Eastern Exposure 2020

Eastern Exposure

Eastern Connecticut State University Student Literary Journal

Erin Avery Janet Bannister Allison Brown Victoria Congdon Ben Dionne Morgyn Gasperini Sydney Hebert Will Johnson Christine Luckhoo Sarai Mapp Lauren Mondak Yvonne Picard Kaitlyn Rasmussen Erin Raymond Kavon Ruffin Avery Smith Eliza Wilson Jennifer Zuniga

Eastern Exposure

This year’s issue features work by

2020

Eastern Connecticut State University Student Literary Journal 2020

Eastern Exposure 2020

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 2019-20 Creative Writing Club Executive Board President: Allison Brown Vice President: Victoria Congdon Secretary: Kaitlyn Rasmussen Treasurer: Morgyn Gasperini 2019-2020 Editorial Board Poetry Editors: Kaitlyn Rasmussen and Morgyn Gasperini Fiction Editors: Allison Brown and Victoria Congdon Readers: Ben Dionne, Sara Heil, Kevin Lafrance, Samuel Perez Lopez, Erin Raymond, Victoria Spencer Cover Art “New York City” (photograph by Jennifer Zuniga) 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. © 2020 Eastern Connecticut State University. All rights reserved.

Table of Contents Editor’s Note Christine Luckhoo Janet Bannister

A Snail’s World

5

Chloe Does Not Roll Out of Bed

6

Ben Dionne

Daedalus’ Elegy

7

Yvonne Picard

Rain Drops and Hurricanes

9

My Grandmother, George Jones and a Stroke Walk into a Bar

10

Front Porch on Trinity Avenue at Night

11

Sydney Hebert

“WHERE MY GRAPES!”

12

Eliza Wilson

Joy

13

Eliza Wilson

Photobooth

14

Simple Syrup

15

Morgyn Gasperini Kaitlyn Rasmussen

Morgyn Gasperini Morgyn Gasperini

She Knows

16

Erin Avery

Laurelton Beach House

17

Ben Dionne

Unfitting

19

Mom’s Songs

20

Morgyn Gasperini

Umpachene Falls

21

Erin Avery

Passerby in the Night

22

Sarai Mapp

Sensing You

24

Prodigal Gardener

25

Kaitlyn Rasmussen

Ben Dionne Janet Bannister

Driving Home from 3rd Shift in Early Spring

26

Avery Smith

The Two Rings

27

Janet Bannister

Unmade

29

Flowers

30

Student Photographs

Jennifer Zuniga

Allison Brown

Avery Smith

Portraits of New England: Finding the Shore 31 The London Eye at Night

32

Down by the Sea.

33

Will Johnson

Eminence

34

Eliza Wilson

Thread City

35

Ben Dionne

Supermarket Worship

36

Symphony No7, “Angel of the Light”: III. Come Un Sogno

38

Sarai Mapp

Erin Raymond

Lauren Mondak

A Letter on Valentine’s Day

Kavon Ruffin

Gratefulness

41

Allison Brown

Hide and Seek

42

Will Johnson

Ode to the Meteor

43

Apollo and All His Friends

45

Chasing Imperfection

47

She Waited for Him

50

Half-Formed Lies

54

Victoria Congdon Allison Brown Lauren Mondak Allison Brown

39

Contributors Notes 58

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Editor’s Note Dear Reader,

I realize you may be reading this in an unusual time. The current state of our world is uncertain as together we face struggles resulting from the Covid-19 pandemic. Still, it gives artists a unique opportunity to express what it means to be a human living in these times. As the world begins to slow down, we must remember it is the artists; writers, singers, dancers and musicians, who provide a portal between society’s heart and soul, binding cultures together. Eastern Exposure has been crafted out of that same sentiment. Each piece was carefully written and chosen as an asset to the student experience which embodies the community of Eastern Connecticut State University. This anthology represents the literary talents of a diverse selection.

Thank you to the student body for being supportive of the Creative Writing Club’s mission and to the club members for taking time to volunteer throughout the year at various literary events as well as choosing which pieces will be showcased in this issue of Eastern Exposure. Lastly, I would like to express gratitude for the 2019-2020 Executive Board, who each put in tireless efforts to ensure that despite many roadblocks, the journal would be able to truly showcase the talent of our entire student body. Thank you to Tori for her enthusiastic and funny spirit, never failing to brighten up our most stressful days. Thank you to Kaitlyn for her excellent organizational skills who managed to keep track every deadline and event for the club. Thank you to Morgyn for jumping into our crazy group halfway through the year and being so willing to partake in the ride with us. Finally, thank you to our club advisor, Dr. Donaghy, who reminded us of our strengths and accomplishments when we got too caught up in worrying.

I urge you, if this is a project you desire to be part of, to flip to page 2, where you’ll find all the information you need. However, for now, I hope you sit down somewhere comfy and enjoy the following creative work from your peers.

Sincerely, Allison Brown, Creative Writing Club President

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Christine Luckhoo

A Snail’s World I stood in an empty field Asked the sky, “Are we all giants trampling on the world below us?”

The clouds smiled gently As the wind laughed, “Can you remember your forgotten life?”

I closed my eyes As the breeze flew past And fell backwards Onto a tree root Butterflies danced down from the sky Bees came to lay their gifts Foxes and rabbits emerged from their holes As the birds began to sing from their nest Deer laid on the moss and watched As the clamor roused the tree Leaves swaying in joy Whose laugh rained down flower petals Their soft voices whispered “You’re home, you’re back.”

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Janet Bannister

Chloe Does Not Roll Out of Bed She pops like a cork from champagne Bubbles down the stairs, Percolates like coffee in our kitchen.

The rest of us slump and zombie shuffle, Communicate in grunts.

But Chloe blooms.

She skips along, shower-bound, Finger flicking a song to life— always a soundtrack to her drama.

A feline groupie rises to follow her mismatched socks down the hall.

The whole house purrs.

Volume rises and a shameless solo Floats through falling water.

Her sister and I trade the day’s first smiles.

She emerges in a steamy, perfumed cloud Towel-turbaned, underwear-strutting, Spontaneous living room spin.

She personifies her middle name, Joy, Spills giggles and coffee and Leaves a trail of waffle crumbs.

Invades my space while I brush my teeth, Does complicated face-art, Wears my socks.

Once she’s exploded into the world, Heat leaking from the forgotten front door, I pluck a wet towel from the rug and sigh.

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Ben Dionne

Daedalus’ Elegy I wanted you to soar more than I wanted my own weary limbs to know freedom.

I made you wings, worked my hands down to blood and bone, spent starry nights building you a golden escape from these walls around us.

When they were done my tired eyes knew joy.

And you sparkled, bright as any star, at the chance to fly away.

Wax and gold will only take you so high, I warned, Sun and sea can swallow you whole.

You wanted to leave, slip on the wings and lift out of stone into sky.

The breeze touched your face for the first time and I remembered why I had worked so hard; I could finally see the fruits of my love in the light.

You were a sight to behold.

An iridescent hummingbird leaving the nest for the first time.

You flitted amongst the clouds, beside birds you had only

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Ben Dionne

ever seen from below.

You soared, higher than me, higher than the clouds and the birds, higher than my wings could carry you.

If only the wax were as strong as your unencumbered heart.

If only the sun were not so hot and the sea not so deep.

If only I had been close enough to catch you.

But you fell, spiraled through wisps of cloud and sky, feathers melting from their frame.

I watched as the two greatest things I had ever made sank in the open air.

And when you hit the water I felt the breath torn in my lungs.

My heart drowned with you.

And I no longer wished you knew freedom or birds or sky or sun.

I only wished you back, back to stone walls, back to little hands and sparkling eyes, back to the safety of my arms.

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Yvonne Picard

Rain Drops and Hurricanes I sit in a rain that refuses to start Drops at an inconsistent rate Enough that people would seek cover to avoid But no one would quite call rain I wonder if every storm starts like this Unsuspecting small motions Added onto one another Built up to crashing waves With clouds rushing above Motions in force that no one could stop Coming together Faster Faster And then I’m failed As the drops lessen The clouds shift And the sun peaks it’s uncontained glee And I want to lie to you I want to tell you that it poured That the small efforts turned to storms That rain drops became hurricanes That the downpour went on into eternity Soaking to the bone everything we had and everything we were And as it finished That we sat out and thought ourselves Noah Squinting at the sunlight anew And when the storm finally ended The world was finally clean But to tell you that would be a lie And spoil my first sense of reality in days

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Morgyn Gasperini

My Grandmother, A Stroke, and George Jones Walk into a Bar The bar in her living room, empty.

Shelves fully stocked, Vodka, Patriots memorabilia, funky lighters.

She’s thrown nothing away.

Stereo blasts high enough to drown out her thoughts, to feel thumping in her chest.

My grandmother rings the mounted brass bell.

“Last call,” she cackles to herself.

At the same bar that used to rattle the walls of the upstairs bedrooms.

Downstairs, friends in leather jackets shaking their hips to the beat of the 70’s.

Said to look like Elvis in his prime, my grandfather wasn’t afraid To grab her waist and slow dance to A Picture of Me (Without You), in their living room. The only place they’ve both ever felt like home.

Sliding off the barstool alone, she leans to the left, catches herself.

Then leans to the right.

Not drunk. Not old.

Wires crossed. Miscommunication between mind and body.

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Kaitlyn Rasmussen

Front Porch on Trinity Avenue at Night Ten at night, welcoming fall, I’m planted on the front porch like a seed, My legs numb from the bitter bite of the concrete.

The breeze jostles the trees, shaking the leaves.

Peepers and crickets send out their last messages, Before hibernation or death like a last testament Human ears won’t understand.

The stars, pinpricks of light and of warmth Doing their best to cancel out the chill Floating through the air, Scatter into constellations For my amusement.

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Sydney Hebert

“WHERE MY GRAPES!” I announce as I scramble through the front door having just trampled the dead plant on the walkway.

The door slams, shaking the rotting face of an owl carved into an old pumpkin into a fallen smile.

Mom scoffs as I enter in a dance.

I find them in the freezer, and tap my lips to the bits of ice that are starting to melt on the flesh of a big, frozen purple one.

I’m drunk again; I freeze all my fruit except apples.

I hug the Ziploc to my cheek and a small bead of drool slaps onto the hardwood floor as the fat, frozen grape collapses between my teeth in a crunch.

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Eliza Wilson

Joy First name Joy, middle name Blue, last name Smith.

You liked to introduce yourself like that, Straightening your scrawny shoulders and tossing your braids, Adorned with shiny pink beads, never purple, Because Barney was purple and Barney’s for babies.

You said I couldn’t like pink too, so my favorite color had to be green, But it was okay because nobody could wear a pink tutu over jeans like you.

Purple foods were out too. Grapes, purple skittles, the cabbage leaves in

spring mix, All banned. I never questioned why grape juice made the cut.

I never questioned why you always got to be the girl when we played Barbies, Or why my mom never let your daddy drive me home.

I just wanted to be cool and brave and fast like you, fast enough to beat

the boys In a race at recess, brave enough to stand up for me When Kiersten made fun of me for wearing her old sweatshirt That my mom found at Once Upon a Child, And cool enough to pull off Fancy Nancy socks with Nikes.

I wish I had been fast enough, or brave enough, To help you, or to tell someone That your daddy made you scared, that he made you shower with the

curtain open, That when your mommy wasn’t home he took away your clothes.

I wish you’d told me about the marks on your legs, about what he did When he tucked you in at night, about the shadows your night light

made on the wall.

You wore a purple hoodie to the Planned Parenthood in Allentown a

week after you turned 14.

You left nail marks in my hand as you squeezed it in the waiting room, Until the nurse came in and read your name, “Joy,” But you didn’t add Blue, and you didn’t add Smith.

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Eliza Wilson

Photobooth Three little pictures, your face next to mine, Cheeks squished together, Cheshire cat smiles; I’m wearing your sweatshirt, the one with your name On the back. One day I hope to take it; Your name I mean, the sweatshirt’s mine already.

We threw up peace signs in the last picture, You wanted to make funny faces, but The camera flashed too quickly, capturing Our cheesy grins and blurry hands. I keep The picture taped to my wall, and your smile Brightens the cold cinder block Of my little dorm.

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Morgyn Gasperini

Simple Syrup Her gaze tied to the stove, whisk in hand. My mother, dipped her pinky into sweet, glossy bubbles, brought it to her lips to taste.

One part sugar, one part water.

The red feeder filling slowly as she pours and hangs it on the back porch.

A special recipe for beaks in morning mist. Us in our fuzzy, pink robes, bedroom slippers, sit quietly at the kitchen counter to watch.

The ugly one, dull colored and alone, was first to arrive.

No bigger than a thumb, her tiny wings quivered, just enough to keep her afloat.

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Morgyn Gasperini

She Knows School bus tires come to a stop.

Pigtails a mess, swaying side to side.

Waiting in the truck, Grandpa with his scabbed, wrinkled hands greets her with a lifesaver roll.

She picks orange, hands him red.

He wonders if she knows he chose her.

Quick to unbuckle, she runs to the garage, leaping over truck parts and tools.

Bounding into the house where she will beg, and lose the fight to watch cartoons or anything other than another John Wayne Western.

The mint green chair where Grandpa sits, stuffed with tissues and orange peels.

He wonders if she notices the layers of smoke that still coat the walls of the house.

He wonders if she knows he chose her. over his old friends, Jim Beam and Jack Daniels.

He sits in front of the kitchen table, coffee cups, sugar packets and pill bottles.

Not another barstool or poker table, booze, cancer sticks and crumpled singles.

He wonders if she knows he chose her.

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Erin Avery

Laurelton Beach House The little white beach house in the middle of Springfield–– Dad’s house on Laurelton is where I learned to fish, watched Saturday morning cartoons, ate melty grilled cheese made on his gas stove.

I remember running down the short hall, past the mirrored closet playing fetch inside with my dog.

A toy chest filled with dress up, happy meal toys, stuffed animals asleep in the corner of his bedroom at Laurelton.

Now the house sits drained of happiness and childhood innocence, a skeleton.

My dad’s nicotine drips down the walls, saturates the rugs.

His poorly managed depression and drunken nights echo.

The mirrored closet sits shattered, his blood dripped down the glass, a police report telling of that night on Laurelton.

His empty beers piled up on the front porch.

Needles, burnt foil tucked out of sight.

At one time it was pleasant here: Saturday visits, father daughter time.

Now a nightmare: Stories of addictions and altercations told at Laurelton.

Two months trying to get a mortgage payoff, phone calls went nowhere.

Two months of the “Sale Pending” sign hanging out front.

Someone kicked in the back door: Now it’s their drug den. Knife on the stove, baggies littering the kitchen.

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Erin Avery

Soon the little city beach house will be torn down by the buyer.

In its place, three cookie cutter houses will pop up.

Soon city hall will have a record of sale from the Avery Estate to NuWay homes.

Soon when we drive by there will be three new families, toys scattered in the yard. They’ll be blind to the history of their dream home on Laurelton.

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Ben Dionne

Unfitting My body doesn’t fit today. My bones are hollow and my skin is flimsy. It sits in all the wrong places, loose in the chest and tight in the shoulders, like I am both amorphous and jagged at the same time. Right now I cannot make myself fit this frame. I wish I could grow to occupy it or shrink to escape it, and I can do neither. I need you to hold me like my body is something to be honored, not feared.

I need you to fill my hollow bones with light, to take up the rest of my skin with your kisses, to hold me like we are saying goodbye, like my body is something to be missed.

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Kaitlyn Rasmussen

Mom’s Songs I think Mom cried more than we did the First time she had to get on a plane And leave us. I remember Standing by a window That felt miles high, Dad pointing out Her flight as it took off, Wide eyes watching as it disappeared.

Mom would sing to us Every night back then before bedtime: Diamond Baby, a nice slow ballad first, Before amping us up with The silly “Goodbye Song” from preschool, My sister and I giggling as she swung Our hands back and forth.

As little kids we had a baby boombox.

Mom didn’t leave until she Recorded herself singing both songs On tape for us. I remember Crowding around the thing with My siblings at night in her absence, Listening to the loving tone of her voice Before we drifted off to sleep, Feeling better having that piece of her Until she came back and We caught the live show.

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Morgyn Gasperini

Umpachene Falls A blanket of white noise in the Massachusetts woods.

Where crickets hum, where water and dirt cling to toes.

Where my grandmother should be.

With a half-lit cigarette balancing on her lip, a granddaughter waiting For her to flick it to ash.

The place she asked to be.

Not in an urn, not on a mantle, not in a house, with a man she didn’t love.

A clearing at the top, Shallow pools, rocky edges, where my father sits on Sunday mornings.

Where, he told me, He talks to her, my grandmother, And she talks back, as the water pools at his feet.

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Erin Avery

Passerby in the Night Late night air hugs me.

Air, scented with earthy Autumn leaves.

Sidewalks lined with streetlamps glowing warm from the light.

Heat from the day rises up in the night.

The breeze blew walkers down their path this morning.

Now air sits calm with damp evening chill. Not enough to dig through my spine, but enough that it tickles my nose each inhale.

Crisp leaves crunch underfoot crushing night silence.

A crunch once muted by daytime rush, rings out in the dark.

A woman’s heels click by, golden dog in tow.

His tail whips around, nose pushing the dirt.

A group of girls laugh as they pass by.

Are they finally heading home, or just starting their night?

Keys dig into my palm as a masculine figure crosses my path.

I’m ready to fight a danger that isn’t there.

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Erin Avery

Meanwhile, him, unaware.

He plays on his phone continuing to walk away.

To him, I’m just a passerby in the night.

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Sarai Mapp

Sensing You i saw you in a tree where fluttering pink petals thanked the gentle branches holding them together and green leaves huddled close and hummed with the sunlight i heard you in a sunday morning where birds singing and warm bed sheets surround the sun rise with the harmony of running water and a sizzling frying pan laughs with joy to the sound of a whistling tea kettle i smelled you in a bakery where a warm loaf of bread filled a space with comfort, as the aroma of muffins and bagels followed the line of steam from a hot mug of coffee i tasted you in a rainy day where grey clouds packed the sky with energy of upcoming thunder and stunning lightning and the scent of recently cut grass mixed with april showers made the wind soar i touched you in a heartbeat where the rhythm of a lullaby was mapped out through the pattern of sleep and the exhale of breath reminded me of a rainy sunday morning in a bakery overlooking a tree.

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Ben Dionne

Prodigal Gardener I have never been good at keeping things green and growing.

Under my care flowers wither, fruits rot, leaves crinkle.

Parched, they call out for me, but I am planted far away, drying up in my own bed.

When I finally rise and find my garden pitiful and neglected, I cry, mourning what never had the chance to grow.

Months of tears drip against soil, steady drumbeats to my wailing funeral song.

I do not notice them sinking in and nurturing what had been forgotten.

The flowers regain their color.

The fruits drop new seeds.

The leaves spread out in glory.

Even late, spring comes and makes everything new, giving me a second chance to care for every inch of this Eden.

My garden holds no grudge.

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Janet Bannister

Driving home from 3rd shift in early spring The oaks and birch line the road Hands in pockets, silent, Like awkward attendees at a junior high dance.

But the wind whips in, Boisterous and big, Slapping backs and bumping hips, Grabbing the willow and Bending her in a dip, Insisting on celebration until The trees let loose and toss the confetti they’ve been clutching.

The seeds flutter and spin, Bringing me in to the dance.

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Avery Smith

The Two Rings The way I looked at you from across the room at the Phi Theta Kappa induction The way I stayed to hug everybody but I stayed to hug you The way I introduced you to fried dinosaurs and how you laughed genuinely And I laughed uncomfortably The way you took me to three different dates in one night.

The way you framed the poem you wrote for me.

The way you drove to two stores in two opposite towns to get treats for my dog.

The way you held my hand the first time I cried to you in the car in front of Dave and Busters And we both fell asleep long after They had closed.

The way you gave me the first ring as a promise for now.

The way you didn’t frame the poem that went with it or any of all the others.

But the way you’ll photoshop the PDFs to make the words look pretty.

The way you took the entire day off of work to see me walk across the stage

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Avery Smith

in my cap and gown.

The way your family took me in when I lost my home.

The way you took me to London even though I’d never been on vacation The way you always asked me if I was happy or having fun even before London, always, but especially in London.

The way you don’t understand my trauma but you still try The way you embraced and show me off as your trophy.

In front of the mall and grocery store.

The way you promise to protect me always making sure I made it home safe with a text Or interlocking your hands in mine securely.

The way you taught me how to love myself From my curves To my loose skin To my stretch marks And embracing who I am.

The way you can’t help but blurt out important questions on the plane back, Not down on one knee, but with only the dim spotlight of the overhead aisle bulbs Illuminating our faces The way you slid the second ring on my finger as a promise for forever.

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Janet Bannister

Unmade When I come home The sheet and blanket and spread Are balled up like the base of a snowman At the center of our bed The edges drawn in a mass curled in upon itself As if in Child’s Pose And when I say Can’t you make the bed?

You act as if it’s some exotic thing I do Like quilting or making pie from scratch As if I’d asked you to knit me a hat Or fly me away to the moon I can’t do that, you say As I realign the coverings And smooth the topography of our dreamscape, working my sorcery.

This is, as they say, Where the magic happens.

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Jennifer Zuniga

Flowers

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Eastern Exposure

Allison Brown

Portraits of New England: Finding the Shore

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Avery Smith

The London Eye at Night

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Sarai Mapp

Down By The Sea. Now I’m just daydreaming, In my own little cloud.

Trying to escape the depression, Don’t want to be found.

Getting high with the fairies But knowing for sure, I’ll be dead in the morning When I wash up on shore.

I cried tears of sugar, They were sweet as can be, Then I plucked off my feathers, Two by three.

Count the pills in your hand, Then whisper to me, How many did it take to drown in the sea?

––a note about addiction

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Will Johnson

Eminence In a tattoo parlor near campus It occurs to me That I will know something About each of the other thirty students here That their parents will not find out For months We are all in the same boat tonight We will all make a twenty dollar blood pact in this room together Hush money is passed to the cashiers Like it is the body of Christ And they will take part in it as if it really was “Every chair looks like a therapy couch” The girl in front of me preaches He doesn’t know that they will be filled with secretly drunk confessors Each of them plotting promises to loved ones on their college-ruled bodies She is in line about five people behind me As we shuffle like the greatest generation Towards decisions that will follow us until they slough off our bones I don’t think she recognizes my face anymore She had three years and two lives to forget And I’ve tried my hardest to beat myself up ‘til I was new Right now I’m just hoping that clean needles on dirty skin Will separate my body from my self

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Eastern Exposure

Eliza Wilson

Thread City The neon open sign Beckons me in from the heat With the promise of the cool kiss of air conditioning.

As the waitress, plump and comfortable, Sets the menu before me, I am nine years old again; On a cherished Saturday breakfast date with my father.

On the street corner I am welcomed By a man who animatedly chats With the phantom parrot perched on his shoulder.

I wonder why he ignores The vultures lurking in spirals above his head.

“September” mingled with a gray plume of cigarette smoke Floats from an open car window.

I see my grandmother, See her swaying to Earth Wind and Fire With Marlboros as her dance partner.

A woman, with dreadlocks thick and coiled Like a crown upon her head, And with artwork etched into the mocha skin of her neck, Leans languidly against the doorway of the tattoo parlor.

As I pass by I catch a whiff of some musty, herbal odor That reminds me of late night car rides And deep conversations.

Students, like myself, wander the dusky streets in packs Laughing at some golden joke that will be forgotten in a moment, And I remember the friends I’ve lost and the friends I’ve gained.

Thread City is spread open before my eyes like a book, A story spun into the fabric of life, Ripe for the telling and beautiful to behold.

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Ben Dionne

Supermarket Worship She prays in the grocery store, murmuring as she sifts through piles of apricots.

Glory be coats her throat like cough drops.

She considers the frozen peas, cool beneath her fingers like the beads of her rosary.

She recites ten Hail Marys before throwing the bag into her cart.

She traces the items down a list of hunger, a never-ending column of need, and praises the one who shields her from emptiness.

She hears the coo of an infant, wide eyed and gazing at the focused face of his mother as they glide down the aisles.

She remembers when she was a Madonna, holy in the eyes of her children.

They have since grown to speak her prayers with disinterested lips, to abandon her supermarket sanctuary for more secular delights.

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Ben Dionne

She closes her tired eyes as a young man scans her food.

She knows that this is no cathedral, this boy, no priest these bags, no communion.

But within these aisles, both mundane and sacred, she can almost hear God.

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Erin Raymond

Symphony No.7, “Angel of Light�: III. Come un sogno

Again, I can hear the light.

The rays, the beams, the glimmers that shine.

I can see the old man, I can see it pouring out of his literal soul,

his muscles and organs and bones shifting to make room for the rapture.

Somehow I feel it in my own soul, the light.

Deep in my chest, tight, almost painful.

And there is nothing more heavenly that the world has ever heard.

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Eastern Exposure

Lauren Mondak

A Letter on Valentine’s Day To the dating couples Sitting at tabletops, With meals getting cold From staring down at lit up screens, A distraction.

Breath in the scent Of the food and the cologne of Your date, and remember it.

The scent you’ll grow To love Because you say he’s the one Who will be waiting for you At the end of the aisle, Someday, or at least Until the food gets put Into doggie bags.

To the singles Shoveling down chocolates In heart shaped containers And washing it down with the Sangria he bought you for Christmas, Fantasy is a word that you debate The existence of in the good And the bad ways.

The pictures scroll by on A screen of never-ending film, Turning into the next rom-com That has the miracle Of someone leaving in the end.

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Lauren Mondak

To the married couples Who focus the day on a Home cooked, floral display Of love and affection, Your white dress Is no longer white Stuffed in a box Collecting dust until A legacy can be carried on.

The on-screen kisses Re-enacted on your very own Stage.

To those looking for love, With their heads buried in Romance novels, only being turned By the face of a person who Is good-looking to be their Knight in shining armor, But all metals rust and tarnish With time.

The princes of the world Can only climb so many towers, And only rescue so many damsels.

Powers within you are the answer To your longing questions, And there is power In the day in which Love seems to conquer all.

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Kavon Ruffin

Gratefulness As the sun sneaks through the covered window My eyes begin to open.

“Good morning world” “What do you have in store for me today?”

As I turn in my bed My covers hugs me tighter “Good morning bed” “Sorry, I must get up” “Can we reschedule for a later time?”

As I get up, I grab my towel and my soap and head to the bathroom “Good morning shower” “How good will you have me smelling today?”

After a good wash, I head back to my room My TV suddenly turns on “Good morning TV” “I really don’t want to hear how bad the Jets are today.”

“Another channel?”

The TV changes its channel “In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit.

These are their stories.”

“Thank You TV.” As I finish getting dressed, I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste.

I walk to the sink; I look up and see myself Wow how did I forget about you.

“Good morning to myself ” I’m glad you are still here.

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Allison Brown

Hide and Seek The smoky grey mist clings, wrapping me in a blanket of mystery–– engulfing the area, slowly obscuring the sight around me until at last it is blurred behind the whitened haze of some half-forgotten dream.

There in this space comfort evades from within.

It’s a hide and seek fog; one that like the story hides me, a child, away from the world, and into the hands of the healer, that long forgotten presence for some who tense when clouds roll in yet, I remain unafraid by the power.

Amazed I watch it roam over the hill coming closer, over to my little house and its lopsided green mailbox matching the crooked dogwood, which now is perched halfway on our dewy grass and it’s broken stump; a reminder of the fragility of life.

And still the fog gently shrouds its branches too, protecting it from harsh sun.

A state of peacefulness and stillness; the hum of early morning cars fade into the background, the pitter patter of dogs, and the distant whir of Route 8 erodes away.

The autumn weather prevails, crisp cold snapping the world into a drunk state of happiness; an ellipse of the in-between where confusion and peace are connected and the fog opens your eyes to the wonders of above while blinding you from the earth.

A space where troubled thoughts and unspoken questions don’t go unnoticed and the waiting demands a lot from you.

No longer are you waiting for the mustard colored school bus to crawl out from the abyss, but for the whisper of His voice to reveal to you what is true of today.

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Will Johnson

Ode to The Meteor Paint “No rules” On Caligula’s vomitorium Now’s not the time for pants No Tonight we ride commando I mean Shotgun Drunk in both states Tonight We all jump at the same time Fucking up elevators And airplanes In the language Of our collective tribal dance And if you’re worried That your God is watching I have already slipped them a 20 They’re looking the other way Tonight We will set the air on fire Through no fault of our own Ignite the distance Between you And the nearest organ magnet Buying your attention With borrowed time Tonight I am you And you are the person next to you And there is always Someone next to you

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Will Johnson

We Are all artists Under the same blinking sky Tonight The smile on your face Is the only currency Where inflation is okay And Tonight The only response to “How are you feeling?”

Is “Good!”

So How are you feeling?

How are you feeling?

How Are you feeling?

Tonight Your head is a home Where the light in your attic Finds itself Silverstein-ing its way Through your eyes And every exit screams New Tonight We hold on to the human being Because tonight Human is all we can be 44

Eastern Exposure

Victoria Congdon

Apollo and All His Friends

It’s late June: the wind is tangled in my hair as I drive 80 miles per hour in the fast lane on the highway. My friends are seated in my car and there’s screaming and laughing and music booming through my speakers. There’s four of us, my solid little beach gang. They don’t truly understand my underlying love for the ocean, but they participate in the trips anyways. My passenger seat picks songs from my phone. I allowed that trust back into my life.

This is the time of year when summer feels the best. We’re headed to the beach and we still have plenty of time before the sun goes down.

I feel full, I feel whole. The world could end tomorrow and I would die feeling invincible. This is the time when the gods still reign on my side and I can never die. I never want to die. I repeat this like a broken record.

Like I’m not broken.

The beach is still warm even though it’s late in the afternoon. We do this all the time - take late, impromptu beach trips after everyone gets out of work. The sun is still out for a while longer, warming the Earth and everything on it. I have one friend who is always cold. She always yells that she’s not coming in, that she refuses, but she comes in anyway because she wants to be apart of the group. And so together, we ride the choppy Rhode Island waves with boogie boards. We swim, we float, we pick ourselves back up. Sometimes we get washed out by them, but we have no fear of dying right now. We feel like we’re never going to, like we didn’t just lose someone we love by death. We could do this forever, if we really wanted to.

Hours later, hours we hadn’t realized passed so quickly, the sun starts setting. Summer sunsets last forever, and the gods are painting the sky reds and oranges, pinks and yellows, purples, until it fades to black. Everything fades to black, but I am feeling exceptional, and I can’t picture things going badly yet. Ice cream is suggested as we start packing towels up and taking group selfies. And, yeah, ice cream, I could go for that. The drive home is only about forty-five minutes, and it’s getting late so we have to leave now if we’re going to make it. The white lines on the highway only look like dots to me as I speed down it again. I speed, as if

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Victoria Congdon

I’m never going to make it on time. As if the gods are going to decide to rush out on me sooner than usual. I hold my breath for safe keeping.

The small Dairy Queen shack is filled to the brim with guests like ourselves, the line wrapping around and out the door. We’re all shivering: our half-clothed bodies, the ice cream chilling in the freezer.

We’re practicing for death, for what it feels like when you reach Heaven.

We go one by one, only having enough money for ourselves. Milkshake, Blizzard, Blizzard, Blizzard. Three upside down flips and a straw later, we find ourselves at the last available table outside. There’s a chair missing, and I feel bad so I offer to stand, but Milkshake says it’s fine and she will stand instead. We talk about nonsensical things, like the boy my cold friend will still be in love with years later and how we’re all so, so scared of college and leaving each other. It won’t be like anything we expected to feel.

Later, once the ice cream has melted in our cups and our acidic stomachs, I drive my friends home one by one. I save the best for last, for the little bit of extra time we can have together. So we have time to listen to just one more song before I turn into her driveway. The night is officially over once she leaves my car, and it’s only me on the open road again. There is ten minutes between my old life and the new one I just recently started leading. My house is just one straight shot down the road, it won’t take long to get there. Just long enough for the emptiness to settle in a little more. The gods will never rid of that completely.

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Allison Brown

Chasing Imperfection

I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with food. Growing up my family would sit around that wooden oak table beneath the pale green curtains that lined our front windows, recounting the day’s events during lunch and dinner every day. Still, I would not categorize myself a foodie.

I do enjoy meals surrounded by the people I love, but there are few things worse to me than the putrid, soggy remains of food on dinner plates stacked in the sink. And despite my Italian, and English background, my family has grown up with a bland palate of spices; raw vegetables sometimes boiled with butter or pepper, and chicken with store bought Italian breadcrumb mix. Food was a way to grow closer with the people around me, not just a source of nourishment.

I would like to say it wasn’t a surprise then, that the complex relationship I had developed with food would take a turn for the worst.

But it was. Like a magnet, eating disorders pulled at my force of gravity, tugging me closer without any awareness of the effect it had on me.

Maybe the pull towards ED’s world was so undetectable because I had grown up reading about countless characters from broken families that dealt with addiction, alcoholism, cancer, death, depression, and abuse to comfort me. They held my tears when wouldn’t let anyone else see they had fallen. They held my laughs that I wasn’t allowed to have. They carried my secrets with them.

But eating disorders were a seldom spoken issue in these books and if they did it was always met with the stereotypical teenage girl obsessing over her weight. I knew I could never be Anorexic or Bulimic.

I spent hours in the mirror studying my flat feet, short stature, cockeyed shoulders, limp haired self, trying on words to see what fit. Fat never did.

Neither did overweight. Because of this, I felt safe from eating disorder’s reign. How wrong I was.

I got exceptionally good at personas as time went on. ED constantly tested me, daring me to turn into someone else and each time I would get close to being caught we would shed our first layer of skin and grow a new disguise. I constantly lived on the verge of being confident in my identity and accepting the impersonator ED told me I should be. Yet,

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Allison Brown

the moments leading up to every episode were a blur. I remembered this, forgot that. Or maybe I only wanted to remember certain facts, leaving the rest to be hallucinations of the memory. The blinking green lines of the stove clock, or on the pewter white microwave above or any clock in that house for that matter. I remembered that. Staring at the cracked driveway through the semi-transparent green vined leafed curtains in the kitchen windows I witnessed the Impala spinning away.

The clocked blinked 4:30. 4:31. 4:32. Then all hell broke loose.

Do it, ED says leading me to the pantry. Recalling exact phrases, or any exact logic is impossible except for those two words: DO IT. The clear packaging of the cookies beckoned me to rip its top off and carefully remove 2, no, 3, only for me to hastily eat it. The soft tortilla shells.

Cheese slices. Sour cream. The next perfect combination.

Somehow, I was on the couch with the TV remote in one hand, the half consumed masterpiece in the other. Turning to some channel I tried to bury my mind in the show. It worked. For about 10 minutes.

Commercials interrupted my entertainment, bragging about the new snuggle blanket with arms. Something gnawed at my stomach forcing it empty. At the same time as I wanted to carve out a C in my stomach and scoop out this feeling like the pumpkin seeds in a jack-o-lantern, I also felt the need to let it control me. Back up the stairs two at a time.

The freezer or refrigerator which is positioned so nicely right near the top of the stairs. A Klondike ice cream package. A frozen grinder roll which magically becomes thawed as my stomach yearns to be full even though dinner will come with my mom and brother returning home soon.

Eating shredded cheese out of the bag with my dirty fingers. Spoons were not necessary, and neither are cups as I drank orange juice straight from the bottle knowing that using such civilized things would mean washing, drying them and putting them back in the same spot as to not alert anyone of my doings. That much I was aware of.

Ignoring my stomach’s growing plea of fullness, I scanned the kitchen once again, just in case I missed any opportunities. Like my mind, my eyes could not focus enough to make coherent judgements,

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only flashes of this or that. Kind Bars: how many before someone notices?

Cereal: too much effort. White flashes before my eyes as I impatiently slammed the slotted pantry door and pivot towards the other direction.

Open and close. Light and dark, cold and warm as the refrigerator and freezer gives me no hope. Cabinet by the stove, with the cake decorating supplies. Impulsively I grabbed the sprinkle container and shove my hand into it. Fistfuls of sugar explode in my mouth. Before I can finish off the bottle, my rationale returned and I hurriedly put it back in the cabinet, exactly where I had found it; on top of the rolling pin next to the cookie cutter bag with the nutrition wrapper towards the stove and the brand label facing outward.

Just as quickly as it started, this plight was over. I carefully made my way back downstairs after one last look at the blinking green stove clock, knowing I managed to not get caught this time. I sunk into the worn powder blue couch and took up the entire space releasing my body.

I knew better than to squish my hard work; instead I laid down with each limb extend to its furthest capacity. My nail-bitten hands roamed the evidence of what I had just done. Like a helium balloon my stomach protruded out towards the white popcorn ceiling. It was continually stuck on the inhale cycle––any pressure on it and I would expel all contents. But I did not want that. I wanted to just lay there feeling.

Fullness.

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Lauren Mondak

She Waited for Him

The beeping of the machine was incessantly beating at her eardrums. With her eyes closed, her sense of hearing was heightened more than it would have been otherwise. She heard the stomping of feet and the squeaky wheel on the cart of her nurse that always came at the same time every day. She didn’t know what time it was, but it was music to her ears.

The way the nurse’s feet would slide upon the floor. She could tell if it had rained by the loudness of her sneakers on the tile if she couldn’t determine whether the pounding on the window had been the weather or the construction outside. She smelled the fruity perfume the nurse wore daily. It was mentioned once that it was a gift from her husband, but she wasn’t up for more than a one-sided conversation. When the nurse began talking was when she knew she should feel a prick in her arm, but she couldn’t. A brush of a thermometer over her head and a fluffing of her pillow, and the nurse was out the door again with her cart.

All they could do was try to make her comfortable.

Like clockwork, he arrived. The time was still unknown, but it was another part to the routine. The sneakers he had for years adorned his feet, ripped and muddy from working out his frustrations daily in the garden, but he never failed to change before arriving. He wore a polo shirt and khaki pants, his real appearance defined by the sadness in his eyes. He lingered in the doorway as he did every time. His footsteps stopped, and he took a breath. That’s when she knew he was sitting beside her.

“So, the tomato plants are growing really well this year. I just made some sauce for the grandkids. They loved your recipe.” He paused.

“They wish you could have been the one to make it for them.”

She wished she could have responded, but there were many things that were keeping her trapped in the prison of her mind, her body trying to recover and failing miserably.

“The kids are doing good though. Abby called me yesterday. She told me that Becky got further on her summer reading. She really loves reading; she probably got that from you.” He laughed, “amongst other

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things.”

She heard him grunt, hoisting himself up and out of the chair.

His arthritis was coming back into his knees, every step he took hurt slightly more than the next. His back was slightly hunched. She wasn’t there to remind him to sit up straight when he fell asleep in the chair at night, the nightly infomercials his lullaby.

Making it to the sink, he dumped the water from the vase, throwing away last weeks drooping and discolored roses. She heard the crinkling of the paper as he threw out the wrapping on the next set of flowers.

He had hoped that these ones would live. With the flowers in the vase, he steadied himself for a moment with his hands on the counter. She didn’t need to see him to know that the tears were falling down his face. The small splats of each droplet hit the metal basin, one after another, too slowly to be the faucet. He shook with every calming breath, until he was stable enough to take a step back.

His eyes looked bloodshot in the morning sun that was shining in through the blinds, rising on yet another day. Some birds sat on the window ledge, tweeting a song carried away by the wind. Every beep of the machine took him one step closer to smashing the machine into bits, so he went for the slightly better option. His hearing aids were turned down enough that he could only hear himself think, the rest of the world being blocked out into silence, but he still knew she was there.

He turned around to face her. In their 54 years of marriage, he had never seen her skin that pale or her hair that ruffled. He still saw her in her Talbots striped shirts and Nordstrom jeans. He never knew how much she spent, simply that she looked good in everything she wore. Her 4’10” form rarely had a hair out of place on her head, and he could still see her standing there, the day he had come back from bootcamp. Even when her hair blew in the breeze, it still never looked the way it did then.

His hand brushed the hair out of her eyes. He stared at her face, his concentration only broken by a figure at the door. It was her doctor looking at him with sad eyes. He gestured him into the hallway. He knew that he would have to go back to reality for the moments it took to hear him.

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Lauren Mondak

She heard another pair of feet walking by, and by the lack of speaking, she knew who it was. The slow walk and the sound of her husband’s shoes on the floor fading off into the distance, she knew he had left the room.

“Hello, Mr. Romano, how are you today?” the doctor asked.

“Please, Doc, I told you to call me, Tony,” he replied.

“Oh yes, Tony. Well, I think you know what I’m going to tell you already.”

There was a pause as he looked down. “Yes, I do.”

She knew they were talking about her. There’s nothing else in the hospital that would be that interesting to her husband that he would be willing to talk to any medical professional. He had a hidden hatred for them. It wasn’t long before she heard the distinct noise of shoes scurrying down the hallway, and the echo of another’s footsteps returning into her room.

He sat back in the chair by her bedside, settling in. She knew time had passed by the sound of his heavy breathing that transformed into snoring. She would have been embarrassed, but the sound was soothing. It only stopped when he was startled awake by the nurse doing her after-lunch rounds. It was the usual fight that they had to get him to leave the room to eat.

She smelled the trays that were being passed along the hallway from room to room, and when his stomach growled beside her, she knew he was leaving, but he would be back.

Time drifted by slowly until he returned, stomach full of the food court special of the day. He had turned on the TV to her favorite cooking show that played episode after episode, until the sky had turned dark.

His eyes had yet to drift closed again, and instead, they traveled around the room. His gaze lingered on the picture frame he had put on her bedside table of their wedding day. Only he caught the slight stain in the black and white photo on her dress from their reception dinner. A smile grew on his face, as the next episode began. It only disappeared when the night nurse appeared in the doorway. He knew what that meant.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Romano. Visiting hours are over.”

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She knew it, too, before the words had been spoken. There was a tension and sadness that lingered in the air. He raised himself out of the chair, stumbling slightly forward to gain his footing. He planted a kiss on her forehead, the coldness lingering on his lips. She heard the nurse lead him out into the night. *******************************************************************

Her head was reeling. The beeping had mutated into a flat and sharp tones, and the only thing she could distinguish was multiple sets of footsteps scurrying towards her. Some minutes passed before her ears were no longer underwater. There was only silence.

The shrill noise in the hallway of the cart with the broken wheel was refreshing. The squeal of sneakers was her notice of his arrival. She could hear his heavy breathing as though he had run a marathon down the hallway. He came through the doorway with the nurse. The nurse made no mention of the events of the morning, but she had a feeling he already knew. He was early.

He placed himself in the uncomfortable chair. The nurse didn’t stay long before going on to her next patient, looking back briefly with a look of sorrow that he didn’t see but felt. He placed his hand in his wife’s, holding tightly.

She felt his hand, and squeezed back gently. The beeping turned flat as a petal fell from the roses.

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Allison Brown

Half-Formed Lies

Maybe it would be after a long day of work. Maybe it would be one morning when I’m home all alone and no-one will notice I left.

Or maybe it would be a time I intended to share with others, only to succumb to those feelings in the dead of night. It doesn’t matter where as much as it matters how.

I would creep to the drive through along the side of the Dunkin’ Donuts building. I would ask for a drink first, to not look alarming. It would be one of two things; an iced tea lemonade or an iced tea with four liquid sugars and a side cup of lemons, both mediums of course. It would depend on three things; the line of cars, if I knew the person on the other end of the speaker and if they had frozen lemonade concentrate.

Then if there were a few people behind me I would ask for a box of 50 count assorted munchkins explaining it’s for a children’s event. And I say assorted because I have a mood for every type of munchkin; chocolate when I need to pop the whole thing in my mouth in one bite, glazed for when I want the airy taste, jelly for when the taste of strawberry jelly becomes appealing in my haze and old fashioned for when I don’t care but still need to satisfy my cravings. But, if there was nobody behind me, I would order six or twelve donuts. Who am I kidding, it would be twelve because my lack of self-control at this point pushes aside the shame I feel from ordering a dozen donuts for one person. And I won’t say assorted, because if I’m doing this, it’s going to be with the tastes I would want to smear inside my mouth.

They would say just give me a moment and walk over to the partially empty black donut case while grabbing two clear latex gloves to slide over their hands. Then they would pop open a white cardboard carrying tray, unfolding the flaps.

I would start with the donuts I know wouldn’t be sold out yet.

Two coconut which had that distinct shredded texture that is the closest to my favorite discounted kind, butternut. One chocolate frosted with sprinkles and one strawberry frosted with sprinkles. They might say they ran out of strawberry with sprinkles and that would be fine, plain strawberry would do. Two chocolate glazed for the distinct sweet tooth

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craving. That makes six. I contemplate what other flavors I might want; Boston crème makes too much of a mess. One apple crumb donut where the crunchy Granny Smith apples provide proof I am still chewing when my stomach would be too full to handle any more. I decide to throw in another chocolate glazed and a chocolate frosted without sprinkles making it now nine. Three left. Against my better wishes to not get sticky fingertips I decide to ask for a glazed donut. Then having thrown in the towel, I ask for two powered donuts knowing the mess will make it harder to hide the evidence once I’m done.

I would shift my car into drive pulling up to the window. I already would know it would cost $9.99 for the donuts plus around $3 for the iced tea. Opening my small pink purse, I would fish out my dusty black wallet shifting through the crinkled-up singles and occasional 5. Taking the bills out I would open the coin pocket for the remaining two quarters needed to pay.

They would hand me the iced tea first with a big orange straw, and perhaps they would throw in some folded-up paper napkins. Then with a smile, the cashier would hand over the white box with the orange words Dunkin’ Donuts on it before asking if I need a receipt.

I would play along and smile back saying no thank you before sliding the box of forbidden food onto the passenger side front seat. As I am shifting my car from park to drive once again, I would add in a have a great day and a wave before leaving the crime scene. Well it wouldn’t be the true crime scene, rather the place where I buy the materials for the crime I am about to commit.

I would meander down roads and pause at traffic lights not in a rush. These thoughts while not pre-mediated take time to build up. The suspense of fleeting time drives the urges even more. The more likely I am to get caught, the faster I can shovel things into my stomach forcing any feelings to be buried among the buzzing thoughts of my brain. I would be alone, free for at least the next few hours. I would find myself heading back to familiarity of my home and my bed.

They would be outside working in the yard when I pulled into the house. As neighbors they would give a friendly wave and a hello

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Allison Brown

before returning to their daily life. For them interruptions didn’t divert their attention away from what they were supposed to be doing. They wouldn’t think anything of a girl returning home with a box of something.

To them it was just someone running an errand.

Inside, I would tread lightly up the pink stairs once I triple checked that the front door was deadbolted. Flopping on my bed and leaving the box on the floor I would change if I wasn’t already wearing comfy clothes; leggings, athletic shorts or sweatpants. I would pull up a blanket to cover my body and reach down to grab the box and iced tea.

I would be surprised to find that the iced tea was already almost empty from the car ride home. Not thinking, my feet would find themselves back down the stairs and into the kitchen to find the best option; orange juice half empty in the fridge, warm bottles of Gatorade in the pantry closet floor or cold bottles of ginger ale on the fridge door. I would desperately want the zesty taste of orange juice in my mouth burning as it travels down my esophagus, but I would not want to wash a cup. I would settle for lukewarm Gatorade knowing soon it wouldn’t taste any different than anything else I would scarf down during the period of frantic chaos.

Back in my room I would open the box and pick up the chocolate frosted donut first. The pungent sweetness would explode in my mouth as I shove one bite after another in. The first few times I would feel the squishy dough moving around as I chewed the mess into manageable pieces. Pacing myself I would drink a few sips of fruity liquid. After that doughnut was gone, I would carefully choose my next victim. I wouldn’t be ready for the powdered or glazed, instead opting for the coconut before I would no longer enjoy the mild puckering of the shredded coconut flakes on my tongue. The doughnut would crumble in my hands as I begin to hastily pick up fallen bits from the bedspread and into my awaiting mouth. By this point my brain would have been hijacked by the sneering voice of my thoughts. I would no longer be able to distinguish the difference between sweet and sour, salty and savory, warm and cold, full and hungry. Numbness would be creeping from the

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inside out slowly spreading its sticky substance like an oil spill.

I would begin to cough on the mouthfuls of dried mush not allowing myself the joy of mixing salvia with the food before it is washed down with gulps of liquid. I would ignore the pulling of my stomach and groaning of my muscles instead forcing the last few donuts in the box into this mangled mess of my body. At this point I already would have lost control of not just my body, but my heart and mind. I have allowed the lies of worthlessness and failure to suffocate any feelings of goodness.

At last I would fade into a soothing nothingness. Physical pain would remind me of what I had just done but my brain wouldn’t care. I could live with the protruding swollenness of my stomach and cramping of my muscles. I even could live with the shame that burned brighter in me after these moments as I took inventory of my stretched-out torso and piles of wrappers, Kleenex and scattered crumbs. Both pains would be temporary. The burning of my stomach would fuel the cycle; outward pain and numbness together in the most beautiful tragic way, far more temporary than my internal suffering would ever be.

But soon the pain would disappear, and I will be left with swirling fragments of thoughts. As much as I would promise myself this time was the end of the cycle, the truth would be that it wouldn’t be long before the thoughts would drive me to the point of nothingness once again.

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Contributors Notes Erin Avery is a Communication major with a minor in Business Information Systems from Higganum, CT. Janet Bannister is a Psychology major and Writing minor who lives in Coventry. For eight years, she has worked in group homes caring for individuals with intellectual and physical disabilities. She’s a mother of three girls. Her free time is all about reading, writing, and hiking.

Allison Brown is a senior double majoring in English and Environmental Studies with a French minor. Her favorite style of creative writing is either short stories or creative nonfiction. When she is not writing, you can find her in the dance studio on campus.

Victoria Congdon is a junior from Ledyard studying English with a concentration in creative writing. When she’s not working on future book ideas, she’s either cracking bad jokes on Twitter, working on her blog, The In-Between, or watching comedies on Netflix.

Ben Dionne is a freshman English major from Vernon who loves to write music as well as poetry.

Morgyn Gasperini is a senior English major from Canaan, CT. Sydney Hebert graduated in December with a B.A. in English (Creative Writing concentration). She is from Colchester. As her poem suggest, her favorite snack is frozen grapes.

Will Johnson is an English major, from Manchester who, in seventh grade, skipped detention by going to a poetry club meeting and has been writing ever since.

Christine Luckhoo is a biology major from Windsor who enjoys spending time with her new puppy, Bella.

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Contributors Notes Sarai Mapp is a freshman from Windsor exploring major/minor options.

Her many hobbies outside of writing include collecting earrings, learning about tarot reading, and “attempting� to garden.

Lauren Mondak is a recent Eastern graduate with a degree in business.

Yvonne Picard is an English major (Creative Writing concentration) and a Psychology minor. She was born and raised in Willimantic.

Kaitlyn Rasmussen is a Communication Major graduating in 2020. She has loved writing since she was little and hopes to make a career out of it in the near future.

Erin Raymond is a Theatre major with a dance and world performance concentration, as well as a minor in writing, from Pomfret CT. Kavon Ruffin, from Bridgeport, is a Computer Science major with an English minor who is interested in becoming an author.

Avery Smith is a Social Work major. She wants to work with children and adolescents who grew up in toxic homes. Her hometown is Tampa Bay, Florida. She has been singing since I was five years old and used to play the saxophone, piano, and recorder.

Eliza Wilson is a junior English major with a Women and Gender Studies minor from Griswold. In her free time, she enjoys singing, playing piano, and spending time with her friends.

Jennifer Zuniga is a junior from Atlanta who is double majoring in New Media Studies and English and minoring in Writing. She has been involved with The Campus Lantern since her freshman year. She is passionate about writing, student involvement, residential life, filmmaking, photography, taking care of children, volunteering, and listening to music.

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