The Legacy Magazine - Spring 2023. part 2

THE

LEGACY

Elizabeth City State University • STUDENT EDITION • Spring 2023

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I don’t t hi n k a bo u t a r t When I ’m wo rki n g I thi nk a b o u t l i f e.

Jea n- Mich a el B a sq u i a t 2

Letter from Editor Greetings Fellow Vikings, I am so extremely proud to present the fourth edition of The Legacy! I remember when this was just a concept and we are now releasing another edition. Much like our previous releases, this one is full of the talents of our fellow Vikings. With each release, we are firmly re-establishing our presence as versatile creatives and showcasing the talent that our campus possesses. This edition and those that follow are a testament to the beauty that lies in the words and artistry of our students and it is amazing to watch.

This issue includes pieces from a wide swath of majors. As we work to build a lasting imprint as a literary magazine, we want to reflect the strength of all Vikings. If you are remotely interested in writing or art, then we encourage you to showcase your talents on campus and to share them with us. Our goal is to display the work of artists, poets and writers who are developing strong voices and confidence in their ability. We’ve recently been inspired by seeing exactly how other universities have built and shaped their literary imprint so we’re planning to make some revisions but we’re committed to bringing you the same quality product as usual. As always, there are many hardworking artisans behind the scenes who play a part in creating visuals, formatting and formulating the final product of The Legacy and I want to thank them for all of their hard work. We have an amazing team who continually gives of themselves; which is the Viking way.

With Viking Pride, Brande N. McCleese, Editor

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Contents

Table OF

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03 07 08 10 12 14 15

Letter from the Editor Yesterday’s World by Hameed Nelson

Unworthy by 5.sinces Brown Floor by MinnieAynaj I Love You Black Woman by Devon Riddick imy by @5.sinces

Longing by Ceanna Kinney

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Those Eyes by Devon Riddick Infinty by Ceanna Kinney Lint BLocs by MinnieAynaj Twilight & Eclipse

by Ceanna Kinney Water by Ceanna Kinney The Beginnings by Ceanna Kinney

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A Songbird on a Windowsill by Jada Strome Fabric by Hameed Nelson Hohn Seminar by MinnieAynaj Not Just Today but Forever by Hameed Nelson Choice by Tracie Jordan Mauve by Amanda Williams

Some Things Can’t Be Cleaned by Makayla Childs Within the Wolf by Jada Strome Grief by Hameed Nelson The Culture by R.C Rotten by Jada Strome

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A Songbird on a Windowsill

By Jada Strome

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Short Story

Margaret Thimble was a woman of the ripe, old age of 33. This meant that she was much too young to really be respected by the snooty, matured women of her Southampton country club; however, she was much too old to get the same attention she’d received from her husband in the beginning of their marriage, which began nearly eight years prior. Harold was a businessman who worked in all the hustle and bustle of Wall Street, but Margaret didn’t know exactly what he did, and she’d never really asked.

All she knew was that it brought in the money that afforded them their comfortable lifestyle, and that was all that mattered. The one time she did ask him a question about his work, Harold had pulled his cigarette from between his lips, pressing the butt into the ashtray on the end table.

“Now,” he’d started, giving her a quizzical look. “When did you start worrying about things like that? My work’s not something for you to worry your pretty little head about.

Besides, it’s not really something a woman’d understand, anyhow.” Margaret didn’t really bother to ask him much about anything after that, even if it wasn’t related to his work.

Her days typically weren’t spent doing much of anything besides going to the country club. The town car would drop her off there first thing in the morning as soon as the nanny arrived to take care of the children, then pick her up again mid-afternoon so that she’d get home before Harold did in the evening. She didn’t know how to play golf, and she didn’t have any interest in learning. The country club was just a place where she could drink wine and smoke cigarettes all day— but of course, it was perfectly acceptable and ladylike to do it since it was in a fancy-shmancy place that probably cost Harold the same as

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the down payment on their penthouse in order for them to get their membership. Of course, that was just a guess; it wasn’t like Margaret had asked how much it cost because Harold wouldn’t have told her, anyway.

When she arrived home in the afternoons, the nanny, Mariam, was usually getting Oscar ready to head to the elementary school to pick up his two older siblings, Harry Jr., and Abigail. If 5 you asked Margaret what she thought of naming their oldest after her husband, she’d have said it was the most idiotic thing she’d ever heard of. But just as she never really asked Harold about much of anything, he didn’t bother to ask her about anything, either. Not even how she felt about their son’s name. He’d let her name Abigail because he hadn’t had a name in mind for a girl, considering he’d never wanted one. Truthfully, Margaret had just picked the first name that had come to mind. She hadn’t wanted a girl, either…or even a second child for that matter. In fact, she’d never even really wanted the first. When she got home on a particular Friday, Mariam and Oscar were already gone. She was grateful for that, considering Oscar was walking and babbling more and more often now, and it seemed like no matter where she was in the house, he’d come straight to find her so he could grab at her pearls, her hair, her breasts— even though she’d switched to bottle feeding him as soon as she was able to. It was all rather annoying, but she hoped that soon enough, he’d be quieter like the older ones were. She sat down in front of the dining room window, cracking it open before placing a cigarette in her goldwired cigarette holder, striking a match to light it. She blew the smoke out from between her red lips and peered down at the bustling city below her, but before she could fall into

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the deep, hypnotic spell watching such a thing often brought her, something else caught her eye. A fluttering in the corner of the window until it moved down, a tiny little Song Sparrow perching itself on the windowsill, staring up at her. It was a tiny, round thing with a white belly and a brown freckled back. It wasn’t pretty like a robin or a hummingbird, but even so, it’d do for some company.

“Hello,” Margaret said softly, leaning in to get a closer look at the little bird. She’d half expected it to fly away the moment she did so, but it didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by her presence. “You’re a brave little thing,” she commended, taking a puff of her cigarette, and it seemed like the bird was watching her do it. “What are you up to?

You don’t have any worms to eat, or something lol the sort?” She didn’t know why she was talking to a bird, of all things. Even talking to herself probably seemed a little less crazy at this point, but it wasn’t like people didn’t already think she had a few screws loose— what was a few more, if one of her neighbors 6 heard her chatting with a bird through their open windows? God only knew the nosy bastards heard worse whenever Harold drank too much.

The sound of the front door startled Margaret, so much so that the little bird immediately took flight, flapping its feathered wings furiously until it could glide out of sight.

Margaret sighed, plucking her cigarette from its holder to flick it out the window, slamming the window shut more harshly than she’d originally intended as the sound of little footsteps filled the room. She turned as Harry and Abigail dropped their school bags and coats on the floor, prompting Mariam to immediately pick them up to put them in their proper places as soon as she’d set Oscar down. “Good afternoon, Ms. Margaret,” Mariam greeted her, and Margaret did manage a small smile, feeling some of the

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tension leave her shoulders. Mariam was always kind to her. That tension, however, returned to her as soon as two sets of arms wrapped around her waist. Her smile turned tight and she gave a small pat to Harry’s shoulder, then Abigail’s before gently pulling herself out of the embrace.

Oscar toddled over to her, holding his arms up toward her to be held. She looked down at him in silence before she reached to give a hesitant pat to the top of his head, but he still didn’t put his arms down. Margaret walked away from him, and eventually Mariam picked him up instead.

“Did you have a good day, my loves?” Margaret asked her two older children, but she didn’t exactly wait for their reply before heading towards the kitchen. Of course, they followed at her heels, staring up at the back of her head until she stopped at the nearest counter to pretend to tidy things. “Yes, Mama,” Harry Jr. answered his mother, and Abigail rounded her mother in order to be in her field of view, holding up a slightly crumpled piece of paper with a drawing of six stick figures, a sun, some clouds, something that might be a tree— Margaret didn’t exactly try her hardest to discern what exactly it was. 7 “I drew this for you, Mama,” Abigail explained to her mother, her little voice tight with anticipation as she held the drawing up higher, expecting her mother to take it. Of course, her mother did no such thing. “It’s me, and then—, then you, then Daddy, Harry, Oscar, Mariam. I drew the grass, the clouds—“ she explained breathlessly, but Margaret cut her off before she could finish. “That’s very nice work for a kindergartner,” Margaret assured her, and as Abigail’s small arm grew tired, she slowly began to lower it. “First grade,” Abigail said softly, and Margaret looked up from the pile of magazines she’d been ‘organizing’ now for the last minute or so, directing her gaze down to the red-haired

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little girl in front of her. “Hm? Yes, well,” Margaret said, paying no mind to her mistake. “Your hair’s a mess. It should be up in a bun.” “Will you help me?” Abigail asked, and Margaret looked back down at the magazines. “Ask Mariam. Mama’s busy right now.” With that, Abigail was heading back into the living room. Harry had long since forgotten about pining for his mother’s attention, simply having returned to his nanny as soon as Abigail had started to show her mother the drawing she’d made of their family.

Margaret peered at the four of them through the entryway connecting the kitchen and the living room. She couldn’t quite hear them, but she could see Abigail showing Mariam all her drawings, pointing them out excitedly. Mariam nodded her head along with each one, Oscar cradled in her lap as his little hands reached to play with her dark curls, which she didn’t seem to mind at all. Margaret huffed a little. She didn’t understand how someone couldn’t be bothered by such a thing. She made her way to the ice box, pulling out a jar of olives they kept around for cocktails, using a toothpick to stick a few and pop them 8 into her mouth before returning the jar to its proper place. She’d wait to have a drink until it was a little closer to Harold getting home. Her heels clicked against the linoleum floor of their kitchen, the sound changing into soft thuds as she made her way onto the carpet of the living room, then down the hall where the bedrooms were. “Mariam,” she called over her shoulder. “Don’t forget you’re staying with the kids tonight.” “Yes, Ms. Margaret,” she called back as Margaret made her way into her bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She took down her hair and opened up her cedar wardrobe, pulling out a gown for the banquet they were attending that evening. She undressed herself and changed into fresh undergarments and stockings

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before slipping on the wine red dress. The hem was flared outward and the waist cinched inward to accentuate her shape, the bust holding a V-shape over her chest with straps that crisscrossed in the back. She pinned up her hair and reapplied her lipstick, trading out her pearls for diamonds and her black heels for red pumps before she finally took the chance to look at herself in the mirror. To any outsider, she’d likely have been considered a pretty sight— even she knew that, but she couldn’t get over the one aspect of her outfit she hated. Well— it wasn’t part of the outfit, per say, but part of her body. With the V-neck cut of her dress, the top of her bosom was exposed. There were slight wrinkles in the skin since they were being pushed up and together by a tight brassiere, and just looking at them made her feel ill. These were breasts that had gone through three pregnancies, nursed three babies into health. The memories of sniveling, crying infants sucking at her engorged and misshapen breasts that were swollen with milk she’d never wanted to come in made her clench her fists, french-tipped nails digging so harshly into her palms she could swear she was close to drawing blood, tears welling up in her eyes. “Mama?” There was a knock at the door, and Margaret could swear she’d seen red other than her dress in the mirror in those moments. She stomped over to the door, wrenching it open so roughly the door handle slammed into the drywall, leaving a crumbling hole once the 9 door swung back into Margaret from the force. She caught it with her hand, her chest heaving as she stared down at the child in front of her.

“What?” She asked Harry in a broken voice, but before he could answer, she just kept going. “What is it? What do you want from me!?” She shouted at him. The boy cowered in

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fear, his face crumpling before he turned on his heel and ran down the hall, crying out for Mariam. Of course— of course he was crying out for Mariam.

Mari Margaret slammed the door shut, pushing pieces of stray hair away from her reddened face. She returned to the mirror to look at herself, and somehow, she hated what she saw even more than she had before. She hated how wild her eyes looked, how her red hair had begun to frizz, how her mascara began to run when tears slipped down her rosy cheeks.

She reached for her hairbrush and wound her slender arm back as far as she could, throwing it with all her might at her reflection in the mirror. It shattered with a loud crash, shards of reflective glass joining the solid brass hairbrush on the floor, but she could still see herself.

It wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough.

Margaret crumpled down into a heap on the floor, letting out an agonized, ear-piercing wail. She tore her pumps off her feet and tossed them at the wall hard enough to dent the drywall, pulling her knees up to her chest and hugging them close to her as she cried. She could hear rushing footsteps and the opening and closing of a door— it was likely Mariam getting the children out of the apartment.

Margaret was alone. Completely, utterly alone.

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Jamie Parker

Fabric

By Hameed Nelson Fabric stretched stripped tapered fabric ripped fabric stained jeans have tears lightning blue strands of fabric the sweater I wear hangs loose around my bones a dirty baseball cap the brim slightly bent to a side my grandfather’s Jean jacket sling across the back of my desk chair winter gloves lost in places hands can’t go the fabric of my life explodes with resilience it is cheap and wounded rare and irreplaceable like pure memories

Poetry

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Mariah Thompson

Hohn Seminar

By MinnieAynaj human rights is a debate I’m surrounded by people who are few shades from white We are different beyond this layer of outer skin But I am the only black sinner as we debate about basic human rights I’m am trying to help them understand my light For I always knew the darkness I seen all my life I seen others give in to the darkness for I knew I had to speak out My brothers and sisters are my world So I assume they let the black girl say her words For they asked, decoded with disgust Because for some reason I was their library Although they had the world In their hands I gave my all they spoke and I listened with my heart As I let them park into my heart and brain I saw this boy may be no mind I was speaking about my past brothers and sisters Who were taking from this world because

Poetry

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They were breed different I look this boy in his eyes Because I see through him As if I was his reflection I spoke with anger and passion I gave him the satisfaction of seeing a angry black woman I screech as my throat attacks my words This boy has the audacity to smile As I describe my people in agony my chest swelled My eyes red as a monthly surprise My anxiety is taking over Was this angrier?

Was this madness?

For years I seen my people be slaughtered By the hunters Something in me I never felt before I was your Expected black woman, Calm with decades of fear April 1 was the reason I almost committed Treason When I had mention Marsha P.Johnson He smiled as if I was doing Comedy show And my people were the walking punchline I cry for the first time

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Poetry

For you see this isn’t about me I am a black fat queer woman I will face more For the world isn’t done with me I just couldn’t handle this boy smiling at me As I described her life I thought about the hundreds of black lives who died It was as if they were all inside me Fear and sadness flowed over I cried and cried Now I understood what I felt inside For this was the start of the revolution

Poetry

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Trila Diallo-Carson

Not Just Today But Forever

By Hameed Nelson

These won’t be the first tears I’m a jealous man asking impossible questions when I can’t even be honest.

I know you mean more than you say there’s few words that’ll take on new meaning after you maybe we’ll get there where our favorite flowers grow where that deep yellow floods my eyelids that humble sun rising sitting just beyond the edge of reality waves singing infinity for now I hold you like a finale goodbye voiceless yet hearing every word at once feeling every touch just before the last embrace tight tight tighter.

Poetry

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Madison Vanover

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Choice

By Tracie Jordan Life is choice driven Some of the paths we choose are good Some … connected with circumstances Created as “free moral agents” by God, Himself Letting us know that “whatever” we choose - Is up to us And sometimes “Life” chooses for us We don’t have to ask It just happens No matter the cause We must realize that “every” decision we make “IMPACTS” someone, in someway Although, we may sometimes be We should not be selfish Realizing that our outcome can sometimes effect Someone else Success or failure It is all up to you Do you want to win, or would you rather lose?

In this race called “life” You’ve just got to PUSH Do not let down – Run towards your crown A “reward” worth striving for You will be blessed with increasingly more Good things Because you did not quit As you continue to pursue Good life, Bad life Circumstance or Reward At the end of the day, the ‘Choice” is yours You choose.

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Poetry

Isabella Rodriguez 55

56 Kristyana White

Maeve

By Amanda Williams Brian walked into the ice rink on a cold winter morning. He had to get there earlier today because he was meeting one of his new students. As he walked into the lobby he spotted his co-coach, Tracy.

“Good morning, Tracy,” Brian said with a smile. Tracy looked up from her laptop and returned his smile, “Good morning, Brian.” as he walked up to the desk, he saw her watching competition footage of their new student.

“I can't believe I wasn't here when you interviewed her Brian. I wish I could’ve met the junior skating prodigy,” Tracy said with a sigh.

“Sorry it all happened so fast, her coach called me to interview her a few hours before he announced his retirement,” he said.

“It's amazing that her coach already knew who he wanted to help her going forward,” Tracy said. Brian agreed as he thought about how grateful he was to be the first coach called to talk about taking her on as a student. The junior grand prix final gold medalist, two years running was a force to be reckoned with and everyone knew it too.

The two coaches turned as the door opened and saw a young girl and her mother walk in.

Brian and Tracy recognized her immediately, Maeve Smith. Their new student walked up to Tracy and held out her hand. “My name is Maeve and I’m excited to work with you, I'm sorry we couldn't meet at my interview,” the fifteen-year-old said with a smile. Tracy smiled back as she thought about how the child was as polite as shown in interviews. As Tracy and the girl talked, Kelly Smith walked up to Brian to introduce herself.

Short Story

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“It's nice to finally meet you,” Kelly said with a smile. The same to you Brian replied. “You said there were a couple of forms I have to sign?” Kelly asks.

“Yes, Tracy has the forms. Tracy, will you take care of the paperwork please?” Tracy nodded and the two women walked to her office.

Brian and the young skater were left alone, Brian held his hand out to the young skater.

“I'm excited to work with you. You were one of the highest scoring junior skaters I've ever seen, the other senior skaters should be worried,” Brian said as she shook his hand.

“I know. It’s going to be so much fun,” she said with a grin on her face and look in her eye that he has seen from many of his other skaters, mischief. Brian looked at her for a moment then said, “Something tells me you are going to be trouble,” she grinned then replied, “You have good instincts.”

Her mother returned a few moments later and the two left as Maeve would not be training with them for another week. As Brian waved goodbye to the mother and daughter, he noticed an email on his phone, it was from her former coach. The five words he read confirmed his suspicions. Good luck, she’s a handful, Brian nodded as he walked to his office.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

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Makyla McIntyre

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The Legacy Faculty Advisors Ms. Brande McCleese, Editor Mr. Clarence Goss, Program Director Dr. Sharon Raynor, Dean of SHSS Legacy Creatives: Jhatiana McMurrin, Art Director Jamie Parker, Graphic Designer 1704 MEDIA PRODUCTIONS 1704 Weeksville Road Elizabeth City, NC 27909 252.335.2342 | 1704media@ecsu.edu

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ECSU is a constituent Institution of the University of North Carolina System.

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