Eastern Exposure 2021

E²

Eastern Connecticut State University Student Literary Journal

Allison Brown Lucas Chaude Victoria Congdon Ben Dionne Hannah Epifano Rachel Fields Colleen Goff Christine Guyette Maisie Hayes Venniesha Joseph Michaela Lillard Julia MacKinnon Kayla McLean Kyra Miles Evelyn Musto Wislyne Naubert Rebecca Norman Kilee Nutbrown Safiya Palmer Rebecca Radford

Eastern Exposure

In This Issue

Eastern Exposure

2021

Eastern Connecticut State University’s Literary Journal

Eastern Exposure 2021

Eastern Exposure Eastern Exposure, Eastern Connecticut State University’s student literary magazine, is published annually by the Creative Writing Club of Eastern Connecticut State University, English Department, 225 Webb Hall, 83 Windham Street, Willimantic, CT 06226. https://www.easternct.edu/writers-guild/index.html email: easternwriters@my.easternct.edu Phone: 860-456-4570 Fax: 860-456-4580 Faculty Advisor Dr. Daniel Donaghy, Professor of English 2020-21 Creative Writing Club Executive Board President: Victoria Congdon Vice President: Ben Dionne Secretary: Kevin LaFrance Treasurer: Elizabeth Dowding 2020-2021 Editorial Board Poetry Editors: Ben Dionne and Elizabeth Dowding Fiction Editors: Victoria Congdon and Kevin LaFrance Readers: Malek Allari, Ava Burns, Samantha Pine, Jordan Navarro Cover Art “Brown Flower Girl” (artwork by Safiya Palmer) 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, and hybrid creative writing forms 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 the club’s webpage: https://www.easternct.edu/writers-guild/index.html Eastern Exposure is distributed free to members of the Eastern Connecticut State University community. Current issues are available at various spots on campus, including in the campus bookstore, the Student Center, Smith Library, and the English Department Office. Back issues may be available through the Creative Writing Club 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 Joshua Sumrell (Student Activities Director) and Miranda Lau (English Department) for their guidance and support. © 2021 Eastern Connecticut State University. All rights reserved.

Table of Contents Editor’s Note Ben Dionne

Autumn is Upon Us

6

Rebecca Norman

Fighting

7

Ben Dionne

Pandemic Sandwich

8

Christine Guyette

Until High School

9

Farewell to Fall

10

Alison Lovejoy Lucas Chaude

Winter Day, 2007 11

Rebecca Norman

December 14, 2012

Ben Dionne Victoria Congdon

12

When Depression Knocks 13 Driver’s Education: For Impostors

Kyra Miles

15

She Smiled 17

Kyra Miles

My Earliest Memory

18

Hannah Epifano

I celebrate

19

Rachel Fields

My Mom’s Fanfiction

20

Christine Guyette

White Wishful Thinking

21

Julia MacKinnon

The Smile of My Father

22

Kilee Nutbrown

His Ways

23

Evelyn Musto

Difficult Conversations

24

33

25

Student Artwork/Photography

Colleen Goff

Colleen Goff

Ginger 26

Allison Brown Sunflower Glories 27

Justine Skye

28

Safiya Palmer

Safiya Palmer

My Daughter’s Skin

29

Victoria Congdon

I Love My Body

30

Crown

33

Wislyne Naubert

Her Sweet, My Treat

34

Venniesha Joseph

Sting

35

Michaela Lillard

The Beach Life

36

Evelyn Musto

New Jersey

37

Rebecca Radford

Broken Shells and New Beginnings

39

Boys Trip (Abridged)

40

Kayla McLean

Victoria Congdon Maisie Hayes Colleen Goff

Pacing 49 Horace Manicone

55

Eastern Exposure

3

Editor’s Note Dear Reader,

By the time you read this, we’ll have been more than a year into the COVID-19 pandemic. It’s hard to come out of this past year without looking back at not only all we lost, but all we have gained. It’s also hard to think about what this year could have been versus the reality of what this year was. For a lot of us, we found comfort in nostalgic tendencies, like our favorite television shows from the past, books we have loved from our youth, and arts and crafts projects we’ve been meaning to get through. We found ourselves dealing with emotions we have never had to deal with before, feelings that have intensified and manifested into the worst-case scenario. But we also found happiness in crooks and crevices we forgot existed. We found comfort in our friends and our families, and in aquaintences we never would have had a chance to catch up with were it not for a global pandemic. We even spent more time outdoors, on long drives - anywhere it was deemed “safe” enough. Despite how miserable it all might have been, it’s safe to say that this was a period of growth. In four seasons, together, we navigated how to manage a global pandemic while simultaneously keeping ourselves alive. In this issue of the Eastern Exposure, we wanted these same sentiments to be mirrored. It’s a small, but very much needed glimpse at the “pandemic art” we were able to create this year. And after all, if it were not for the arts, how else would we have entertained ourselves?

It goes without saying that this journal, and the club itself, would not have been successful this year were it not for the mighty team that stood behind me every step of the way. Thank you to Ben for bringing your sunlight and kind heart to every meeting; thank you to Kevin for being the literal backbone of this club and for keeping us organized every step of the way; and thank you to Liz for being one of the best friends I could have ever met in college and for letting me drag you into this. There was a point before fall semester started where I didn’t believe that this club would be successful, but I’m so happy we dove head first into it anyway. Thank you to every single member who showed up for us.

Finally, I want to thank Dr. Donaghy, our club advisor, for supporting us always and pushing us to be the best versions of ourselves and of the club.

There is a lot of beauty worth reading and seeing in this issue of the Eastern Exposure, although I might be biased. If you read through this and find yourself wanting to be a part of it, I urge you in the coming fall to submit your own work or even take the leap to join our wonderful club. Above everything else, I want to thank you, too, reader, for taking an interest in our student body’s hard work this year. We hope you enjoy reading the Eastern Exposure!

Fearlessly and Sincerely, Tori Congdon Creative Writing Club President

4

Eastern Exposure

“Everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise.”

-Sylvia Plath

Eastern Exposure

5

Ben Dionne

Autumn is Upon Us Autumn is upon us and there is no more spring rain to feed my needy roots No loving soil to brace me for the impact of this change My petals are shriveling, blush pink turning grey and falling one by one.

The wind is wilder now, it howls and sweeps through me, brushes away my old softness and leaves me shivering.

Autumn is upon us and I am withering.

It is cold here, slicing cold like knives against my skin.

Summer promised me so much, I was invigorated by its promise of new adventures, the sun blazing bright on my exposed shoulders.

I glowed warm with hope, I blossomed.

But seasons turn over like leaves in the breeze, the summer air staled and I was stuck in Autumn’s grasp.

It is Autumn and each falling leaf is a multicolored reminder of how much I have to lose, how far I can possibly fall before the cold has its way with me I try to hold on to this air, fresh and biting in my nostrils, this grass, soft beneath my feet and the world, a stained-glass window.

Autumn is my oasis, a temporary hideaway from the frosty future waiting for me.

Autumn is upon us and soon I will be covered in snow.

Winter frost will numb what is left of my body, a waterlogged stem, a crumpled leaf, a boot-crushed bloom.

Every year it leaves me shivering and weak, a pale ghost of who I was mere months ago I will become hard, cold and distant, waiting for the ice to thaw To release its vice grip and set me free.

How I long until the day when I can finally see the sun?

6

Eastern Exposure

Rebecca Norman

Fighting When my mother yells to Daniel, “Time for school!”

I too wake and listen.

As he yells back, In an early morning grumble.

She yells once more, “I’m leaving.”

She loves us.

Off she goes, To the frontlines Of today’s current war.

Hungry and sick students, Every one tired wearing masks.

Willing to risk their health, And hersOff she goes to a school that just yesterday had another case.

She goes not knowing If today is the day she gets got But every morning she yells Every morning she goes Fighting on the frontlines Fighting because she loves us.

Eastern Exposure

7

Ben Dionne

Pandemic Sandwich It’s weird, The things that are dangerous these days.

Waiting on line for my sandwich I can see the people piling up behind me.

Each footstep closer feels like it’s placed on my lungs pushing out the rest of my air through a mask which now feels too thin.

Every breath that isn’t my own is one more reason to turn around and go back home.

They keep flooding into the dining hall as I find my seat.

6 feet doesn’t feel far enough I lower my mask to eat.

I go over my options in my head with each bite.

If I stay this sandwich could put me at risk.

Could invite the danger inside me until I am the danger too.

The virus rages inside but the winds whip outside.

They threaten to carry me away and one of these days I just might let them.

How nice it would be to be swept away somewhere where I can eat my sandwich in peace.

It seems peace is in short supply nowadays.

You can’t go a day without seeing through the guise of a new normal, without watching the world take more steps towards complete chaos.

When it does what will happen to me.

Will I still be sitting here, eating my sandwich?

8

Eastern Exposure

Christine Guyette

Until High School Many afternoons spent at her house Talking about boys, bathtubs and bottlecaps.

Laughing so hard, trying not to spit up the water I just sipped.

The many nights I miss Not having a care in the world only knowing that we wouldn’t have school the next day.

One Direction beating through the speakers, Pretending we had microphones in our hands while we sung, no, screamed the lyrics that had been Ingrained in our head since the first time we heard it.

The sound of our singing was No match for the bellowing of our brass instruments in an open room.

We were band junkies listening to Phantom of the Opera on our own loving Chicago’s backstreet beat, Grease and The Hunger Games; the perfect score.

I’m in her room, hot pink walls making my eyes feel at ease as I Unroll my sleeping bag onto the soft carpeted floor. The faint smell of dust and dirty clothes that I never seemed to mind, since my room smelt the same.

Friends since pre-k, practically Inseparable until high school hit With an unwanted, unhappy note But all I can think of are the late nights we spent talking about boys, bathtubs, and bottlecaps.

Eastern Exposure

9

Alison Lovejoy

Farewell to Fall Somewhere yellow flowers of anise bloom and scatter.

We inhale licorice forever stamped here.

Even in the extreme coming wind, we breathe Farewell.

Farewell to dusty windowsills and sunlight.

Hello to briskly walking through browning ground.

Even through the frost, we stomped here.

Beneath our feet red, brown, and yellow leaves shine.

Against a bright blue sky they wait patiently, Only to fall onto a frozen mass, crushed by boots.

Leaves and nuts appear and Animals rummage through them.

Scurrying mice and squirrels.

Night blankets and the blinking stars, Of the night sky shine sure as diamonds.

Lighting loosely the path of animalia.

White fur and eyes stop me in my tracks, And the possum appears like shimmering ghost, Against the black night, right in front of a tree.

A healthy warm life, All heaped up snugly.

Serious and shifty, his eyes paralyze whoever, And happening upon him, they say: ah! and ewe!

Fearing and jeering, humans observe, A changeling in the realm where space and light converge.

Farewell To fall as the winter sets in.

Wrapped around our bodies, It hurls us into unknown shadows.

Only the ghost of time creeping blankly, Instills finality in the black gaze of night.

10

Eastern Exposure

Lucas Chaude

Winter Day, 2007 Oh, as the snow fell on that one winter day, All of the kids got their winter clothes out of storage.

Coats, hats, gloves, and boots are were put on in a blink of an eye.

The dog Diesel was chased out of the house by the excited young kids.

Snowball fights and building snowmen quickly became first priority.

Dad was in the back, looking for a sleek spot.

He prepped the sled, as he knew it was the kids’ favorite activity.

Light snow fall and perfect snowball snow, it was making up to be a perfect day.

Dad shouted to the front yard; next you knew the kids with running one by one.

The spot was set, and the excitement re-arose.

On the sled, youngest to oldest, the siblings were ready for a thrill.

But wait, here comes mom with the camera.

Could not miss the chance for the best Christmas picture thus far.

Three set of eyes forward and one set wondering.

The picture would have to do, as it could not get any better.

The 4 siblings with their right-hand man there, enjoying the perfect snow day.

It was time to take the snow day activities inside.

Sitting by the warm fire, as mom put marshmallows in the homemade coco, The family gathered up in the living room, for one more family tradition.

The TV flickered on, as the debate for which movie began.

Eastern Exposure

11

Rebecca Norman

December 14, 2012 It’s crazy how the mind works. I can’t remember What I had for dinner yesterday, but I remember The day twenty children were killed in their classroom.

My cousin had died two weeks earlier from cancer.

I was in gym class, playing racquetball, our teacher Kept leaving while on her phone. We just played around, Kept ourselves entertained. At the end of class our Teacher told us what happened, and that we had nothing to be afraid of.

I was still afraid. I had social studies after where Ms. Wilson told us she Would throw herself in front of a shooter before he could Get us. Everyone in my family was in different School systems at the time. All I could think was Daniel.

What was happening to Daniel, my younger brother?

12

Eastern Exposure

Ben Dionne

When Depression Knocks Every morning Depression knocks on my door.

Most days I peek out the window to verify that it is, in fact, still Depression coming to pay me a visit, but I do not let him in.

He sits outside my door twiddling his thumbs, checking his watch, waiting for the moment when I crack open the door to see if he’s still there.

As soon as he sees the gap between the door and its frame, he pounces, pushes his way through and wrecks my insides.

He fills the room like mustard gas, deadly and unavoidable.

He tears at the walls I have just finished repairing from last time, leaving new holes.

He floods the kitchen and leaves me fighting not to spill over.

He is a merciless visitor when ignored.

Eastern Exposure

13

Ben Dionne

But after particularly hard nights, I open the door before he knocks.

He sees the door ajar, waiting for his arrival.

He sees that I haven’t rebuilt from his last visit, and sighs.

He wraps his long arms around my shaking form and gives me an unexpectedly comforting hug.

Only when I let him in, does he see the havoc he has wreaked.

14

Eastern Exposure

Victoria Congdon

Driver’s Education: For Impostors In driver’s ed, they teach you that the first thing you do upon entering the car is to put your seatbelt on and adjust your side and rearview mirrors.

They teach you to keep your hands on ten and two and what the different lines on the road mean.

(Example: do not pass solid double lines and you can pass on dotted lines with caution but the colors are subjective to the placement on the road).

What they don’t teach you in driver’s ed is how to focus on the road when you’re too focused on what you could have done differently, it’s eating you alive, and how to give up control (but you need to control the car in order to drive).

What they don’t teach you in driver’s ed is how to leave work early to put your sick childhood dog down and how to pull yourself together five minutes before swiping into work the day after being broken up with or how to keep the wheel steady when all you want to do is crash into the guardrail of a familiar winding road.

What they don’t teach you in driver’s ed is why you feel like the pavement is melting away on some days and why, on other days, you wake up and the road has been freshly painted over

Eastern Exposure

15

Victoria Congdon

or why you think that you’re the worst writer this town has ever seen despite the raving reviews from your professors and colleagues and why do your friends hate you?

What they should teach you in driver’s ed is the definition of impostor syndrome: to let go of the wheel; to let others drive when you need a break.

(Example: your motion sickness is a small price to pay, and despite what you think, your friends would miss you terribly, and your dog doesn’t want to see you again just yet).

With all of this advice in mind, you can only adjust your mirrors and just start driving.

You may break down, but there was nothing else you could have done.

Every destination is not final.

(It’s subjective to the placement).

16

Eastern Exposure

Kyra Miles

She Smiled I dedicate this poem to my dog, Daisy, who passed away in 2012. She was one of two yellow labs that I grew up with and I had a special bond with her. She was best known for her smile which is what inspired this poem.

She smiled. Not with her teeth, but with her lips.

The kind of smile that was effortless, but Large enough that her dimples showed She smiled with her tail Hitting everything in its path.

Knocking over ornaments on the tree And sending dog hairs everywhere She smiled with her eyes, The color of warm, gooey chocolate.

Almond shaped, expressing the love I feel biting into a slice of pizza She smiled with four tennis balls In her mouth, refusing to give them back.

Turning away from my hand, She pranced around the yard instead.

She smiled with her hips That ached from old age Up until her last moments, She smiled.

Eastern Exposure

17

Kyra Miles

My Earliest Memory It was a humid night in July ‘03.

I was only a toddler at the time.

Our family sat by the bonfire In the backyard of your spacious cabin.

We watched the flames dance in front of our eyes As jokes were shared and the s’mores were toasted.

Your joyous laugh still echoes in my earsA sound of love that called for attention From every pair of ears it fell upon.

I sat in your lap; you played with my hair.

You loved my hair and the way it had shined Like gold when it catched the light, as yours did.

I only know your face from photographs But I can still feel your delicate hands Soothing my scalp as you sectioned my hair.

It’s the sole memory I have of you And the earliest memory I have.

You passed away a short three months later.

People tell me that I resemble you; Some say I’m a spitting image of you, with your light forest green eyes and blonde hair People tell me having a granddaughter Is something that you greatly desired.

What would you think of who I am today?

Would you approve of my hair and tattoos?

I wonder if I’m what you expected Or if you are still watching over me.

I wonder if you’d still style my hair Or if you would have taught me piano.

I wonder if I would have made you proud.

18

Eastern Exposure

Hannah Epifano

I celebrate I celebrate my grandparents.

The people who have taught me that materialistic things just come and go.

To cherish the people and places you been.

And to never take anything for granted because you will never know when the next time you will see them will be.

My grandparents, the same people who were born next to chickens and cows.

Taught at a young age that working for what you have, is the only way you will survive.

The people who have taught me that you can love someone unconditionally, even if you cannot speak their same language.

I celebrate them because they showed me what hardwork and dedication can do.

By allowing my mother at such a young age to travel across the world, to be able to see the world.

I celebrate them because I have seen how humble and content someone can be, without having anything.

I celebrate them because they are why I am here.

Eastern Exposure

19

Rachel Fields

My Mom’s Fanfiction Back in the nineties, my mom wrote Highlander fanfiction.

Every week she would walk to the local library to use the internet; she would bring with her a floppy disk and log on to her favorite message boards and download all the new Highlander fics –

the good, the bad, the crack – and go back home to read them throughout the week.

But, she never published one herself, because she didn’t have time to finish a fic of her own.

Back in the nineties, my mom wrote stories for magazines.

Every day she’d spend hours slouched at her desk in her shed of an apartment, struggling to afford food from the grocery outlet from making dozens of dollars per piece.

Back in the nineties, my mom didn’t know that in the twenty-tens she’d lead workshops in writing every year at the headquarters of Highlights, and people would be so chuffed to meet her that they’d want her autograph.

Back in the nineties, my mom wrote Highlander fanfiction, not knowing that she, too, would live forever.

20

Eastern Exposure

Christine Guyette

White Wishful Thinking The white snow sang as it Slowly sifted down melting Into the earthy ground.

Everything’s silent.

No noise, except for the constant creaking of coated branches.

Feeling at peace as I plunge Into the place where Mr. Thomas meandered upon little Lucy Where a Skywalker was hung feet first for a feast.

I’m cold but my mind melts at the thought of being there.

Narnia. Hoth.

A simple sight to see.

Imagination wonders as I brush Past the thin thickets.

The sun hides behind the clouds.

Eastern Exposure

21

Julia MacKinnon

The Smile of My Father In a room as white as the moon, my father Laid in a white bed surrounded by plain white walls.

There was a nauseating, sicken sweet smell.

He had a forced, fleeting smile that was soft, Like a feather but sad as a fallen bird.

Black, blue spots and fine red lines butchered his leg.

He saw me staring at the corpse of the limb, Quickly covering it with the thin, white sheet.

Eyes with bags, face with pain, mouth with a smile.

A thin thicket pierced and dripped a clear liquid.

A black and green screen moaned at a steady beat, The green line went up and down, like the white waves At the beach my father and I visited In Cape Cod where he built me a kingdom of Sand and pink shells. I was the pristine princess Of the hermit crabs that my father captured.

My mother was talking to the nurse, her voice Hushed and rushed as the nurse led my mother from The room my father sat, but he still smiled.

I reached into my backpack covered with My Little Ponies and took out a pink card.

Glorious glitter scattered the floor and bed.

I gave the card to my father who smiled.

He opened it, but a tear fell down my face-It damped my cheek and splashed on the pearl, white floor.

Puzzled, and painstaking, my father smiled.

His large hand, coarse but warm, cradled mine like it Was a small, helpless baby and he smiled.

22

Eastern Exposure

Kilee Nutbrown

His Ways.

Being nineteen, I like having my freedom – going out whenever I want, spending my money on whatever I want, and hanging out with whoever I want. But it’s His suffocation That I can’t break free from.

Everywhere I go it’s a call, a text, a reminder that no matter what I do or where I go, my father has to know.

His ignorance Is what keeps us laughing around the table when we have secret dinners where we didn’t bother to invite him.

Because in our opportunity to spite him, we relish in the short sweet freedom we have from His loneliness That reaches every crevice of the ones he loves.

And yes, he loves us, and we love him, but We cannot be his friends.

The only ones he relies on. But he is stuck in His past.

The past when he believed we would all be together.

The past where he was a great husband.

The past when he thought everything was perfect While we all rotted under his reign.

His desolation Is why I will always be there for my father, For I love him, and I am his daughter.

But it’s his smothering love, High expectations, Stubbornness, That pushes me with a heavy shove.

I sympathize for my father, But not much sympathy can be had When he doesn’t bother to change His ways.

Eastern Exposure

23

Evelyn Musto

Difficult Conversations It seemed everyone in the house was listening.

Paper-thin walls leaned close Attempting to make themselves scarce.

Too much judgement caved in the ceiling.

Is that how you feel?

A mouse panics in the back right corner, The armoire in the living room blocking the exit.

I wonder if the dust mites Spoke to the mouse about the noise.

Talk to me. What’s going on?

Why aren’t the stairs letting me sink?

Pushing me forward when they should be pulling.

Small squeaks upstairs indicate an impostr.

They shouldn’t be listening if I didn’t want them to know.

Why didn’t you tell me sooner?

He moves closer to me and I shudder.

Not out of fear, but prior conditioning.

Lines of rejection crease his face into pain.

The stairs creak a little louder.

You know I won’t hurt you, right?

My focus snaps back.

The weight turned into a white cloud, Leaving only us unfazed in the middle.

I doubt he’s telling the truth. ...

The door slams behind him, Bells breaking the tension with a wrecking ball.

Head in hands, sighs accompany creaks down the hall.

Jingles sing and envelope me in warmth.

I’m right here.

24

Eastern Exposure

Coleen Goff

33

Eastern Exposure

25

Colleen Goff

Ginger

26

Eastern Exposure

Allison Brown

Sunflower Glories

Eastern Exposure

27

Safiya Palmer

Justine Skye

28

Eastern Exposure

Safiya Palmer

My Daughter’s Skin Dark, but never associated with lovely, because dark was associated with ugly.

So you felt more like a shadow, when you were really the sun.

That tone, that glisten; an aura, like stars fighting to orbit around her.

The world is a galaxy she created.

Chocolate skin made from the Milky Way, yet she feels just as far as a light year.

Brown girl, who told you you weren’t magnificent?

Who made you forget the value of gold?

Who made you forget your significance and become enslaved in your own kingdom? Your own home?

Carrying modern culture on your shoulders like a crucifix; reduced to a chain around their necks.

Reduced to a dirty word sitting on their breasts.

Reduced to giving out invitations to a cookout that doesn’t exist.

Brown girl, when’s the last time you looked at yourself?

Really really looked at yourself?

You are the light that reflects onto the mirror.

Maybe that’s why you don’t recognize your beauty.

You can’t see what I see.

You can’t see that shine, like polished ebony, put on display yet cheated out of its value.

You can’t see that glow, the way your eyes and teeth light up your night sky.

Brown girl, you are dark, and that’s what makes you lovely.

Eastern Exposure

29

Victoria Congdon

I Love My Body As young women, we are taught our bodies are supposed to look one way: thin and flat with curves only in the appropriate places to appease to the male gaze.

Here is something I’ve learned, through ignoring the snide remarks of women older than me, and not caring about what articles in magazines with photoshopped models on strict, unhealthy diets decorating cover after cover have to say: I love my body.

I love my stretch marks, how they trail down my stomach, my hips, my thighs, and all the parts in between.

I love my stomach, how it protrudes outwardly to protect my organs, and how it looks in cropped shirts

30

Eastern Exposure

Victoria Congdon

that people claim fit too tightly on me, and in high-waisted jeans or in leggings that are so comfy.

I love my hips, how they act as handles to rest my hands upon when I am deep in thought about why I came into a room, or when I need a third hand in carrying heavy boxes or nieces and nephews I care about so deeply.

I love my legs, how sturdy they are carrying me up great hiking trails, through endless streets of New York City, and how they are there to help me recover when I so often trip and fall.

I love the wide nose I share with my father, the almond-shaped eyes I get from my mother, and the scar under my chin from stitches I got when I was five after missing a monkey bar and hitting a pit of jagged pebbles.

Eastern Exposure

31

Victoria Congdon

It doesn’t matter what the magazines say, how men perceive me, or what other women think, because I love my body.

That is the only opinion I need.

32

Eastern Exposure

Kayla McLean

Crown My hair is something I have a love/hate relationship with. Some days I run my hand through it, and I love the feeling of my kinky curls.

Other days, these same curls feel like they’re too much to manage. It’s almost to my shoulders, but with shrinkage it appears to be half that length.

When I tell people how long my hair is, they’re always shocked, as if an afro is incapable of being more than an inch long. As this point, I’ve gotten used to questions and comments about my hair: how do you wash it, how does it curl like that, can you straighten it?

People tend to treat my hair like a creature, something to admire from afar. Some do ask to touch it, and others touch it without my consent, which aggravates me even more.

My hair is not a spectacle to be looked at.

Though some show attention to my hair, there are others out there who are bound to show disdain. I’ve heard of so many Black women who work in professional settings and are told that their hair is “unprofessional.”

How is someone wearing their hair in its natural state unprofessional? Would they say the same if it was a white woman?

My mother tells me that we need to change to accommodate the system, that we need to wear weaves and wigs to look professional. But why should we have to change for the system?

The system should change for us.

Even though I have a love/hate relationship with my hair, I still wear it proudly. My hair is more than just my hair.

My kinky curls are my crown.

Eastern Exposure

33

Wislyne Naubert

Her Sweet, My Treat I was anxious, I was excited I haven’t seen you in months I almost cried when I held you I hated leaving so soon I left you at five months, It was the worst feeling anyone could feel However, I knew I had to finish school, that was deal I missed all your talking moments, crawling, and breakthroughs I cried every night, watching you through FaceTime I wanted to be with you, hold you like you are mine It was a blessing in disguise The school was out, all I could think about was you I rushed home to South Carolina and held you I held you tight, you grew so big, you grew taller I knew I couldn’t miss these moments You took your first step while we were watching Arthur I could not believe my eyes, tears unknowingly fell down my face She took her first steps with confidence and with grace This was a big movement for me, my mom made her a cake In her 10 months of life, she never had sweets, I was against it I always thought it would make her fussy and throw a fit We put it in front of her, No hesitation, she stuffed her face in it, She loved it, her eyes were big and wide She couldn’t get enough, she ate and ate My mom rushed to get the camera before the moment was over She clicked and snapped, and she laughed I was quiet behind the scenes, being a proud mom We all were cheering, “Kaleigh, yay, go KK” We all happy, we all took pictures She paid us no mind, but only the cake She loved the cake, and we loved that day

34

Eastern Exposure

Venniesha Joseph

Sting “Shoo fly shoo” Quick to turn them away Without that same fly our lives would be led astray Didn’t even recognize that fly was a bee Nor did I notice without that bee- there is no me See? Yellow like a bus Black like burnt crust Appreciate the insect that we still haven’t come to trust They just want the pollen but is there even enough?

A bug’s life is abstract, boy do they have it rough.

The daffodils stand still as the bees purpose is fulfilled As it flies home it comes to us to say hello We think that it is dangerous so we kill the fellow in yellow I hear a small buzz but my instincts say “terminate” Flying around just to help but sadly I had to eliminate Didn’t mean to cause any harm to the bug that illuminates To bee heaven it goes while the pollen is left to...pollinate Seriously, the bees are more than just the letter after A They make sacrifices to make sure we stay array Without their yellow jackets there would be no coats of pollen One of earth disciples is that little bright bug Keeping on our toes because we are scared of their hug With the rapid movement of their tiny wings We see they do tremendous things So who cares if they fly because they bring more than a sting

Eastern Exposure

35

Michaela Lillard

The Beach Life Colorful purple and pink flowers bloom during the morning gloom.

My mom delicately picks up each flower, creating a tiny bouquet in her small hands, as we slowly make our way towards the ocean.

Rhode Island sunrises are our favorite.

The morning light trickles over us like rain, illuminating my mom’s bright, blonde hair.

Warm sun rays beam down, cloaking our bodies like a soft blanket.

Our cheeks flushed red, heated by the bright sun’s glow.

Golden skin, fully absorbing the vitamin D. Sand, soft between our toes, sifting through them like satin.

Waves lap softly and lazily lick the shoreline.

Wind whispers across the crystal blue water, breaking the stillness.

We sit together peacefully, watching all the clouds drift slowly.

Seagulls soar freely in the air.

A salty breeze fills our nostrils.

We walk across the wet, mushy sand, telling old stories and making jokes.

Our laughter sweeps across the swirling sea with delight.

Here, our worries drift away, and all troubles evaporate.

The beach life with my mom truly is the best life.

36

Eastern Exposure

Evelyn Musto

New Jersey I remember leaving the beach house.

My Ahmah’s yellow beach house, Blonder than her collection of high-end wigs.

Right before the storm hit and swept it underwater, Right before stealing the seashells and coral lining the hallway, Right before the pastel pinks covering the room my sisters and I shared drowned in salt, The house was our special hideaway from our home in Connecticut.

Huge stuffed animals inhabited the walls and closet of our room, Although we never quite knew where they came from.

My sisters played endless house with ancient dolls and dusty bears While I preferred the stuffed monsters who joined me in pirating the poker chips.

I remember the large, open living room that lead to the deck, Sunlight gracing the entire room through floor-to-ceiling windows, Separating us from the rocky makeshift lawn And broken crab traps from nightly hunts on the bay.

Glass tables made UNO and Old Maid nearly impossible As cheating six, nine, and eleven year olds “dropped” something Under the table amused adults pretended to believe in.

Boredom was never found in the blonde mansion, Like the lock to the window leading from my room to the enclosed deck, Where eloquent gatherings of wooden wine glasses and the Mystery Gang Occurred for nights of poker and conversations of Scooby Doo drama When the parents thought I was asleep.

I remember the yellow paint chipping on the outside as the HondaPulled away with all the sand collected from the beach.

Recycled and stuffy air constantly smelled of the Jersey Shore, Although that may have been the dog’s breath now that I think about it.

Yelling with my siblings as to who got the backseat, We turned our backs on the seashell driveway, Away from the canary house I’d never see again.

Eastern Exposure

37

Evelyn Musto

Years later I asked my grandmother if she remembers such a house, If she remembers the stuffed animals and coral decorations, If she remembers what was and knows what could have been If Hurricane Sandy never came.

Ahmah folded the baby blue bed sheet and looked at me With a sad smile only she could pull off, It was the best time of my life.

38

Eastern Exposure

Rebecca Radford

Broken Shells and New Beginnings Shatters of sea shells poked through the sand As if they were playing a game of hide and seek Or like they wanted to be found and kept by children The breeze tasted salty and the gulls screamed and called Maybe they saw what was being barricaded with ropes And being blocked from becoming a morning snack A sea turtle nest took home in the sand Sort of an inverted dome holding a hundred lives One hundred white eggs, one hundred white shells The heat of the sun welcomed these new souls Warmth and promise of life seemed worth leaving The tiny white shells that kept them safe As the eggs began to crack and tiny black figures started to emerge It was now time for perhaps the biggest challenge of their lives They would have to risk everything to make it to the sea The sand peaked and acted like the waves of the ocean Making obstacles for the tiny shelled creatures to cross Dips and footprints were like trenches and walls Tiny arms flapped and dragged the sand-dollar shells And small heads held high in determination The tumbling turtles reached the edge of the ocean The waves crashed forward as if in rejection The salt water causing them to roll backwards But once they entered the water they were accepted And the hundred babies began their journey into life

Eastern Exposure

39

Victoria Congdon

Boys Trip (Abridged) My dog’s dead.

My boyfriend dumped me.

Now I’m whisking away to Maine for the weekend.

It’s not as romantic as it sounds. I had a different image of what I wanted this summer to be. So far, it hasn’t turned out that way. There’s nothing worse than being let down by a person you care about deeply.

Nothing worse, except for how he haunts you for the months that follow.

But this weekend is about me. It’s not about him, it’s not about the dead dog, it’s not about my worrying mother who is horrified at the idea of me going whitewater rafting; it’s only about me.

Now, there are two things my dog and the boyfriend have in common with each other: I referred to them both as “the boy” on occasion, and they both are now dead to me.

Not to be confused with “the Boys,” though, who are the group of girls I’m currently on vacation with. The Boys are my best friend, Becca, Steph, Chloe, and Ashley, a group of girls from Colby-Sawyer College that Becca is friends with. I am their honorary Boy this weekend. The story behind their group’s nickname is that allegedly, Chloe said last year that she and Ashley were going to turn their apartment into a man cave, complete with indoor lawn chairs, one of those Saturdays are for the Boys banners, and a dedicated beer fridge. It became a running joke, and now they respond to nothing else.

Anyway, I don’t do the drugs and alcohol thing really, except for last night. Apparently, when you mix together moscato, prosecco, and rosé, you get very drunk. Like, lay on the floor because the world is spinning, can’t fall asleep because you feel so sick kind of drunk. This comes as a rude awakening to me, because during a trip to Canada the previous summer, I drank around six glasses of some disgusting red wine that our AirBNB hosts left for us, and I did not feel a single thing. I’m disappointed, because I used to pride myself on the fact that I wasn’t a lightweight, but now I’ve lost my title.

You know those silly things you ramble on about when you’re nervous about being on a date? That was one of them.

40

Eastern Exposure

Victoria Congdon

“Aw, our first yuke together,” Becca, also drunk, says to me in the bathroom around midnight while she holds my hair back. I’m hovering over a toilet bowl, immediately regretting any and all decisions I’ve made. I’m a self-sufficient drunk though. After I throw up, I manage to wipe off my makeup, brush my teeth, and get into pajamas.

We’re staying overnight at Ashley’s house in New Hampshire before we drive up to our campsite in Maine tomorrow morning, and while I’m throwing up, Ashley is kind enough to make up the recliner for me to sleep on.

It’s one of those old school rocking chair recliners that has the wooden lever on the side to open and close it. When two A.M. rolls around and I need to throw up again, I’m still too drunk to figure out how to get the recliner down, so I have to actually catapult myself out of the chair so I can get to the bathroom in time.

That second throw up is enough to sober me up. Before going to lay down again, I give my teeth a second brush, and then I look through my phone that I put on the charger hours earlier, where I can only vaguely remember texting another friend who’s not here, but I can’t quite remember what it is I said to them. As it turns out, I was whining about how much I miss the boyfriend, and how much I want to text the boyfriend and tell him I miss him, to which they reply, “Don’t do it,” and I say, “Fine.”

And I didn’t.

The boyfriend is also in Maine on this particular weekend. He’s along the coast, but I’m heading up to the deep woods. Part of me thinks about the possibility of running into him, but it’s just not plausible. I was supposed to escape him this weekend, but him still being in the same state as me is making me unhinged.

Last night is kind of a blur. We were playing one of those Cards Against Humanity type games, but I felt too sick to even sit up at one point, hence why I laid on the floor for a solid hour. The Boys can hold their alcohol much better than me, but they have more practice. They like to party frequently. I may have gone too hard. The morning feels too mundane in comparison.

Eastern Exposure

41

Victoria Congdon

Ashley’s mom is kind enough to make us homemade donuts for breakfast, but coffee is noticeably missing from the line up, and I hear coffee is a good cure for a hangover. On top of the already developing headache and the motion sickness I’ll end up having from the car ride, I’m fearing the worst for myself. This is my first hangover ever, and if I don’t get coffee in me soon, to plainly put it, I might die.

While we eat, we all thumb through a packet of waivers that need to be signed before we set sail on the Kennebec River tomorrow.

Now, I know what white water rafting is.

Steph isn’t so lucky.

“Why do we need to sign waivers?” she asks as we sit around Ashley’s kitchen table.

Ashley’s house reminds me heavily of my childhood home.

It’s your typical one-story layout with a finished basement, technically making it two stories. The living room is vast and open and the first thing you see when you come up the three steps from the front door on your right. The kitchen is straight ahead, and it’s connected to the dining room. The kitchen counter is an L-shape, and the dining room has a door that leads out to the garage. If you make a left, it leads down to the bedrooms, where Ashley’s rabbit, Lucy, has its own room, as well as herself and her parents.

“Because it’s dangerous,” Becca says.

“Dangerous? It’s just, like, floating in a tube - right?”

I lift my eyes from the waiver to look over at Steph, who is sitting next to me on the bench. From across the table, the other Boys look equally perplexed. Steph did not think that much of her comment, though.

“Dude, that’s tubing,” Ashley says, deadpanning on Steph.

“That’s what we’re doing.”

“Stephanie, do you not know what white water rafting is?”

Becca asks.

Steph stays quiet, looking at us all like we are the crazy ones.

Sucking in a deep breath, I try not to laugh, and look back to the waiver in front of me. Death and severe risk of injury is mentioned more than once. Adventure Bound is not responsible for any bodily

42

Eastern Exposure

Victoria Congdon

harm that happens. Choose your riverside barbecue lunch selection on the next page. Write down any allergies you have and medicines you may carry.

I bite down hard on an airy donut. I check the boxes I need to, disclose my tree nut allergy, and sign my name on dotted lines.

“Now I don’t,” Steph finally admits. She ducks down out of embarassment, but also to check her blood sugar level, which is literally connected to her hip.

Personally, I feel like if you are going to do a thing, you should do your research, and have all the facts before you commit to something life-altering. That would be too easy though.

The Boys are nothing if not spontaneous and reckless. Ashley perks up, ready to explain. She adjusts her glasses before continuing.

“It’s, like - you know, white water? They’re kind of like rocky waves, and we all sit in a raft and paddle and go over them. You’re gonna have lots of fun, dude.”

At last, Chloe pipes in. Her and Ashley are really the two masterminds behind this whole trip. All we had to do was find a weekend that worked best for us, and they went ahead and planned our whole vacation. “Don’t worry about it, Steph. We’re gonna be just fine. I’ve gone rafting so many times, and I’m still here!”

Nobody relents in teasing Steph, but I drown their voices out and glance past Ashley’s head to look through the window behind her.

The sky is too grey for August. It’s oddly fitting for my mood, but I’m hoping that this sky won’t follow us from New Hampshire to Maine.

The rain is the last thing we need. We are set to sleep in an uncomfortable bunk bed cabin in the middle of nowhere. Like real men, we are going to be one with nature: indoor plumbing, outdoor swimming pool, hot tub, indoor climbing wall, meals provided. No cell service, though.

“Guys, I don’t know how to swim.”

Steph’s words pull me out of my trance, and my head darts back to her.

“What?” I gasp, inserting myself into the conversation.

“Steph, what happens if you fall out?” Becca asks, smirking.

Steph’s incompetence is the gift that keeps on giving.

Eastern Exposure

43

Victoria Congdon

She shrugs. “Guess I’ll die.”

These are The Boys at their finest.

From Ashley’s house, it takes four hours to get to Caratunk, Maine.

These four hours include a stop at their local grocery store, Hannaford’s, for snacks and coffee, a pit stop at the Maine welcome center for a bathroom break, and being smoked out in the backseat the entire time, both by nicotine and weed-filled vapes. And the coffee doesn’t help the hangover as much as I thought it would, and the motion sickness only continues to get worse from the backseat. Thankfully, I don’t throw up from my motion sickness, but I am very nauseous for the entire drive.

And I am very against the vapes.

They remind me of the boyfriend.

The only difference is that the boyfriend smokes actual cigarettes, but he is no stranger to a dab pen.

It’s not so much the vapes I hate, although I’m not a fan of their contents. I hate inhaling secondhand smoke. I hate the way it’s creating clouds that dance along the ceiling of the car, the way it glitters in the sunlight that streaks through the windows. The way it sits in my lungs is heavy and very uncomfortable. It’s hard to breathe.

I crack a window, and the fresh Maine air cleanses the car.

“Woah!” Ashley exclaims, scared at the sudden woosh that the wind makes when you’re driving fast. Everyone else whips their heads towards me, also taken aback by the noise.

“Sorry, the smoke’s a lot,” I say, a little embarrassed that I can’t handle it. I never asked to be smoked out, but I never ask for them to stop either. I’m a very considerate person.

About half an hour out from the campsite, we lose cell service.

And just like that, I don’t have access to the real world anymore. You don’t realize how dependent on technology you are until you can’t use it efficiently, but at least I don’t have access to all the things I’m trying to escape now. However, the paranoia starts to set in: what if something happens to me? What if I accidentally consume a tree nut and need to go to the hospital? Where’s the closest hospital? And what happens if

44

Eastern Exposure

Victoria Congdon

something is wrong with my mom and she can’t contact me?

Briefly, I think, what if something happens to my dog? But my dog’s dead, remember?

Instantly, I’m sad again. Not that the sadness ever really left, but being annoyed was an easier feeling. We’re not even parked at the campsite yet, and I’m ready to pack up and go home and wallow for the rest of my life.

But then we do park, and I plant a nice fake smile on my face, and celebrate with The Boys that we’re finally here, and it feels good to stand up and stretch and breathe in real air. We’re literally in the middle of nowhere. Adventure Bound is located in the middle of an open field in between clumps of trees somewhere miles off the main road. There’s not another soul here other than us and the workers. Next to the rocky parking lot, there’s a large cabin building to the left, and Chloe tells us that’s the main building. We leave our bags in the trunk of the SUV and head inside to check in.

“Welcome to Adventure Bound!” an older woman greets us.

Chloe takes the lead when it comes to checking us in, so I can only look around. It’s kind of nice, if you’re into the whole camp thing.

Would you believe I’m not? Behind the wooden desk, t-shirts and other souvenirs sit for sale. I spot a landline, and I’m reassured that we have at least some connection with the real world.

Looking back over towards Chloe and the woman, I see her handing Chloe a key. “There’s the key to your cabin, number 11 up the hill. Your pizza party will be served in about half an hour, if you wanna go ahead and settle in, and then come back! The center closes around ten, but the bathrooms are open all night, of course,” she explains. “In the back, the pool and hot tub are open. In the building over, we have arcade games. We have board games in here too!”

And she says some other things that I don’t pay attention to. I’m all over the place, I’m anywhere but here. We all politely say thank you before heading back to the car. Adventure Bound is technically alcohol free, but The Boys sneak in a box of Coronas. I’m not drinking tonight though. I tell myself it’s because I want to stay sharp for our morning endeavors, but really, I’m too anxious to do anything but leave the

Eastern Exposure

45

Victoria Congdon

cabin and have a breakdown later that night.

Truth be told, I don’t really know why I’m so upset. It’s not about my dog, not about the boyfriend. It’s not really even anything The Boys have done. I’m introverted, and it’s hard to be extraverted for long periods of time. And honestly, I’m not sure The Boys like me.

I don’t think I’m a likeable person. I don’t fight back, I let people do what they want. I just want for the people around me to be happy. The boyfriend says I’m “an incredibly good person” for that exact reason.

Because I let go without fighting. The truth is, I don’t let go of anything quietly. And I don’t want to be a good person if it means everyone is going to leave me at some point.

So how whitewater rafting actually works is that you sit on the edge of a raft that can fit up to 8 people, and there’s an instructor who sits on the bow, or the front of the boat, to help you paddle and guide you through the rapids. When you’re sitting, you tuck your feet under the rods inside of the raft to ground you, but you’re still very susceptible to falling out. You wear protective gear, like a helmet and a life vest, and everyone has their own paddle. When paddling, there’s four different strokes: forward stroke (which moves you forward), stern draw (which pulls you backwards and realigns the raft), forward sweep (which turns the raft), and reverse sweep (which slows down the raft and corrects the direction you’re going). Most frequently though, you forward stroke.

You mostly paddle when you’re navigating the river, but when you actually reach the rapids, you kind of just let nature take you. That, and your guide does most of the bulk work.

There’s different classes of rapids, but our guide Nick, who is college-aged too, says we came on a calmer day than what it’s been all summer. Inwardly, I’m pleased by this, because all the preparation we went through terrifies me for actually rafting. So, we’re dealing with mostly class II and III rapids, which are moderate waves. There’s one class IV rapid we are expected to encounter, but even that is mundane in comparison to what it could be.

And if you fall out in the middle of the rapids course, it’s recommended you literally just float on your back until you reach a safe patch of land

46

Eastern Exposure

Victoria Congdon

or the next group can pull you up. If you put your feet down in the river, you might get cut up, because you never know how sharp the rocks can be. Your helmet protects you from this too. And you don’t, under any circumstance, let go of your paddle. You hold onto that paddle for dear life.

We start at the top of the Kennebec River, which is a 40 minute bus drive on an overcrowded school bus away from the campsite. Ashley sits with Chloe, Becca sits with Steph, and thankfully, I get to sit alone.

We carry all of our gear onto the bus with us so when we get there, we can just group up and go. That’s what takes up a lot of space on the bus, though.

“Is it too late to back out?” I ask Becca as we board, half-joking, but I’m also terrified of dying on this raft. The man who took us through our safety course gave us every worst-case scenario in the books.

“You’ll be fine,” Becca stresses, a smile stretching onto her face.

Eventually, on the raft, Steph and Becca take the front seats on either side, which are the most important seats on the raft, I sit in the middle next to Becca with Ashley on the opposite side, and Chloe sits behind me. Nick sits at the bow, or the front of the raft. There’s about five rapids we go through, and we stop in the middle for our riverside barbecue, where they made us chicken, fish, steak, fried rice, veggies, and cookies for dessert. For that, we stop along the river to sweep up supplies, which we throw in the back half of the raft. The riverside barbecue is literally riverside somewhere along the course.

After we dominate the “intense” rapids, there’s a period of bliss where we just float along the river. Becca and I fight briefly in the duck boat, which is basically just a kayak, over my lack of paddling that she previously said was not helpful.

When the raft catches up with us, I decide to climb back in and just lay on the side while The Boys rough house in the river, swimming behind us. I let the sun bask on me, drying any water remnants off my body. Nick and I talk here and there, about school, about working for a summer camp, but mostly, it’s quiet and peaceful. I close my eyes and let the waves lull me a bit. The brownish-clear river water, bright blue sky, and skyscraper forest trees are still seared into my brain, though. I may

Eastern Exposure

47

Victoria Congdon

hate camping, but I can appreciate the breathtaking nature surrounding me. It’s nothing like I’ve ever seen before.

For the first time since summer started, I feel genuinely good.

It’s not faked, it’s not forced. My happiness is real. I don’t think of the boyfriend, or of the dead dog, or if I am good enough to be here.

Instead, I can only think of how gorgeous it is. I hear The Boys, my friends, laughing in the distance, being swallowed by the river, splashing each other, and I smile. Despite her previous claims, Steph is, in fact, swimming with the others.

I exist in the moment, and there’s nothing more and nothing less about any of it.

And I’m okay.

I’m going to be okay.

I believe it now.

48

Eastern Exposure

Maisie Hayes

Pacing

My name is Amelia Ellis. I am supposed to be dead, and almost a year ago today, I killed all my friends.

Only vaguely can I recall the first time it happened. Vaguely, it happens all the time. I was in the basement with my father, in his workshop to be exact. His back turned to the wall, I watched the circular saw blade slip off its peg. I saw it fall on his head, then I saw it sever his skull. He fell. He bled. I stood there. Watching him writhe on the floor because what was I supposed to do and looking, aghast in horror, as he studied my face and asked, in all earnest, “Are you crying?”

And he was standing in the basement, in his workshop to be exact. His back turned to the wall, he asked if something was wrong. If something had happened with my friends or if I’d struggled in school that day. The saw blade still hung on its peg, his head still in one piece, I knew then– from the very first time it happened– this would never end.

It became my secret. I never told my Dad or my Mom or my sister or my friends or anyone I had seen die screaming. I never even told my therapist. Anything to avoid the looming possibility that my brain may be wrong. It got worse before it got better. Sometimes I would pace for hours trapped in a delusion watching again and again, the most important people in my life meet their gorey demise. Seeing my Mom die of cancer or my Dad hurt in a workplace accident, my sister in a plane crash. Different alternatives mixing and matching, perpetuating a multitude of nightmares inspired by the threat of mortality. I spent my days tortured. Pressured by the need to rationalize, I tried to blame it on some fervid projection of the subconscious, a manifestation of lingering death anxiety from my childhood, anything to write it off. Though little came of the effort, I found one thing for certain: these realities existed only in my mind, never bleeding into the real world. Not premonitions, just possibilities. That must’ve been eighth grade though. A blur of a time, I strive to forget it. With proper care, it would subside.

Briefly. Vaguely.

For a little while.

Until my freshman year of college. I was brushing my teeth that morning, making eye contact with my reflection when a thought that

Eastern Exposure

49

Maisie Hayes

was not my own, something once repressed, whispering or screaming from the recesses of my mind cut off my conscious thought completely.

“You’re going to die today.”

No. What? How?

“Today you’re going to get in a car crash and you are going to die,” I had trailed off. Not brushing my teeth anymore, just staring towards the mirror, trying to find what part of me was speaking.

“I won’t die today,” I thought to myself, consciously this time, but the screaming never stopped. Even in class it stung. Every second of the day it festered, like a stove burner left on in an empty house, it stayed alight. Waiting. Hissing. Simmering steady until it found something to burn.

My Dad came to get me from school that afternoon. His skull fully intact as it had always been, he told me the car was ready for me to pick up my friends that evening.

“How many girls are coming over?” he asked “Four.”

“How many are spending the night?”

“All of them. Annie just has to be back at the school by 6 tomorrow morning. I can take her.”

“I’ll try to stay upstairs so you girls can sleep in the living room.

Everyone excited?”

“Yeah, we are. It’s going to be fun, I haven’t had a sleepover in awhile.”

Vacuuming the house, I tried to feel excited for the evening. I tried to smile, I tried to work up some denial to get me by, I tried to feel anything at all to distract from the dread filling my stomach. Logically, it was impossible. No one knows when they’re going to die. No little fairy comes down from the heavens to tell you your time is up. What I felt was just that— a feeling...as far as I knew. I wish it were irrational. I wish I could blame it on nerves or driving anxiety. I wish I didn’t have to remember this.

I cried on my drive to get them and trembled the whole way back. Every turn, every stoplight and intersection felt like it would be the one to kill us. Hesitating around every curve, I couldn’t shake the

50

Eastern Exposure

Maisie Hayes

constant paranoia that there would always be a car in my blindspot or maybe even a deer just off to the side of the road waiting to jump out. It doesn’t take much to run a car off the road. But nothing happened. We made it to the house safe. I thought to myself, “See? I know what I’m doing. It was just nerves this whole time.”

But the feeling still lingered. It hadn’t happened yet.

“Are you still able to drive me back at 6?” Annie asked on the drive home.

“Yeah, of course, I’ll just drop you off and come right back to the house.”

“We’ll come with you guys!” Maddy offered, “We can make it a group trip!”

“Yeah, I’m down for a 6 A.M. adventure,” chimed Alex from the backseat.

“Are you sure? You’d have to get up early” I say, desperate to convince them otherwise.

“We might as well stay up till 6 instead of being half asleep the whole ride,” Maddy adds.

“Alright then,” I try to hide the dread in my voice, “we’ll make an event out of it.”

That’s when it’s going to happen.

It only got worse. Even while we baked cookies and watched movies, I desperately scanned my mind for anything I could do to avoid this irrational, inescapable reality closing in. I contained the panic. I kept my composure against a feeling I now recognize to be sheer, unadulterated, helplessness. When 6 A.M. rolled around, I hadn’t even closed my eyes.

I went to start the car and the ground was covered in black ice, worse than I had ever seen. They were all piled in the car when I set my back against the front door, terrified, encompassed in this inescapable feeling I can’t describe as anything but sheer inevitability as I thought to myself, “Everything is coming into place.”

I stopped in my parent’s bedroom where my Dad was fast asleep.

For just a moment, lend me your vulnerability. Imagine you’re going to die and you know it. How do you look at your family for the last time?

Do you ever stop? How could you look away?

Eastern Exposure

51

Maisie Hayes

“Hey, Dad?” I whispered, “Dad we’re going.” I gave him a light shove on the shoulder. He needs to wake up. He needs to see me go.

“Yeah— what?” his voice far off and dreamy.

“We’re going to bring Annie back to school.”

“Oh, okay.” And he was back asleep again. I stood there for awhile. Just a few seconds. Tracing his outline so I’d remember it.

“Hey Dad? ” “Eh?”

“I love you, okay?”

“I love you too.” I know he loves me, I didn’t need the reassurance. I thought that maybe, in case I was right, it’d help him to know his last words to me were “I love you.”

“Okay, Dad. I’ll see you when we get back.”

I don’t recall feeling much as I stepped into the car. Scared and nervous I assume, but it’s hard to focus on anything immediately before or after the crash. The memory feels like a scratch in a CD. It’s there, I know, but my mind keeps jumping over it. I know I dropped Annie off at the school. I know I started to make the drive back when someone requested we stop at Dunkin’ Donuts. As we passed the road that went to my house, I contemplated turning, dropping them off, and then going to Dunkin’ on my own, but if I did that I knew they’d ask why. I couldn’t explain my reasoning. I still wanted it to be my secret. So I kept on driving. Got to Dunkin no problem and started the way back.

There were so many options to how this could have gone. I could’ve turned left and gone the long way home like I usually did. I could have sat at the end of the drive through and put the change away in my wallet. All it would have taken was a half a second, a moment’s hesitation, a million little things that could’ve changed the outcome. But I turned right, towards the four way intersection I had only gone through once or twice before. I wanted to show them the cafe I was working at.

I had a green light when we got there, but I was taking a left turn. I thought I was doing everything right. I approached slowly, inched my way to the middle of the intersection, turn signal on, looking both ways, cautiously beginning my turn, making eye contact with the driver opposite me.

52

Eastern Exposure

Maisie Hayes

I thought the truck would stop.

We were dead in the middle of the intersection, eye level with the front of the semi out the windshield. They either screamed or didn’t say a word. And I heard the crunch of the metal, felt the jolt of the car throw us back and I watched wide eyed, helpless, not even screaming– I watched them get thrown from the car and scraped across the street. I watched limbs and flesh roll across the road, I watched the truck keep driving, trapping whoever was in the backseat and I, airborne at the moment, saw the incomprehensible horror in the eyes of people watching.

I looked up from a heap of flesh on the side of the road and I saw what was left of the car. I saw the Dunkin cups obliterated on the street, and I saw just inches away from where I lied, what was left of my best friend. I reached out to her my broken, mangled arm, so desperate to offer some comfort, but how do you comfort a corpse?

Then I hit the curb. The steering wheel was in my hands, my friends buckled in tight around me, the truck having already passed. Still breathing. Still being. Police lights flashing.

“Is everyone okay?” Though I really don’t know for sure if I said that. When the officer came over we were all calm and cooperative.

“You want to tell me what just happened?” The officer glared at me, almost sarcastically. Demeaning even.

“I don’t know, I— didn’t see it.”

“Really? That’s what you’re going with? Okay.” I wasn’t really talking to him.

When all was said and done I got a ticket for an improper left turn and a warning to update my new address on my driver’s license. And in the real world that was it, but it’s not really where it ended. Because I saw the ambulance arrive, I saw the candles in memoriam outside our dorm halls. I saw the newscast reporting how emergency crews had to scrape four college students off the side of the road and I saw our parents fight about how I was responsible. I never saw the graves though. I don’t think I can comprehend there would be enough left to bury. But more than anything, I saw them die over and over and over. The truck’s front lights, the scrape of the metal, the debris from the car, the bodies. The truck, the metal, the car, the bodies, the truck, the metal, the car, the

Eastern Exposure

53

Maisie Hayes

bodies, and I can’t convince myself it isn’t real.

I know what should have happened that morning with the truck and the metal and the car and the bodies. I was supposed to drop them off at the house and get Dunkin by myself. I was supposed to make the same right turn down towards the intersection to save time and I was supposed to die there. With just me in the car, I wouldn’t have turned away. If it was just myself with no one to fight for, I would have let the fear engulf me. I would’ve sat my ass right there and I would have died. I should have died that day. Instead I stay, and I pace, watching, again and again, the carnage I caused.

My name is Amelia Smith. I am supposed to be dead. And I have killed my friends thousands of times by now.

54

Eastern Exposure

Colleen Goff

HORACE MANICONE September 2, 1929

I don’t usually tell no stories, don’t usually write or read, but I’ve got me some paper and pens down at Marley’s because ain’t no one going to believe this, and so help me God if I turn up dead, whoever finds this will know who what got me. I live in the state of Louisiana, Caldwell Parish, on my own farmland. The farm is a decent size, it’s about a thousand acres. I grew up on it with my daddy, it was always me and him, and my brother, Maurice. My brother has always been a nut, and I ain’t seen him since 1909, when he ran at me with a big butcher knife and we almost killed each other. I grabbed my M97 that I always keep by the front door, put the barrels right on his stomach. I was sweating like a pig in the summer, and I almost pulled the damn trigger on accident.

I wasn’t really going to kill him; swear to God I wasn’t. I can’t have that blood on my hands, but he must’ve thought I would cause I ain’t seen him since. We always got into it bad, but that day, we got into it real bad.

At first, I thought it was him doing all this shit to me. My daddy was a war hero; his daddy fought in the Civil War, and mine was in the army for as long as he could stay in it. He earned all sorts of metals, I still got them all in his room, in a brown shoe box he kept them in. He was a humble man, died in 1907.

I live in my farmhouse alone, just me and my dog, Peanut. I got a cat too, but she don’t got no name. Strays are all over, but she always finds a way in. Don’t know how, maybe she climbs up to the attic window, but I stopped putting her out because I know she’ll find her way back in. She’s got these big blue eyes and white coat; I swear she’s the strangest thing you’ll ever meet. Sometimes I think she’s a guardian angel, because she sits right on my lap and purrs sometimes, so I call her angel...I guess that’s her name. I’ve got a big cornfield right outside my house, and it started growing like crazy. I used to go in there often, collect the stalks, sometimes I’d go in there for the hell of it. I used to charge a penny for folks to walk through it with their kids, and sometimes I’d find something in the dirt and sell it for a lot more than a penny. A few years back, I found a switchblade, had the initials M.M. engraved on it. That’s my brother’s initials. I didn’t know if it was his, but I picked it

Eastern Exposure

55

Colleen Goff

up, gave it a long look, and chucked it as far as the wind would let it fly.

My shoulder hurt for days, and sometimes I think I’m stupid for doing things like that.

But now, the farm is always empty. I don’t really need to farm no more, as I got money inherited from my daddy, and if I ever needed the money, I could always sell this land... but, let me tell you now, you’d catch me dead on this land before you catch someone else owning it, so help me God. Now, I know this land and I know it well, all thousand acres of it. I walk out my front doors, right out onto the porch and I swear I could see all thousand acres of it. Cornfield to the left, barn to the right, lake off in the distance, woods right behind me. I could hear the wind in the mornings, I could hear strays in that empty barn scratching the wood. I could see the wind moving the stocks, all of them sway to the left, or right, or stand still. And that’s how I knew something was on my farm that wasn’t me, something that wasn’t Peanut and sure as hell wasn’t Angel.

I first started feeling strange about a week ago. I was tossing and turning all night, had a nightmare I drowned in my lake, and woke up hot and sweaty. I walked downstairs, looked at the clock. It was 2:02 A.M. My daddy used to say it’s never too early to start the day, so I opened my front door, stepped out onto the porch. It was pitch black outside; I swear you couldn’t have seen a thing if it was right in front of you. But the wind was blowing, and it was blowing hard. The moon was almost full and as white as a baby’s tooth. I couldn’t even look up at it, it was so damn bright against the black sky. Well, the moonlight was just bright enough to brighten up the ends of them corn stalks. I couldn’t stop watching them, swaying left when the wind blew westward, swaying right when it blew east. I swear it was like I was being beckoned by them stalks. I was standing there, watching, when the air went stiff. I started hearing life nearby; I could smell the thing near, I could hear the crunch of the dirt and stalks. I thought I was losing my damn mind. But then I saw some of the stocks moving. I heard and felt no wind, but those stalks were moving. Not all of them, only a bunch of them in one spot.

I grabbed my M97 and ran right into the cornfield shooting. The minute my boots made noise on the dirt the thing started moving almost

56

Eastern Exposure

Colleen Goff

as quick as the wind did. I just kept going and going, following the turn of the cornstalks, and I swear I saw a human figure, it must’ve been at least 4 feet tall. Its back was wide, I could see legs so small it’d give you the shivers. I kept going and going until I finally lost sight of the damn thing. I started calling out, “Maurice! Maurice!” He was always short and looked like a kid... I thought he could be the only one playing tricks on me on my land, I don’t know another soul who’d play tricks like that. So, I called his name out a few times, but I couldn’t hear a thing but some crickets off in the distance and the frogs croaking in the lake.

Now, this evening, I noticed that Angel was gone. She usually comes and goes as she pleases, but by noon she’s always back for some lunch. I don’t got much else to do on this farm, so I went out looking for her. Of course, I brought my gun with me, and I was hoping the son of a bitch from last night was still lingering around, so I could scare it off for good. Walked around for hours, shaking some food and whistling for her. As I was just giving up, heading back up my porch steps, the wind blew strong, and I looked over at the stalks again, and I just knew Angel was in there. The cornfield is big, but after 2 hours of searching I found her, laying in the dirt dead with blood all over her white coat. She was shot dead. I just knew I did it, I knew last night when I was chasing that thing and shooting into dirt, one of the bullets caught her. I brought her to the backyard and laid her to rest, said a prayer to her and I hope she’s with God. I’m exhausted, but tonight I will catch the son of a bitch.

September 4, 1929

A lot happened since I last wrote here just 2 days ago, but now I’m finishing my story for the papers. That night, I was exhausted, but there wasn’t no way I was falling asleep. I was wide awake. I cleaned and reloaded my gun, I sat down in my rocking chair on my porch and I put my gun right across my lap. I tied Peanut up inside because I’ll be damned if something happens to my dog. I sat when the sun was just starting to go down. When I could barely see the sun over the lake, the sky turned dark purple, and I looked up at it for a while. All I remember is looking up into that sky, watching it go darker and darker, then pitch black.

Eastern Exposure

57

Colleen Goff

I remember waking up, turning my head around, and the minute I felt the cold rocking chair on the back of my head, I remembered where I was, and what I was doing. My eyes shot open, and to my left, it was standing right there, hovering right over me as I slept. I kept my body and my eyes as still as a rock. I could see it was a grasshopper, its black beady eye was staring right at me. It was making the loudest noises I’ve ever heard, it sounded like there were a thousand crickets screaming right in my ear. It held itself up by putting one of its arms on the arm of the chair, and it leaned closer to me like it was smelling me. My shotgun was resting right across my lap, and the barrels were already facing the thing.

I knew if I could just get my hand to the trigger, I’d shoot it right in its belly. It was right by my face, almost touching me, when I pulled the trigger. The bullet got it, and it fell right down to the floor with a thud.

The sun was just coming up, and the thing was just lying there, its eyes pitch black, staring up right at me.

Since the sun was up, I went to Marley’s to get a big sack for it. I wanted to bury it, but when I told the guys at the shop, they just wouldn’t believe it. Told me I’d always been crazy, and I imagine things.

I told them to come see for their damn selves, cause I’m not imaging no 4-foot grasshopper shot dead on my porch. They couldn’t believe it was real when they saw it. They must’ve telegraphed the news people, cause by the evening my property was swarmed with strangers asking if they could see it. I told everyone to get the hell of my property, but one of them had a camera, and seemed like real news people. They offered me a dollar for a picture of me holding up the grasshopper, so I said yes. I plan on going to town tomorrow, to see if my face is really on that paper. If it is, I’m going to buy all the copies, and start me a brown shoebox of my own.

58

Eastern Exposure

Contributors Notes Allison Brown is a graduate of Eastern with a dual degree in English and Environmental Studies. She enjoys writing about her experiences in nature and the world around her.

Lucas Chaude is double majoring in Criminology and Sociology from Oakdale, CT. Though he attended Montville High School, he is a very involved student and athlete on the Men’s Varsity Soccer Team here at Eastern.

Victoria Congdon is a senior from Ledyard, CT, majoring in English with a concentration in creative writing and minoring in communications.

When she grows up, she wants to publish a full-length memoir. For now, she is currently known as the player “beef ” in the popular game Among Us. Ben Dionne is a sophomore English major from Vernon, Connecticut.

He has been studying creative writing since high school, and continues doing what he loves on the E-board of the Eastern Creative Writing Club.

Hannah Epifano is an accounting major from Monroe, CT. When she is not doing school work, she enjoys outdoor activities such as fishing, walking her dog, and hiking. Most recently, she hiked Mount Washington in New Hampshire.

Rachel Fields is a senior New Media Studies major from Ledyard, CT, (with a house equidistant to both casinos, for visual). Her passions include cozy cups of tea, gaudy sweaters, and unironically playing Webkinz as a fully grown adult.

Colleen Goff is an English major with a concentration in Creative Writing and a psychology minor from Waterbury, CT. In her free time, she likes to tell creative stories through art forms such as literature and photography.

Christine Guyette is an English major from Mansfield, CT, who has loved writing since the beginning of her high school career, and enjoys the more creative aspect of it.

Maisie Hayes is an undeclared student from Berlin, Connecticut, who has always dreamt of being a writer and just recently started exploring that passion. Her favorite hobbies include drawing, hiking, and golfing.

Venniesha Joseph is a Sociology major with a minor in Criminology from Bridgeport, CT. She loves to travel and has been to Italy, Greece, France, Antigua, Jamaica, and England.

Eastern Exposure

59

Contributors Notes Michaela Lillard is a New Media Studies major from Goshen, CT. She is a senior at Eastern and enjoys writing and English.

Alison Lovejoy is a Humanities major and minors in Science. She is originally from Salt Lake City, Utah, but has lived in California, Texas, and Connecticut as well. She loves dance, poetry, and being creative.

Julia MacKinnon, from Portland, CT, majors in English and Secondary Education. She also is a painter.

Kayla McLean is a Secondary Education and English double major from Windsor, CT. She has a YouTube channel that recently hit 1,000 subscribers. Aside from being a writer, she is also a rapper, singer, and dancer.

Kyra Miles is a senior from Stuart, FL. She is an English major with a concentration in Creative Writing and a minor in Mathematics. She plans to obtain her master’s degree in Secondary Education from Eastern.

Evelyn Musto is a junior majoring in English concentrating in Secondary Education from Trumbull, Connecticut. While she did take a class for writing poetry, she loves to write about anything in her free time.

Wislyne Naubert is from the deep south in South Carolina, and is an English major with hopes to become an educator. She has loved writing ever since she could hold a pen. Her poems are very close to home, and she wishes to share a piece of her world with you.

Rebecca Norman is a biology major from Coventry, CT, and has been rowing as a sport for four years.

Kilee Nutbrown, from Somers, CT, is majoring in environmental earth science, and can write with her feet.

Safiya Palmer is a junior at Eastern majoring in creative writing. She is both a writer and an artist and runs her own online business selling art prints. She is also the President of Eastern’s African club.

Rebecca Radford, from Uncasville, CT, is an English major with a concentration in secondary education and a minor in writing, who often likes to take photographs and later use them for writing inspiration.

60

Eastern Exposure