn’t very good during.

A pause. Will stares at her in confused disbelief.

WILL I’m not sure I know what you mean.

SUSAN Overall, it was great. The kissing, the foreplay, the discussion about how my father was never around when I was a kid, but during was...

WILL Was what?

SUSAN Not the best.

WILL Excuse me?

SUSAN You’re my therapist. I feel like I should be honest with you.

WILL What wasn’t good during?

SUSAN It. WILL It? SUSAN You.

Eastern Exposure

§ 37

WILL Me? SUSAN It was a little clunky.

WILL A little clunky?! I’ll have you know that I’ve used this technique with many of my clients and this is the first time I’ve ever been told anything like this.

SUSAN Ah, you neglected to tell me that I’m your first client who isn’t a virgin.

WILL (flabbergasted) You bitch...

SUSAN Are you saying that as my therapist or as my lover?

WILL What exactly wasn’t very good?

SUSAN These don’t sound like the questions of a professional, Dr. Portman.

WILL It would be professionally beneficial to me if you described exactly the problem you had “during.”

Spring 2017

38

SUSAN It just wasn’t very good! You can’t ask me to describe to you why.

WILL Yes, I can. I’m a therapist.

SUSAN Look, Dr. Portman, it’s one bad review. It probably won’t be the last one. You’re getting older.

WILL I’m only 38!

SUSAN And your sex drive is slowly diminishing day by day. Perhaps it might be time to try a new technique instead of lodging yourself in someone in order to dislodge something from someone.

WILL But the foreplay was good?

SUSAN Oh yeah.

WILL I can live with that. All right. Next week we’ll discuss more about your father.

SUSAN You know what every girl loves to hear.

Eastern Exposure

Samantha Carman

§ 39

A One-Way Mirror

I remember what it was like to be alive. To hold my mother’s hand when she sang me to sleep at night. To pet my cat as she purred in my lap every morning. I remember what the sunlight felt like on a hot summer’s day. I remember how good it felt to take a bubble bath at the end of a long day. I remember every little thing about being alive, every emotion, every struggle, every person I came in contact with. I wish I didn’t take it for granted. I remember walking home, but I don’t remember getting there. I don’t remember what it felt like to die.

In an instant I was there, then I wasn’t. It’s hard to explain what death is like to someone who’s never done it. Much like trying to explain what it’s like to live to someone who isn’t doing that. My mother used to tell me I embraced life and I gave her courage to keep going. She said I was the one who taught her how to live. I can still see my mother and my little cat. My mother doesn’t know how to live anymore. The man who decided I shouldn’t live anymore took that away from her. I can still see her.

I watch her to make sure she’s okay. I don’t know why I do. She can’t see or hear me, but I’m there. Right now, I can see my mother crying. It takes everything in me not to reach out to comfort her. My cat is doing my work for me. She circles her, then goes to sit across from my mother as if she’s trying to be me.

“She’s gone,” I hear my mother whisper to the small fluff on the ground. “She’s not coming back.” She leans down and whispers to the cat, “I don’t belong here without her”. I need my mother to hold on and to not leave like I did. I want to scream and tell her that I am right here with her, but it is as if I am standing in front of a one-way mirror. I can see her, but she can’t see me. I need to stop her from what she is about to do, but there is no way. She is alive and I’m not. I close my eyes. I don’t want to see what is about to happen. I hear the noise, knowing the blood spatter will be all over the walls. I know that my mother’s body is falling to the ground. I hear the cat’s claws on the hardwood floor as she scurries away, frightened by the loud noise.

I open my eyes and my mother is in front of me again. “Hello, Darling,” she says. “I’ve missed you.”

Spring 2017

40

Lexis Foster Stuck

“Spare change? Please, anyone? Please help!” I beg to the crowd as they move along as if no one were here. The only people who notice me are the ones who feel bad and give me pity or the ones who have shock and disgust in their eyes as they clench tighter to their belongings.

Gypsies have always been given a bad name. Thieves, beggars, drifters, panhandlers, bums, lazy, dirty…animals. Normally these names would hurt, but they are right. I am an animal. One who is trained to pretend and act like I need something that I don’t. One who is under the control of a commanding owner named Milosh.

Milosh is one of the most powerful people in Florence. He brings in thousands of euro a day through his “team.” At least that’s what he calls us. Truth is, none of us had a choice in this. Milosh owns hundreds of girls just like me. Some older. Some with kids. Some with injuries. Some younger and attractive, like me. We work for him by panhandling and pickpocketing every day in exchange for shelter and a meal. He has shelters across Italy. I happen to stay at his place. Girls normally switch around to different locations, but I stay here because I started in the business so young. Everyone’s story is different. I am here because my mother sold me to him for a plane ticket to the States. I grew up with Milosh as my father, but I am smart enough to understand that I am his slave.

When I was younger, I worked with a lady named Sonya. “When people see a mother and daughter on the streets, they empty their pockets as fast as possible to help them out. You guys will make me a millionaire in no time!” Milosh used to yell at us. I grew up with Sonya. She was like a mother to me. She was the only person to give me an actual name: Ujaranza, to hope. However, she called me Anza for short.

“I pray every night for you, Anza,” she used to say. “I pray and hope that you have a better future than working here. You are so much more.”

Sonya took care of me growing up and taught me everything there is to know about the business and life in general. Whenever we got food from strangers, she would give it all to me. She always made sure we worked out of the sun and protected me from the shoves and kicks of the strangers who didn’t even notice us. She taught me how to beg tourists and look for the people who were weak. Once a man gave us a five-euro bill because he felt so bad for us. She let me sneak inside to get gelato as a reward. That was the best day I have ever had.

One night Milosh was in a bad mood. We only brought in half of our normal income: a couple hundred. He threw her around so hard, she fell, hit her head, and had a seizure. I’ll never forget seeing her eyes roll to the back of her head and the pool of blood she laid in. When she woke up, she wasn’t the same. Now Sonya shakes constantly and uses a cane to walk. She doesn’t remember me. ***

Eastern Exposure

§ 41

The day goes on and I haven’t made my minimum yet. I only have two hours left before check-in with Milosh. “Pleeeease, sir, spare change?” I have never begged this hard before, but the streets today were slow. I run over to the train station, hoping for a larger crowd to work with. My paper cup, worn and layered with filth, shakes around less than three euro. Milosh tells us never to put more than five euro in our cups at one time, so that people can’t see how much we’ve really made. I am shaking my cup and begging to every adult that walks by until my arm is violently grabbed, letting the change scatter over the tiles of the station.

“Gypsy! Get out of here before I take you in. Leave these people alone!” the armed cop yells in disgust.

He throws me towards the door, but all I can think about is finding my cup and change. There is no way I am going to make the deadline. ***

The bell tower starts to ring as I make my way down the basement steps of the apartment. With nine other women from the house, I try to hide. While we wait, I try to think of every excuse. Anything that will save me from a beating tonight. I whisper to Esmeralda, “Do you have any extra? Please, I’ll repay you. Please help me.”

She doesn’t even budge. She and the rest of the girls are too scared to even look at each other knowing that Milosh will appear at any second.

The door opens and Milosh walks in, flashing his crooked, yellow smile to everyone. He is dressed in a new black leather coat and matching leather shoes. I can smell the leather as soon as he opens the door. He rubs his hands together in delight and excitement. The clink of his gold and jeweled rings makes me want to throw up. “Let’s get this party started, shall we?”

One by one, he goes down the line of girls and collects his payment. My body is numb. I haven’t come up short since the last time I worked with Sonya. As he gets closer, I hold my breath because the mixture of fresh leather and potent cologne almost makes me lose what little I had for lunch.

“Alright, Anza, hand it over.” He counts the loose euros that I dump out of my satchel. He looks up at me, squints his eyes, and starts to count it again.

I am too ashamed to even make eye contact with him, so I just look at my dirt-caked feet and pray I’ll get away somehow. The room is cold and silent.

All of a sudden, I am sprawled out on the cement floor. I can feel the warm blood ooze down my cheek and into my mouth. The skin below my eye gashed by the diamonds in his ring. The squeak of the leather shoes grows louder as Milosh walks towards me. “Where’s the rest of it?” he asks, almost in a playful joking tone.

“I don’t have it. The guard at the train stat…” I can’t finish because the sole of Milosh’s brand new shoe is slowly crushing my skull. My head is pressed between his shoe and the cold damp floor. I can barely open up my eyes enough to see the other women just looking down at the ground, not one person trying to help me.

Spring 2017

42

“Unacceptable, Anza. I expect more. You are one of my stars on this team.”

I can’t speak or breathe. My body is squirming, trying to break free, but the weight is too much. Then, all of a sudden, relief. He steps off my head and flips me over.

He straddles my body, pinning my arms to my sides with his knees. I struggle to catch my breath, but I stop breathing when I see the shiny metal blade of his pocketknife.

Milosh gets close to my face and whispers in my ear, “Now since I’m such a

All I can think about is my face. I am terrified to look in the mirror. My beauty was the only thing that I had. team player, I’ll help you out. Your beautiful face isn’t believable anymore. People don’t feel bad when they see how gorgeous you are. Your green eyes and dark complexion make our customers jealous, so I am going to be a good friend and help you.”

The knife glides across my face as if through butter. The blood pouring into my eyes and mouth, blinding me. The only thing I can think about is Sonya. How she would save me and protect me from Milosh. If she were here. If she remembered.

“There. Much better. Now you should have no problems at all bringing in your cut after work.” He gets up, cleans his knife, grabs the moneybox, and heads to the door. “Everyone have a great night. See you same time tomorrow!” he cheers.

The other girls run over to help me, but I’m so shaken and in pain that I can barely move. They wrap a scarf around my head and guide me up to our room. The warm damp cloths and alcohol sting, but I don’t flinch. All I can think about is my face.

I am terrified to look in the mirror. My beauty was the only thing that I had. ***

The next morning I hear everyone running around, trying to get ready.

I haven’t slept at all. My face is throbbing. I roll out of my cot and drift into the washroom. I slowly lift my eyes up to see the damage and instantly start to cry. The gash starts at my left eyelid and flows across my nose, into my right cheek. My tears are burning the wound, but I can’t stop. Milosh branded me.

Sobbing and wincing in pain, I force myself to get ready. The bandage stings, but not as much as the alcohol. There is no way that I am ever coming up short again.

I grab my satchel and scarf, braid my hair, and walk out the door, face throbbing.

After I fish a new cup out of the trashcan, I start to work. Milosh was right.

People saw my face and threw money at me left and right. I brought in double that day. ***

My face is starting to scab over. I have had no problems bringing in money to Milosh. Every night at check-in, he gives me a pat on the shoulder and says, “You’re welcome.” Each time he says that, my soul burns in anger. I can’t do this much longer.

Eastern Exposure

§ 43

Today it’s raining hard. It barely ever rains in Florence, so work is going to be difficult. People stay inside to hide from the wetness, but I have no choice. I take shelter in a busy café and start to search easy targets. Sonya taught me how to pickpocket. It’s very risky, so I only do it when I am desperate. I start collecting wallets, expensive items, and spare change from in front of the register until the owner throws me out.

I sit on the steps of the Duomo and let the rain hit me. The cool water soaks my braids and clothes. It runs over my face and across my scar. I enjoy every raindrop.

I hear the church doors open. A frail old man walks out and opens his umbrella. He walks over to me. “Excuse me, miss. You can’t panhandle here. It is church property.”

I look up at him and his eyes widen. “I am sorry sir. Just needed a break,” I reply. He is clearly staring directly at my scar and doesn’t respond. I am used to it, so I get off the steps and start walking until I hear him yell.

“Wait! Wait a second!” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out twenty euro.

“Get yourself food or medicine. I’ll pray for you.” Then he walks back into the church.

I am confused. I didn’t ask for any money, but he gave me more than I have ever gotten from one customer. The only time I held large bills was when I took them out of wallets or purses. The old man is gone before I can even say thank you.

As I walk around trying to find another large crowd of people, I start to cry.

I cry because of the life I live. Everyone looks down at me, but I know that I can be so much more. I was never given the opportunity to be anything more than a beggar. I feel the need to get away, far away, from everyone and everything. I can start a new life somewhere, anywhere. I count the money I collected earlier from the café and the old man. Two hundred and fifty euro. Enough to get me far away.

I bolt to the train station as fast as I can. I can’t stop or turn back and I can’t go back to Milosh. Before I even have time to think about what I am doing, I find the counter and ask for a one-way train ticket to the farthest place from here. I hop on the train and find a seat. Using my scarf, I hide my face from passengers so that I don’t draw attention to myself. I can’t help but think about Sonya. Should I have brought her with me? She would have told me to go on my own anyway. I pray that she will be okay.

Hours go by before the train stops at the final station. Everyone is crowded around trying to get off all at once. I keep my head down to try and stay invisible. I don’t want anyone to see me. To find me.

The doors open and the crowd starts to exit. It is chaos. People are pushing to get on and more people shoving to get off. I am pushed forward and lose my footing. I lose my balance and hit the ground, which is hot against my skin. People just step over me. I’m dizzy from hitting my head against the pavement, but when I am able to focus, I see them. The black leather shoes. Their smell still fresh in my memory. I slowly look up to see the yellow, crooked smile.

“Anza, my girl. What are you doing here?”

Spring 2017

44

Christopher Morris Kali and I Get a Mazda

Friday was Charlotte’s Day. At half-past two, I’d pop the loose floorboard beneath my bed and screw the wheels back onto the skateboard I kept hidden beneath.

If I left the wheels on, the floorboard wouldn’t sit right, and I was worried Sydney would notice and find my Secret Box.

I wasn’t very good at skateboarding, but I was getting better. I liked the way it felt––smooth and uncatchable, like I was gliding over the surface of water while everyone else was stuck having to swim. Plus––and this was just good luck––I happened to find a little pink helmet at a garage sale one day that was just my size.

So, on this one particular Friday morning in the middle of summer, I got up early, showered away the sweat of the previous night’s work, and hurried downstairs with my board and helmet tucked under my arm. It was unseasonably cool, crisp as early autumn, and I felt light and giddy. I felt bold, like I could do something dangerous and get away with it.

Susie was flopped across the couch in the game room, hair up at odd angles.

She was frowning at a half-eaten apple and chewing uneasily on her bottom lip. “Where are ya’ll off to?” she called out, her Kentucky twang lilting way up.

“Breakfast at Charlotte’s,” I said. “It’s Friday.”

“Then where’s Kali?”

“She was home with her dad last night. She’ll meet me there.”

Susie nodded, still eyeing her apple. “Penny?”

“Yeah?”

“Is it just me or has Kali been spending a lot more time with her dad lately?”

I caught the pudge under my chin in the clip of the helmet strap. I gulped.

“Oh, I don’t know. She’s been sick. He might be a deadbeat, but if I were that sick, I’d rather have a deadbeat’s couch to lie on than the floor of the local children’s shelter.”

Susie shrugged. “Yeah, yeah, fair enough. I’m just saying. Last time I saw her, she looked like she’d lost some weight.”

I fidgeted. I wanted to feel the cold breeze in my hair. I wanted to take in a breath that didn’t reek of moldy couches and dry rotted walls. I realized, right then, how profoundly I hated St. Pancras.

“But she’s been sick, right?” Susie’s eyes twinkled. “She’s probably been puking her guts up.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

I cracked the front door. “Okay, Sue. I’m gonna go now.”

“Cool, dude,” she said, rolling over onto her side and shutting her eyes. “Peace and love.”

That morning, my balance was especially shaky boarding across town.

Eastern Exposure

§ 45

Charlotte’s wasn’t exactly the place I should have been going. It had been three months since my thirteenth birthday. Those few days I’d spent with Kali on the beach in Rhode Island had already faded away. All that was left of my tan was a faint, almost sallow tinge to my arms and my legs. We’d pigged out at the snack shacks, but my belly had since shrunken back down to its usual proportions. Hunger gnawed at my ribs.

And that’s why Kali and I went to Charlotte’s––they served eggs, pancakes, waffles, and sausages, but everything was drowned in an extra layer of grease, and even if it made you feel like you’d filled up on cement, at least you felt filled up.

The food at St. Pancras, on the other hand, would just make you vomit––and that was if you got in line fast enough to even get some.

I rode into the parking lot and dismounted––I wasn’t ready to start hopping curbs just yet. The sun beat down on the back of my neck and the wind cooled my face.

Kali was already seated at a booth at the far end of the restaurant, her eyes half closed. Her hair was yanked back from her face into a ponytail. Her cheekbones showed unusually prominently. Her hands looked especially bony. She’d hidden the rest of herself inside a baggy blue sweater.

I sighed: Here we go.

“About time,” she said as I slid into the booth. She kept her eyes on her menu.

“Did you sleep past your alarm?”

“Maybe.”

“Tsk, tsk.” She closed her menu and contorted her lips into a smile. It looked like it hurt.

“So,” I said. “What looks good?”

“For you?”

“Yes, of course. I don’t care about you.”

“Well, you heartless bitch, the bacon-wrapped sausage is calling your name.”

“Ah, yes,” I said, tapping my finger against the calorie count. “Cardiac arrest, coming right up.”

She smirked. It was real now. It lit her up. Her hair seemed to turn an even brighter shade of red, her ponytail a spout of fire and embers. “I have a surprise.”

“Do you, now?”

“No, I’m just screwing with you ‘cause I’m an asshole.”

“That’s what I thought.”

She kicked me in the shin. “Seriously. You’re gonna be pumped.”

I groaned. “Sure I will be. If I can walk far enough to see it.”

We pounded down our breakfast, trading our usual gossip about Tom and Sydney, who Kali had heard were now officially “going steady.” The thought made me nauseous, but I figured I was probably supposed to be happy for my sister, so I took the picture I had of me and her out of my wallet and set it down on the table. I stabbed her

Spring 2017

46

in the face with a fork.

“Wow,” Kali said. “Okay.”

I leaned back in my seat and licked my fingers. “You want a go?”

“At stabbing your sister’s picture?”

“Yes.”

She took my hand and gave it a squeeze. She told me to relax. And then she stabbed another fork through Sydney’s eyes.

“Ugh.” I dropped my skateboard onto the sidewalk and felt the sun sear my neck. I set one foot on the board and almost immediately tasted bacon-induced motion sickness on my tongue.

Kali clapped me on the shoulder and inhaled deeply through her nose. “You want a cigarette?”

I wrapped my arms around my belly. “No, but you got any antacids?”

“No, but I can get you back to St. Pancras without you having to risk blowing chunks.” She reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a lanyard. A set of rusty keys dangled and jangled. At the far end of the parking lot, a dented-up Mazda 2 beeped and flashed its headlights.

My jaw fell clean off. “Huh?” “Yup.” “What?”

“Indeed.”

“You have a car?”

“Oh, Penny, my sweet, naïve, sweet-toothed little buddy. I stole a car.”

“What?”

She laughed and kissed my head. I flailed my arms around and flapped my gums like a poorly animated cartoon character.

“Dude!” I yelped, finally managing to reign myself in. “What were you thinking? Where did you steal it from, a dealership? Cause if you did, I am not going to the slammer just to save our friendship.”

She whacked the back of my head. “First of all, you’re a sucky friend...”

“Oww!”

“...And second of all, I’m not stupid. I stole it from my dad’s neighbor.”

I gasped.

“Who is blind.”

I felt the blood drain out of my face.

“And a retired cop.”

“Nope,” I said, holding my hands up in surrender. “Nope. Not happening.

You have officially lost your mind.”

“Will you please hear me out?”

Eastern Exposure

§ 47 “Nope.”

“Penny.”

“Just take me now. I’m probably already complicit.”

“Penny,” she snapped, and I gulped down my words. She shook her head. The fiery red of her hair dimmed down to a simmer. “The guy is also a pedophile.”

I let that sink in. The energy drained out of my limbs like sap.

Kali forced another smile, this one more warped and gruesome than the last.

She popped the driver’s side door. She started the engine and raised her eyebrows.

She was wearing a thin white undershirt underneath and I couldn’t see her belly.

I’d bet it was black and blue. Or maybe it wasn’t—maybe her dad had hit her somewhere else. Or maybe he hadn’t hit her at all—maybe he’d done something worse.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, jimmying the stick shift uncertainly.

“And no, I don’t know that because he did it to me. He’s on the registry.”

I strapped on my seatbelt. My chest was tight, my throat tighter. “And why were you looking on the registry?”

She risked a sideways glance out of the corners of her eyes. She saw me looking back and turned quickly away. “Because.”

“Because why?”

“Don’t ask me, okay?” She shook her head as if to dispel some fervid dream.

The car seats were leather. The floor was covered over with a clean white rug, but my sneakers had already left their muddy imprints. This car was too luxurious for us, too good for me.

“So,” Kali said, cranking the AC. “What did Sydney do this time? Cause if she punched another one of your teeth out, I’m punching her lights out.”

I rolled the window down. The air smelled foul, a mixture of sweat and exhaust. “Well, you just told me she’s ‘going steady’ with Tom, so there’s that.”

The engine grumbled quietly beneath us. The AC swept my hair back from my forehead. Sweat dripped from my brow into my eye, and I thought of the heat of the beach. We’d only been able to pay for that trip because Kali had stolen her dad’s credit card before meeting me at the bus stop. We’d most definitely hit his spending limit. I’m sure he found out. It wouldn’t have helped her case that it was all for me––if anything, it would have hurt her.

Spring 2017

48

“They’ll go splitsville eventually,” she said, grabbing a T-shirt out of the back seat and holding it up to the light to check for stains. “You mind if I change?”

“Nope.”

She pulled her sweater up and over her head. She was wearing a thin white undershirt underneath and I couldn’t see her belly. I’d bet it was black and blue. Or maybe it wasn’t––maybe her dad had hit her somewhere else. Or maybe he hadn’t hit her at all––maybe he’d done something worse.

“Kali?”

“Hmm?” She tossed her sweater to the ground and combed her fingers through her hair. Her shirt read WHAT’RE YOU LOOKING AT?

I took a deep breath. “Do you actually know how to drive this thing?”

“Ha!” She punched me in the shoulder and adjusted her rearview mirror. She sank back into her seat with a sigh of deep relief. “Do I know how to drive it? I drove it here, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but you’re also fourteen.”

“Pen, that’s ageist.” She twisted around and backed us out of the parking space. She put the car into drive and licked her lips. She looked pale and thin.

“Dude, you good?”

“Yeah.” Her hair frizzled in the sun. “But where do you wanna go?”

I hesitated. I’d forgotten we were sitting in a car. Our car.

We could go places.

“Pen,” Kali laughed, switching on the radio and scanning, as she always did, for the country station. “Don’t overthink this, girl. The pedo is on vacation with his parents or something, so we’ve got this baby till Friday.”

I thought of the beach. I felt sand between my toes and sprayed sunscreen down my arms. I dove into sea foam. I licked melting ice cream from the cone. I smelled salt and summer. I laid my head on my towel and believed, with all my heart, that I was just like everyone else on that beach.

I wasn’t homeless anymore. I wasn’t a prostitute. My sister wasn’t who she was.

I had parents, Mom and Dad. I loved them and they loved me. It wasn’t like what Kali had with her dad, where he would call her home just to throw her back out onto the street. My dad wouldn’t do that just to dangle dollar bills in front of my eyes because he was lonely and wanted the only company he had left.

Kali was looking at me with wide, curious eyes, her hair twisted around her finger. I couldn’t ask her to take me back to the shore because it would remind her of whatever it was that her father had done to her when she’d gotten back. I couldn’t have that on my conscience.

“How much gas you got?” I asked her.

“Full tank.” She rubbed her hand over the dashboard and purred. “Dude probably wanted to make sure he had enough gas to get him cross-country.”

Eastern Exposure

§ 49 “Why?”

“Because he’s planning on abducting a kiddie, right? He’s gotta get her outta town. Way outta town.”

“You’re terrible.”

She shrugged and trundled towards the street, her foot hovering tentatively over the brake pedal. “I’ve given it a lot of thought, man. If he’s gonna try to abduct someone, it’s probably gonna be me. No question I’m the hottest girl on the block.”

“You’re lucky I ain’t on your block, then.”

“You want to be abducted?” She rolled out into the street and jerked us suddenly to the left. Our tires squealed and kicked up steam. I cracked my temple against the window and bounced back like a basketball.

“Yoooooooooo!” she whooped, pumping her fist and picking up speed.

“Sorry about your face, bud.”

“Yeah,” I groaned. “No problem. Where’re you taking us, Speed Racer?”

She turned to look at me. Her eyes glittered. Her hair fluttered in the breeze from the AC. “Somewhere else.”

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Justin Berak The Auto Mechanic Who Does Not Like Eggs

The Coffee Train Cafe consisted of a long hallway with windows as high as the ceiling. The parts of the wall made of cement held pictures of locomotives, each one detailing landscapes ranging from mountain tops to ocean fronts. A giant ceramic mug sat in the middle of the restaurant and watched as the patrons drank from its children.

Where one end of the hallway led to the kitchen, the other led to a mock conductor’s room for children to laugh and pull levers attached to nothing. No youthful laughter would be heard at five in the morning, only yells from the kitchen.

Logan seated himself on a barstool, wearing a black sweatshirt displaying a bizarre brand of soda. He kept his head down, his eyes covert, and covered his bald pasty head with a hood. He looked to the ground as if it were off in the distance.

Neither smiled nor frowned. No one recognized him. He barely recognized himself.

He’d witnessed regulars come and go over the years––artists, managers, homemakers. He recognized them by their plates, yet no one could do so for him. The waitress still had to ask for his order, scrambled eggs and coffee. Logan never even liked eggs. He ordered a bagel on his first visit and they gave him the wrong dish. He had ordered eggs ever since, unable to risk ruining his chances of becoming a regular.

Today, he found himself unable to stop thinking about how much he hated work. Logan, without the company of any other, held the shift in the auto shop from eleven-to-six a.m. No one came in that time of night. No one called. Over the years he had stopped hoping for the opportunity to help people with their cars, and, instead of hoping, he waited until dawn. He would pick at the sleeve of his sweatshirt, creating the loudest noise in room.

Carly, the octogenarian waitress, emitted an unamused haze as she walked over to where Logan sat. It was as if every customer she talked to was the last customer she had to deal with for the day. Her smile was the loudest thing about her, not because it was enchanting, but because it somehow managed to surpass her permanent scowl.

Logan could tell by the bags under her eyes that she had not slept in a long time.

“Logan!” she rasped, a smile coming across her face. “Eggs and coffee?”

Logan’s eyes began to water. She remembered, Logan thought, she actually remembered! He had become a regular to The Coffee Train Cafe, his crowning achievement over the past decade.

Yet, he could not bring himself to eat eggs again. He hated eggs. He never liked eggs. Not once has he put the unborn child of a chicken in his mouth and felt satisfied. He did not want to be known as the auto mechanic who liked eggs. He looked up, lowering his eyebrows and scrunching his lips.

“A bagel, actually,” he said, throwing out years of hard work. “Lightly toasted with just a little bit of butter, please.”

“Of course,” Carly said, her smile fading. She put away her notepad as soon as

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she had taken it out and walked back towards the kitchen.

As Logan waited for his bagel, the diner began to smell different. Coffee roasting, hot chocolate brewing. The diner looked different: so many different people, so many lives. It sounded different. It felt different. No, he felt different. He could not wait for his bagel. His whole body shook as he pushed his lips together to restrain himself from exploding with laughter. What would happen if he opened his own mechanic shop?

As Carly passed by, a plate clanked on the table in front of Logan. Carly made no attempt to look at Logan. She never even stopped walking. To Logan, at the very least, this did not matter. A crisp, beige bagel harnessing all the love and hate in the universe sat on the plate in front of him. He planned to enjoy it.  

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Amanda DeMaio Introduction to Maria Mazziotti Gillan Maria Mazziotti Gillan was born on March 12, 1940, in the Riverside section of Paterson, New Jersey, to Italian immigrants Arturo (a janitor and boilermaker) and Angelina Suhiavo (a seamstress) Mazziotti. On June 28, 1964, she married Dennis P. Gillan, with whom she had two children, John and Jennifer. The Founder/Executive Director of the Poetry Center at Passaic County Community College in Paterson, NJ, editor of the Paterson Literary Review, and Director of the Creative Writing Program and Professor of Poetry at Binghamton University-SUNY, Maria has published twentyone books, including her most recent book of poetry, What Blooms in Winter (NYQ Books, 2016), in which she celebrates the people of her past as well as the experiences that have shaped her as a person, and her popular craft book Writing Poetry to Save Your Life: How to Find the Courage to Tell Your Stories (Miroland Publishers, 2013). She has also co-edited four anthologies with her daughter Jennifer.

Maria was the recipient of the 2014 George Garrett Award for Outstanding Community Service in Literature from AWP, the 2011 Barnes & Noble Writers for Writers Award from Poets & Writers, and the 2008 American Book Award for her book, All That Lies Between Us. Maria graduated from Seton Hall University and then from New York University with an MA in Literature.

We Eastern students were fortunate enough to have Maria visit our university and read from her work as well as run a generative workshop in which sixteen of us wrote and shared new poems. One of the biggest things she stressed to us was not to give in to the “crow” that often sits on our shoulder or stays inside our head. Maria defines “the crow” as “this creature that has in it the voice of every person who has ever been negative to you in your life…who says you’re not cool, or a man or a woman who treats you poorly, or your parents saying, ‘How could you be so dumb as to get in a car with that person?’

All those voices are caught in the beak of the crow. The crow whispers in your ear all the time. If you let it, it will stop you. You have to knock the crow away.”

The following interview was conducted by Eastern Writers Guild secretary Christina Rossomando on November 3, 2016.

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Christina Rossomando Walking through Grief into Survival: An Interview with Maria Mazziotti Gillan

Rossomando: You write a lot about personal experiences. Do you ever find that difficult?

Gillan: Yes, I do. I always say you know when you’ve reached “the cave” because you’ve started crying. I always know when I’m getting a poem, getting to something I really need to write about, because I will start crying halfway through. Tears will be running down my face. That’s the type of poem people write to me about, the type people remember twenty years after they hear me read. I love that. I love having them come up to me and say, “Oh, I remember that poem from twenty-five years ago in Nebraska.

I didn’t even think anyone would understand me in Nebraska, but they do, because what I’m trying to write about is what it’s like to be human. I hope that builds a bridge between me and other people. Poetry builds that bridge. If it doesn’t, then what’s the point? I don’t want to be one of five white guys from Harvard––not that I could be–– writing for five other white guys from Harvard.

My father and mother always greeted the world with very open arms. My father was always out in the world trying to help people. I think in a way the kind of poetry I’m writing, the kind of classes I teach, the kind of poetry I’m suggesting is a poetry that reaches out to the world, opens up to the world, doesn’t close everything in. It’s hard sometimes to write like that, but for me it’s the only way that makes sense. I don’t want a poem that’s just pretty and doesn’t have any guts in it.

You saw in that room today. [Maria had run a morning workshop with sixteen Eastern student poets.] Everyone wrote such wonderful poems. You and I know when people are being gutsy and brave. You know it. You just hear it.

Rossomando: Are there any topics you don’t write about?

Gillan: Not really. Well, almost nothing. I always say I love Sharon Olds’s work, but I’m not sure I would have the nerve about some of the things in such specific detail that she does. Like sexual scenes. It’s just not my thing to write that way. But once… Okay, I will tell you something. Once there was a call for poems––I think it was in Poets and Writers––for poems about sex, so I wrote my only specific-sex poem and I sent it off stupidly. Then I thought, “Oh my God, I just sent that poem to somebody. Who knows who’s going to see it?” I’m thinking “Oh, no. What did you do? Are you insane? You’re a mother, you’re a grandmother. What are you doing? How could you have sent him that poem? You don’t know this man!” That really taught me a lesson: If I write that kind of poem, I keep it for me. I’ve written poems like that, but haven’t published them. Not

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because I think there are things you shouldn’t publish, but because I was so embarrassed when I sent it.

Rossomando: What is one of your favorite poems you’ve written?

Gillan: A poem about my father called “Betrayal” comes to mind because it was one of the hardest poems for me to write. Mainly because I was so mean to him when I was growing up because he was working class and I was so embarrassed he didn’t speak English correctly. I wanted him to be this upper middle class father.

Other writers can help so much sometimes. There was a writer named Ruth Lisa Schechter, who edited a literary journal called the Croton Review. I sent her poems for the magazine and she sent me a letter and said, “I really want to talk to you about your poems.” Now I was pretty much Little Miss Housewife at that point. I was fairly young.

I’d been raising my children, going to school, teaching. I never went much of anywhere by myself, but I drove out to Croton-on-Hudson. Ruth spent about five hours going over my poems with me. She told me to go home and reread “Kaddish” [a long poem filled with specific details that Allen Ginsberg wrote in the two years following his mother’s death]. After I did that, I revised my poem. I didn’t understand how unspecific I was being. I could’ve been writing about anyone’s father. [“Betrayal”] was the first poem in which I actually got specific and wrote about my father in a way that, I think, could not have been anybody else’s father.

Rossomando: What is your writing process? How has it changed over the years?

Gillan: These days, I usually start with a line or something I need to write about.

I used to start by reading a book of poems. Within that, something would get me started. When my children were little, the only time I found I had to myself––they even followed me to the bathroom, so I couldn’t even write in the bathroom. You know, they’d hang onto me and wouldn’t let me go. I wish they would come back and hang onto me again, but, hey, they’re not going to. I found that I if got up at three in the morning, I could write. I got up and read people like Adrienne Rich, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and May Sarton. They would keep me company in the middle of the night.

After I read about two or three poems, I’d find myself writing in my journal about something I was worrying about or somebody I cared about. Before I knew it, I was writing a poem. In a way, those midnight excursions into poetry taught me to just let go, that, if the poem needs to be written, it will come.

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Now, as it’s become more and more difficult––I have two jobs in addition to running around doing poetry readings, I do a lot of writing when my students are writing. I never miss an opportunity to do that. I now can’t get up in the middle of the night to write unless I’m having nightmares. I really need sleep to lead the life I lead. I do a lot of intensive workshops, so I write a lot. That’s why I have so many books recently. After my students finish reading what they wrote, I read, too, even though what they wrote might be 10,000 times better than what I did. I want to show them that sometimes you make a fool of yourself. Sometimes it doesn’t work, but you have to be brave enough to go out on a limb.

My conscious mind is no longer in charge, the little old lady who lives in my belly is. I need her to be in charge because she knows more than my brain does what I need to write.

Rossomando: During that writing process, how do you overcome your “crow”?

Gillan: I’ve had a lot of practice, for one thing. I still have to be careful, though. I will tell myself, “Oh, this is no good.” If I’m embarrassed because students have written wonderful poems and here I am with this poem that needs a lot of work, I’ll make negative comments about what I’ve written. That’s my crow. I have tried to teach myself not to do that. I do have the tendency to make negative statements about myself–– almost as though I’m trying to say it first before someone else says it––but I never make negative statements about other people. I’m trying to train myself out of that, but obviously I’m not exactly young and I haven’t succeeded very well.

I have to give myself permission to go where I have to go. The first ten lines might be a little labored, but then, as I get into the poem, I feel my pen moving. My conscious mind is no longer in charge, the little old lady who lives in my belly is. I need her to be in charge because she knows more than my brain does what I need to write. When I get to that point, I know I’m getting a poem. I might have to throw out the first twenty lines, but I need to write them first in order to get where I have to go.

Rossomando: Why do you believe that poetry matters?

Gillan: Oh, it’s mattered so much to me. It has given me courage when I didn’t have courage. I could pull a poem out of my pocket when I’m depressed and read it out Spring 2017

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loud to myself. I don’t mean literally pull it out of my pocket; I memorized it so I’m carrying it with me. I love memorizing poems. Very often, when I find myself sinking a little and, you know, feeling a little overwhelmed, I think “Which poem should I read?” I take a poem out of memory and say it out loud and suddenly I feel better. I hear the music in it. My spirit lifts right up again and I’m ready to sail. I love language and poetry because of that. It can take you so far in your life, so far away from anything that can drag you down––and there is plenty in the world that can drag you down.

A wonderful thing about poetry is that it can get to those deep places inside of you.

I mean, think about situation comedies: Everything ends in a half hour. Everything’s solved. Everything’s on the surface. Nobody really gets hurt. No one cries for ten years over something somebody’s done to them. But in real life, people do cry for ten years.

People are wounded seriously. People are hurt by other people’s carelessness, other people’s lack of passion and empathy. That’s what poetry can help us with.

Rossomando: Which poets have influenced you?

Gillan: I read a lot. Sharon Olds, Adrienne Rich––especially her collection “The Fact of a Doorframe,” which I must have read a thousand times. It was as if she was keeping me company in my midnight kitchen because she was at the same stage in her life. Anne Sexton. She used the most outrageous similes and metaphors. She would compare two things that just didn’t seem like they could be compared. I loved her outrageousness and her willingness to be vulnerable. Diane di Prima has been very important in my life. You would say she’s a hippy, a beat poet, that I have nothing in common with her. Well, we both love poetry, we both love art, we both love talking about it, we both love reading to crowds. She really is a wise person. She helped me an enormous amount––just talking to her, going on reading tours with her, she got me to go back to painting––I just can’t thank her enough.

The other person who was really influential in my life was Ruth Stone, who became one of my very good friends before she died; we were probably friends for about twenty-five years. I remember walking down Main Street in Princeton with her. She came from a poor family. When she came to New Jersey to do a reading, she would get scared in the fancy hotel, so she would call me and say, “Maria, come stay with me,” and I would go down to Princeton. She was an absolutely gorgeous woman. She was just beautiful, even when she was older. She died at ninety-five. We were like two little kids. I just loved her sense of humor, the way she loved life. Nothing could stop her. We walked down laughing like two crazy people. She had a crazy sense of humor. She taught me how to

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laugh again, how important it was. My family taught me that, too, but she reminded me how important laughter was in life, how important it was to find that kernel of joy, even in grief, even in everyday life, when sometimes you feel there is no kernel of joy.

Rossomando: How do you come up with titles for your poems? Some are broad and some are specific. Do you create them before or after your poems?

Gillan: Oh, usually I do them right away. Sometimes, you notice they’re prompts: [In my poem] “We Used to Call It Downtown, Remember?” I started that as my first line and decided that was a perfect title. [Same thing with] “Why I Love the Library.” My titles are very down-to-earth, very direct. Sometimes I use a quote to come up with a title, such as “It’s Been A Week...” Those lines become entry points into the poems. I mean, they are not necessarily brilliant things. I like them to be clear. I don’t really like esoteric titles any more than I like esoteric poems.

Rossomando: What is your advice for aspiring writers who have trouble revealing what’s in their “cave”?

Gillan: I tell them they don’t have to share the poem or their writing or whatever form they choose with anyone else. Whether it’s prose or a poem, they don’t have to share it.

They just have to give themselves permission to write the story they have to tell. They have to believe it’s important to get it down. They might not be willing to put it into the world yet, but they should believe that they are saying something important. There is a kind of salvation in being able to write our stories down. As a girl, I didn’t speak. I was so shy. Writing was a way of freeing myself from not being able to tell people what I was feeling, of marking my place in the world––something I couldn’t do because I’d always been hiding in a corner someplace, trying not to be seen. It took a long time for me to realize that, by writing the poems, I was being seen.

When I started sending my poems out and being published, people started writing to me, I realized I loved being seen actually much more than I thought. I was no longer as shy as I once was. I’m still shy. In weird moments, it comes back. I have this little girl who lives inside me, the kid in the raggedy dress: still shy, still afraid, still without the words to claim her space in the world. When I think I’ve left her behind, she shows up and I say, “I thought I got rid of you already.” But there she is. Writing for me is always an excavation, always getting past the crow to the things I need to write about. Enough people have written to me about my poetry to say that it has helped them. Maybe some of these poems need to be out there in the world. I hope so. I hope they open doors for other people the way other writers’ poems have opened doors for me. I hope they open

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doors for others to write the things they are afraid to write about. I’m afraid most of the time, but I still write. I always think that’s my definition of courage: You’re scared, but you do it anyway.

Rossomando: Your twenty-first book of poetry, What Blooms in Winter, was published in 2016. Its poems are divided into sections. Do you have a reason for doing that?

Gillan: A friend suggested I do it. It made sense. Otherwise, the poems would all run together. The first section, “Backpacks and Galoshes,” deals with growing up in Paterson, things I remember from when I was a kid. The second section, “All We Didn’t Know,” is about growing into adulthood, young marriage, experiences I had as a young woman, and about the way in which people who have passed on come back to me. For example, my poem “In a Bookstore in Hobart, New York,” is about the time I was in a bookstore and suddenly remembered my mother. She had never even been to Hobart–– she’d never left Paterson after she left Italy––but she would have been fascinated by it.

I swear she came to me there and was suddenly there talking to me again. The next section, “A Season of Loss,” deals a lot with the deaths of my husband and sister and mother and father. As you get older, you lose a lot of people. That’s the thing: You lose them, but they sort of come back to you, too. The final section is a celebration of survival, “Lemons and Roses.” That’s Italy for me––Sicily and southern Italy––and my parents and the place they came from and the ways in which we walk through grief into survival. That’s what blooms in winter, isn’t it? That spirit that doesn’t die within us?

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Postscript

“Confront the dark parts of yourself and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness. Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing. Use the pain as fuel, as a reminder of your strength.”

––August Wilson “Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.”

––Franz Kafka

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Contributors Notes Justin Berak is a board game design enthusiast from Ellington, CT, trekking his way through a double major in English and psychology. He likes high-fives from strangers as well as popcorn.

Paula Berson is a wife and mother from South Windsor. She is studying social work and will graduate in May. She is an immigrant from Colombia and came to the U.S. at two years old and has since decided it was the best gift her parents could have given her.

Julia Bonadies, a Vernon native for nearly half her life, is a passionate English student focusing on secondary education and creative writing. Her affinity for cats, coffee, denim, Twin Peaks, and reading run deep. Two of her favorite sounds are laughter and natural running water.

Samantha Carman is an English major from New Britain. She writes because it’s a part of who she is and she wants people to view what she thinks about it. Also, she loves cats.

Ce’Nedra Darragh wrote a series of poems about mental and emotional abuse. None of the poems are about her, but she took the persona of a person who might be in an abusive relationship. She is an English major from Norwich, CT, and was born in a car on a highway in Oakland, California.

Amanda DeMaio is a senior at Eastern and is studying English with a concentration in creative writing. She’s from a small shoreline town in Connecticut and is the vice president of the Eastern Writers Guild. She spends her time writing, reading, taking pictures, and traveling.

Kellyann Enright is a freshman from Storrs Mansfield, CT, majoring in criminology with a minor in pre-law.

Lexis Foster is a double major in elementary education and liberal studies (English). She is also a senior co-captain for Eastern’s women’s basketball team.

Justin Guiel is a junior biology major from East Hartford, CT. Trey Geisman is an English major from Colchester, CT. He has been writing poetry for seven years and was given the opportunity to read at the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival in 2013. He will graduate from Eastern in 2017 and continue his creative writing.

Elizabeth Hadfield was a talented artist and student studying to be a teacher after college. She was loved by many and will always be remembered for her contagious smile and ability to make anyone laugh.

Katelyn Huhtanen is from Pomfret, CT, and she is majoring in elementary education and English. She loves to backpack and she is currently chipping away at hiking each of the forty-eight mountains in New Hampshire that are over 4,000 feet.

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§ 61 Nicholas Khan, a senior from Willimantic, CT, majors in visual arts with concentrations in painting and drawing and art history.

Jacob LaFreniere is a communication major from Brooklyn, CT, a place most people from Connecticut have never heard of. During his free time, you can probably find him watching or quoting cartoons somewhere.

Susan McLean is studying communications and writing. She enjoys cats and walking barefoot in tall grass. In her spare time, she reads as much as she can. She also dabbles in the visual arts, focusing on painting and drawing. She has been writing since she was a kid and has been focusing on poetry and creative nonfiction lately. She frequents local punk shows and enjoys the underground music scene. She also takes pride in the fact that she can fit seventeen cookies in her mouth at a time.

Jessica Miclon grew up in Enfield, CT. She is studying English (with a creative writing concentration) and Sociology. She hopes to one day be a professor of creative writing and live with many small animal friends.

Christopher Morris is a history and English major hailing from Waterford, CT. Chris is currently working on edits to “THREE HOURS,” his first novel. He is also an employee at Elephant Rock Books, an independent publisher based in Ashford.

Robin Morris is from Morris, CT. No, her family doesn’t own the town. Next question.

She’s been working in various restaurants since she was in high school and most of her poems are about those experiences.

Christina Rossomando is a senior communication major and writing minor at Eastern and is secretary of the Eastern Writers Guild. She enjoys writing poetry in her free time as well as hanging out with her friends.

Natalia Torcaso is a junior at Eastern Connecticut State University who majors in English and secondary education and minors in Spanish. She enjoys writing plays and would like to be a teacher for students whose first language is not English.

Deirdre Volk is a sophomore from Windsor, CT, majoring in pre-early childhood education and sociology.

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Dear Readers,

Thank you for taking the time to read the 2017 Eastern Exposure. We hope that you have enjoyed its contents. This literary journal is the product of the Eastern Writers Guild, but also of every writer who submits poems, short stories, creative nonfiction, plays, and scripts.

If you would like to submit to the magazine for the 2018 issue, we will be accepting submissions at the beginning of the Fall 2017 semester. With each new year, more and more submissions come in. We hope to see even more submissions next year.

Guidelines for submissions are as follows: •

Students may submit up to 5 pieces (10 pages) in any combination of genres, such as poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, drama, and scriptwriting.

•

Work must be submitted through our Submittable account: easternwriters. submittable.com/submit.

In addition to publishing Eastern Exposure, the Eastern Writers Guild hosts visiting authors, creative writing workshops, open mic coffeehouses, and other cultural events throughout the year.

We are what we are because of our members. If you are an Eastern student who has the love of reading and writing that we share, please feel free to join us! Club meetings for the Fall 2017 and Spring 2018 semesters will be posted at the start of each term on our website: http://www1.easternct.edu/writersguild/

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

Thank you once again for reading the 2017 Eastern Exposure!

—The Eastern Writers Guild

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Readers Notes

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