Ampersand Fall 2020 Magazine

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the Ampersand fordham university’s student literary magazine Fall 2020

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President Emma Paolini

vice President Mason Rowlee

editor-in-chief Shannon Zipfel

secretAry Vicky Kalpaxis

cover Art Erin Archbold

treAsurer Erin Archbold

cover design Shannon Zipfel

sociAl MediA editor Mikey Duffy

ModerAtor And Advisor Margaret Noonan

co-Advisors Mark Lerner

Table of Contents Editor’s Note..................................................................................................4 Erin Archbold.................................................................................................6 Outright I know I’ve been bitter lately. I could be better lately.

Undoing/Becoming.

Holier.

Bombshell.

Daniela Akoh................................................................................................11 Ocean Ode to Fantasy Julia Bavaro..................................................................................................13 Hello and Goodbye A Sticky Note Amanda Caputo............................................................................................16 Finally Letting Go Seasonal Depression Autumn Leaves Julia Cianflone....................................................................................................19 Untitled

Mikey Duffey...............................................................................................20 Untitled Untitled Untitled Liam Gibbons...............................................................................................23 Scars The Choice Not Made Ellana Gruvman............................................................................................26 new orleans night Megan Kurz..................................................................................................27 Lulte the Summer Maiden Eternal Flame Her Alexandra Lewis..........................................................................................30 I Can’t Write Anymore I Don’t Sophie Ortega...............................................................................................32 Sophia Smells that Save Emma Paolini...............................................................................................34 For Dad Sunday 2

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Recipe for Fall Out of Tune Lucy Peterson.................................................................................................40 A Change of Heart Dream, if you dare Mason Rowlee.............................................................................................42 When it Snows in Syracuse Body of Work A Gemini Decision ma·son /ˈmās(ə)n/ Shannon Zipfel.............................................................................................47 Nuisance Untitled Blind Absence Gracey Zostant.............................................................................................51 I’m like butter on the kitchen counter Untitled Bios...............................................................................................................54

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Editor’s Note Hello again friends and welcome back to another magazine created during a crazy semester! This fall has required many adjustments to our expectations for the school year, and as a senior this has been an especially difficult process. But I have come to find that the best way to deal with these adjustments at school and in life in general is to find loopholes. Find ways that I, and we, can still enjoy some of the things we usually look forward to at school in a safe and inclusive way. There’s usually a way to continue doing what we love at Fordham even if its not the same as it has been in past years. In the case of the Ampersand, this has meant weekly Zoom meetings and a fully virtual magazine, and who knows what other adapted events we will have in the future. All I know is that we need to find way to connect to our school community wherever and however we can, and I hope this virtual magazine is one of those connections for you.

Before you get into this magazine, I’d like to take a moment to thank a few people. I want to thank our friends at the paper for their support in making this magazine physically possible. A big thank you to the people at the Fordham University Press, especially Margaret Noonan and Mark Lerner, who help make this magazine appear into your hands today. As well, I would also like to thank my fellow eboard members for always having my back throughout this process. I am always amazed by your talent and I am so appreciative of the chance to work with you all!

Now that the thank you’s are over, please read on to see what these talented students have to offer!

Enjoy, Shannon Zipfel

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Outright. by Erin Archbold “I wish I knew how to quit you,” you said.

You were Jack with a Twist and a splash of sugar-free Coke, the kind that smooths over cavities and lays syrup on your tongue.

You said it the same way you’d say, “Your place or mine?” like you were resigned to a doomed, darkened fate (of your own design, might I add).

I wish you’d kiss me softly instead: I think that would kill all my desires stone-dead.

The chase keeps it breathing-- unsteady, panting breaths, as they are.

But love me outright and I swear, I will forget you all at once.

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I know I’ve been bitter lately. I could be better lately. by Erin Archbold I don’t think I belong to myself, and I am certain I don’t belong to you-I wish I did.

I wish I was better at this.

I wish you were something I could admit.

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Undoing/Becoming. By Erin Archbold If he ever loved me back, it would be my complete undoing and my entire becoming.

I think I’d burst like a star upon the impact of those words and live on only in the flames and ash left behind.

I think it’d be a violent and wondrous explosion.

I think, in its wake, planets and galaxies would sprout like weeds.

I think I’d never sleep again-I think there’d be no need.

I think I’d never be cold again-I think I’d swallow its heat.

I think I’d believe in God again-I think that’d be my mother’s greatest joy of all.

I think I’d have to tie boulders to my feet, anchors to my wrists, in order to keep me bound to the wholly unholy ground.

I think I’d wear it--his love-- in my eyes, and passersby would smile and nod and stare, knowing, knowing all the while like it was some long-kept secret the universe was just waiting impatiently to share.

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Holier. By Erin Archbold You said, “Pick your poison,” and I chose a loaded gun.

My mistake to think that we were just having fun.

Bleach for the bloodstains.

Liquor for the dull pain.

And religion to make the guilt go down smooth the next time-I pray the confessional walls are good at listening, for your sake.

They don’t tend to talk back, I figured you’d like that.

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Bombshell. by Erin Archbold I could be Bette Davis on the silver screen.

I could be Jean Harlow-equal parts light rum and sweet vermouth-all platinum hair and overlined blue eyes; you know, she was the original Ms. Monroe before anyone called her so, back when Norma Jeane was still a redhead and a ward of the great state of California.

I could pout my lips just like them.

I could dangle a half-lit cigarette between manicured fingers.

I could put on every air of indifference, nod my head but never really listen.

Lovely, luscious, exotic, I could be devastating if that’s what you wanted-That’s what a bombshell is, isn’t it?

Something just as mesmerizing as it is destructive.

I could be anything you’d like, if that was what you needed.

I can cut and curve my edges until I fit neatly in your jagged corners.

I could pull the corset strings tighter ‘til I feel my breastbone snap in half ‘til I feel my chest constrict from self-inflicted suffocation: What a gentle way to go, with a breathless whimper instead of a bang.

I could be all that if you asked me.

But I still wouldn’t be what you need.

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Ocean by Daniela Akoh The waves and tides so cruelly undulate, With roaring winds conducting every swell Of blue and grey, of indigo and slate.

The ocean an abyss for beau and belle.

The current flows from watershed to mouth Then builds and grows, crescendo in its waves.

And spreads beyond the east, north, west, and south.

Formidable in how it misbehaves.

Beau and his belle despair at such a void, So all-encompassing, so wild, and yet, The gulf itself must be torn and destroyed, ‘Ere love can die. No maw could pose a threat.

The waves and tides will cruelly undulate.

But love is strong and patient. Love will wait.

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Ode to Fantasy by Daniela Akoh Rolling hills and hidden gales, Silken wings and vibrant scales, Castles high and valleys low, Fairy dust and alpenglow.

Wizards cast with wand and hand, Witchcraft seeping through the land.

Dragons guard their hoards of gold, Dedication cent’ries old.

Kings and queens and princess, prince, Ruling now, and have ruled since Time forgotten, days of yore, Governing from sea to shore.

Mother Earth is wondrous, yes, But she cracks with mankind’s stress.

Big and blue, she teems with life.

With anger, too, with hate and strife.

Wars wage in reality, Peace lies true in fantasy.

Normal life is rife with grief, Beauty lies in make-belief.

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Hello and Goodbye by Julia Bavaro This monologue occurs a few years after the play The Glass Menagerie ends.

Tom Wingfield finds his Father, who left him as well as his mom and his sister years prior.

Tom sought escape from his miserable home life, and eventually left to join the Union of Merchant Seamen. He is speaking to his Father who he hasn’t seen in many years.

TOM: I always knew I’d be like you, that I’d follow in your footsteps. For years when I was younger, I spent nights awake wondering what made you leave us. I’d sit on my bed and stare out the window at the moon wondering if I was the one who provoked you.

As I grew older, I realized that Mother was the one who caused you to fall in love with long distances. Her nagging and manipulation must have been utterly unbearable for you... because it was for me too. Every time I heard her wake-up call in the morning or I stepped foot in our house after work, I would hear this voice telling me to get out and run away while I could. I often did. The movies became an escape for me, but it wasn’t quite fulfilling. I just felt like under that roof of ours I didn’t have much of a life. (hopelessly) It was always work: pay the bills, take care of Laura, obey Mother’s orders.

The one you hurt the most by leaving us was Laura, you know. She’s crippled and peculiar.

Mother always told me those words were hurtful, but they’re the cold truth.

She hobbles around, although she rarely gets out of the house due to her terrible social anxiety. She was in desperate need of a Father-like figure in her life, (strongly) so I rose to the occasion. (to himself) Looking back though, I realize how cruel I was to her... like when I knocked over her glass menagerie... I showed no sympathy for her. Sweet, innocent Laura. But now, I take care of her as much as I can. I couldn’t leave her behind with Mother all the time.

Yes Father, I left them for a while. (glimmer of hope) I longed for an ounce of adventure or just about anything other than the monotonous life I was living at home. Instead of paying the light bill one month, I paid my dues to the Union of Merchant Seamen. And the next month, I left Fall 2020

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planning never to look back, but as I said before, I couldn’t really do that.

Laura needed me... because you weren’t there.

Sixteen years. Sixteen miserable years without you living at home. Sixteen years of looking at that picture of you hanging over the mantle with that dumb smirk on your face. Now that I’m looking at you in person, I’m not sure I could say I love you Father. (uncomfortable) I don’t even know you anymore. I dreamed about the day I would meet you again so we could bond over Mother’s insanity and I could fill you in on what’s happened in my life, but I’m not sure I want to do that now. So, I guess this is hello and goodbye. Goodbye, Father.

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A Sticky Note by Julia Bavaro There I stood, slightly removed from the rest.

I stared at the bronze box in front of me Barely processing the moment.

My tears scorched the sides of my face; My cheeks burned like a dimly lit fire on a crisp fall evening.

My eyes still laser-focused on the box.

Sunglasses down, mask on, No one could climb the mountain of emotions that was occurring underneath.

I could not concentrate on what the priest was saying, Or on the words that were inaudibly coming out of my Grandmother’s mouth.

All I could comprehend was the sticky note on the coffin that read: BAVARO. A sticky note.

Similar to the one that disappeared from my computer screen the week prior.

Similar to the one that had blown off of a family heirloom, causing us to throw it out by mistake.

Similar to the one that danced around on my paper whenever there was a subtle gust of wind.

Always hanging by a thread, Eventually letting go.

A sticky note.

How could I know for sure that it was him in the box?

I couldn’t.

The mystery of the unknown is what burns the most.

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Finally Letting Go by Amanda Caputo “I love you to the moon and back,” is the song you’d sing to me.

I’d turn to you in a whisper and say, “and with you I am finally free.”

You confessed to me on a bus seat, as the wind swept the leaves outside.

And when I told you that I wasn’t ready, you nodded with a smile, a gloss in your eye.

We carried on at the hip, penciled notes, November 15th.

Painted windows after hours, Adoring the artist at work beneath.

Bloody blisters and graffiti, catching the crystals in our eyes.

Sunflower petals and polaroids, as we danced under summer skies.

But just about a year ago, you texted me your goodbye.

That it was nothing I had done, how you hoped I wouldn’t cry.

You needed time to heal, and with that I let you go.

After all this time you cross my mind, perhaps you’ll never know If things were different: I’m ready now, but I understand I am too late.

So I let you go this one last time, and trust what happened as a work of fate.

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Seasonal Depression by Amanda Caputo A fatal moment when the mind travels to a place, where it is dark and empty, a vulnerable space.

In an ongoing twilight, the valleys shaded and dimmed, where the trees do not rustle, and daybreak is forbidden.

Yet in this stilled emptiness - a being does reside, with masked persuasion and deceit to attack from all sides.

But in an echoing forest, you presume you’ve made a friend, until it binds you by the seams into a puppet you cannot mend.

It tugs you to the lake, dragging you by your strings, bruising and scarring your limbs without any warnings.

Now forced to your feet, ink pooling at your knees, you’re pushed into the thickness where you struggle to breathe.

You’re stained and weakened, as you claw back up to shore, in search for the one you loved - the person you were before.

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Autumn Leaves by Amanda Caputo I was sitting in a glass house until you shattered it on a fall morning.

I felt nature’s breath for the first time and it pushed me into the light A light that fell on your eyes in just the right way to put me at the will of your hand.

With that very hand you lured me from the blanket of glistening crystals that were once whole.

Since then, we traveled beyond that fall morning.

We traveled to a place where I heard your voice and it deconstructed every other sound.

We traveled to a place where time was alive and everyone’s attention had a heartbeat.

We traveled to a place that allowed the thought of us to go beyond our destination.

We’ll travel to a place where our hands intertwine without shame and love burns brighter than a flame.

We’ll travel to a place where I’m warm from coffee rings and I hum along to the songs you sing.

We’ll travel to a place where the ocean drowns the sun and I finally grow still ‘cause my search is done.

And I’d never journey back from this place we’ll travel, The stinging diamonds scarring my feet still not enough to bring me back.

The truth is, I keep them there not for the pain it causes, But to always remember our fall morning.

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Untitled by Julia Cianflone Some people love to brag how they’ve never feared death. This is usually followed by a detailed scene of someone charging into some sort of dystopian battle. I cannot say the same. I’ve feared death for as long as I remember. I recall waking up in a cold sweat screaming. My parents would rush in extremely concerned. We’d sit and talk about it until once again I’d be able to drift to sleep. Death never wasn’t there, clinging to the farthest most secluded part of my brain, waiting to emerge. It hits every once in a while… death. Where do we go, why? Perhaps the problem is the unknown after that really gets me… I think it’s the emptiness left. Can I realy make an impact?

Is that what I want. The time is ticking. It never isn’t. I just want to be happy.

Want to live up to my own expectations throughout life. Don’t want to be robbed. Don’t want to die.

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Untitled by Mikey Duffy There’s not a day where it doesn’t cross my mind.

If I ever feel relaxed it reminds me of its existence, like a never-ending alarm that I keep snoozing.

It occupies every inch of my body, Filling up every crevice and every corner.

I feel overwhelmed with emotions, like I’m a bubble ready to burst.

I need to get it off my chest before it drags me down.

I need to let it out before it tears me open.

I need to go out and tell them, so I can be happy.

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Untitled by Mikey Duffy She looks beautiful The sun wraps around her hair If only she knew All he did was stare Lit cigarette in his mouth Looking on in awe Together they sat His arm around her shoulder Them against the world

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Untitled by Mikey Duffy I barely even know you, but I think I like you We’ve said hello in passing A simple grin feels like a full embrace We’ve had a few conversations A three-minute conversation feels like an hour I barely even know you, but I think I Like You

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Scars by Liam Gibbons I spent weeks not biting my fingernails To prove that I was in control of something.

But then I was in the shower. It was the early Part of the morning when the sky was orange-pink with sunrise And the bedroom was colored in stripes by the half-drawn shades.

I was hungry, still sleepy, and needed to be clean.

I hadn’t felt clean for weeks.

My eyes were closed so the shampoo Could fall over my face and down my body into the drain.

The air was wet and warm. The water was scalding, So my pink skin was red. I hadn’t done something That I needed to, though I don’t remember what.

The trigger didn’t matter, even then.

My breath quickened, and my heart felt like a hummingbird in my chest, Trying to peck its way out into the freedom of the air.

I felt my arms wrapped around myself as my mind whirled Faster and deeper into panic. My toes scrunched up and pressed deep Into the plastic of the shower floor, pushing down hard.

My back cracked once and then again, and my neck copied it after So it wouldn’t be left out. The world was spinning and lurching Like a top about to fall off a canoe into the rapids, never to be seen again.

I gasped for air but none came, and my forehead Pressed slowly into the wall in front of me, as if I could grind away The skin and bone until the wall would smash up the brain inside And all the pain it had caused.

And then I felt it across my chest: A searing kind of pain, different from the rest, But calming in a way, relaxing like the scalding of the water.

Without knowing or meaning to, I had dug my nails Into my clavicles with both hands, and then scraped them down Along my chest past the pectoral muscles and the sternum All the way down to the top of my ribs.

I couldn’t feel the water anymore, or the beating in my chest.

My shoulders relaxed and the tension in my joints melted away As the seconds passed. My mind was blank, And my body was numb everywhere except for the pain.

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I found myself in front of the mirror, With the shower off and the steam long gone.

I was dry, but my towel still hung untouched on its hook.

When my eyes finally opened, and I felt control of my limbs And my breath return, I saw the results of this morning Cleaning I had so desperately needed.

I’d seen scratch marks like this before.

But they had been on my back, and I hadn’t done them to myself, They had been marks of pleasure.

The remnants were red at first, but by that night They looked like an old tattoo. They faded almost fully Over the next few days, until eventually they were hidden Completely by the folds of my skin and the muscles beneath them.

But if you run your fingers along my chest, And if I guide you to where they hide, you can still feel them: The stories of my panic written in the braille of my body, The scars of being clean.

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The Choice Not Made by Liam Gibbons after James Elroy Flecker ‘Neath sinks and toilets filled to bursting, ‘Neath lights not lit, in night’s dim shade, With dreams of morning not returning, Hides in shame the choice not made.

O’ fool, in need help from far, Called strangers near to stop the turning Of what I fear and how things are, Burdened still by creeping yearning.

Mine hands on misery to mind, Not choosing to his life unwind.

While thoughts and dreams alike are blurred, By forces from within and out, Not knowing what my fear’s about, Love finds that choice has been deterred.

Though journey patters on and on, The guilt is never truly gone.

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new orleans night by Ellana Gruvman heady magic drifts by on a humid breeze’s breath pivoting over broken cobblestones once sun-ripened now worn.

Oh, to weave and to wish through wrought iron gates, over alcoves and alleyshurtling hushed upon saxophone keening brash with the battering trumpet, this genuflection of percussion sends her skittering lilting upon the rim of a glass melting with sugar down to bitters under the silent heat of a veiled moon

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“Lulte the Summer Maiden� by Megan Kurz I lay there, Watching the way that the sunlight hit the embalmed wood, cut and carved by hand and dressed up with fashions of dark metal, Polished and sealed for eternity with warm varnish to bring out the beauty within.

The light bounces off the pigment particles Creating a warm brown, like the gentle heat of the late spring day Each breeze as soft on the face as the waning afternoon light Before it goes to rest and the cooler zephyrs begin to flow in Through the open window, Carrying the delicate fragrance from the neck of the maiden of summer Who plays outside and beckons us to join her in the field of late spring blooms and their blushes, illuminated by the flirtatious sunlight As the birds sing their songs in a quest for love On bows of verdant trees As the sunlight kisses the maiden goodnight, embracing her in its golden light And crowning her Before it disappears, laying down to rest behind the earth Humming with life.

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“Eternal Flame” by Megan Kurz As those flames were extinguished, Only more erupted In our hearts and minds, The collective flame That you can hear in our chants and our silence, Our feet moving as one, In our calls for change So that the flame can only grow brighter; The eternal flame for humanity So that we don’t forget.

Never forget to say their names.

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The Lys Erin Archbold

Untitled Erin Archbold

The Sign Megan Kurz

Aquinnah Alexandra Lewis

La CittĂ Eterna Alexandra Lewis

Quincy Quarries Alexandra Lewis

Roma Alexandra Lewis

The Road Behind Mason Rowlee

“Her� by Megan Kurz Her; The softness in the word As one breathes it out of their chest, Tinged with the blood pounding through their swelling heart, Their eyes dilating at the thought of Her, The woman Whose beauty has marked their eyelids, So that all they can see when they close their eyes Are wonderful dreams.

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I Can’t Write Anymore by Alexandra Lewis Majoring in English I can’t write anymore Essays and close readings, hundreds and hundreds of pages of binging books that I don’t like.

I can’t write anymore.

My words are exhausted before they’ve even left my mouth.

It’s a chore to sit and think.

To compose myself to the point of creation.

I love my major but I hate being asked to ruin reading for myself.

My eyes ache at the sight of a page of writing — is there a due date? is there a page count, a word count? how harshly will you evaluate my words now?

When I have stayed up all night for you.

You have ruined reading for me, and now I can feel my writing beginning to harden inside of me, like amber locked within a tree.

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I Don’t by Alexandra Lewis Do you think you’ll know?

That morning, when the breeze caresses your face and the sun warms your lips.

Do you think you’ll know, right then, that you’re having the happiest day of your life.

Or do you think you’ll dwell on the clouds?

The wearing soles of your boots?

Your coffee sitting cold in your mug?

I don’t think I’d know.

I think I’d overlook the chiming of the leaves on the trees and the smiles of strangers passing by.

A normal, simple day.

Nothing special, nothing new.

Yet simplicity is the home of comfort.

And comfort, for some, is the hearth of happiness.

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Smells that Save by Sophie Sophia Ortega 1. My favorite scent is both a color and a smell: Lavender. The color reminds me of the last few moments of a California sunset, purple hues shimmering on the ocean waves as the sun spends its final seconds above the horizon. The herbal smell instantly soothes my anxieties, reminding me of my mother. When I am sick, she places a damp washcloth gently soaked with lavender oil to calm me. As I packed for college 3,000 miles away from home, she handmade a beautiful display of lavender flowers for me to hang on my wall, an ode to the special scent. I carefully pinned it up in my freshman, sophomore, and now junior year dorm room. It hung on my wall as I struggled to make friends, as my smoke alarm went off, as I locked myself out on the first night of college. In times like those, I would glance at the lavender flowers and ache for my mother. Those flowers now hang on my wall as I adapt to the current chaos of 2020, a storm no amount of lavender could calm.

2. My other favorite scent is both a taste and a smell: Vanilla. The taste of vanilla reminds me of sweet desserts and warm memories with my family.

The smell makes me smile as it satisfies my sweet tooth with every inhale and reminds me of my twin brother. In many ways, Daniel and I are far from twins. He solves math problems and codes computers while I dance in studios and read novels. Daniel walks into any room and makes a friend while I’d rather blend into the background. But what we do share is an intense, undeniable love of vanilla flavored sweets. Whenever our mother finished baking a cake, we would race to the batter and lick every last drop of vanilla icing. We shared many desserts growing up, something I despised but later learned to cherish. Daniel was by my side on our seventh birthday as we took a bite of our vanilla cake, posing for a photo with frosting on our faces. He sat on the curb of Main Street with me as we enjoyed a vanilla soft serve at Disneyland. While lavender is a soft whisper, vanilla is a deep laugh.

3. My last scent is both a sound and a smell: the ocean. My safe place, my constant in a world of rapid change. With each crashing wave I feel an overwhelming peace, a melodic sound that grounds me in the moment. As soon as I smell the salt water, I know the slightly fishy scent as a sign of home. I get my appreciation for the ocean from my father, a man who could spend all day on the beach if he could. On sunny days, he plants his chair in the sand and admires the waves as they crash and recede, crash and recede. His family, or Ohana, explained to him how the water is the pulse of the island, 32

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steady but alive with energy. He taught me how to search for sea glass, little gifts from the waves left washed up on the shore. But as a child, the waves were my enemy. The dark, murky water left my imagination creating monsters under the waves. Hearing the waves’ loud crash left me confident my body would be crushed under the weight. Feeling the icy cold water lap at my toes felt like an invitation to my unexpected doom. Soon, my patient father explained how the water was home to the stingrays I loved at the aquarium. How the waves were controlled by the moon and were simply a motion, like waving to a friend or the wave in my hair. I grew to appreciate the refreshing water, a coldness that snaps my mind back into reality. Luckily, the ocean doesn’t hold grudges. We quickly became best friends despite our rocky past, my father chuckling as he watched us play. But every now and then, I remember the overwhelming vastness of the water, nerves sweeping over my body. I freeze and imagine those giant, towering waves. Maybe next time, I’ll look past the wave and admire the lavender sky, remembering purple flowers and kind whispers. I’ll think of sweet sundaes and laughs shared with my brother. I’ll recall sandy days with my father and realize my Ohana is a steady song within me. A long inhale, a brief exhale, and without even knowing it, the wave will have passed.

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For Dad by Emma Paolini My dad’s favorite songs are long They build up slowly Draw you in with a taste of a melody, a lonely riff The long, slow whine of a hint of a base line And the drums press patiently on They take their time before they tell you their name Like they don’t quite trust you, or maybe it’s a game Or, no, more like a riddle Pull apart the lines, hold them up to the light And maybe, just maybe, they’ll tell you what they mean if you wait patiently My dad’s favorite songs are long And they invite you to sit with them for a while You don’t have to say anything And sometimes they don’t either Because it’s not about the words, it’s how they make you feel And sometimes words fail But what’s true and what’s real doesn’t have to be said We crank up the Dead And take meandering drives through our own past lives The smokers and spinners, rock and roll and the blues All the things I never knew My dad’s favorite songs are long And we listen together There’s something about long summer nights out on the back deck Hearing each other And the keyboard plinks on And Bob Dlyan croons and Pink Floyd gears up for a ten-minute song This one’s for you, Dad I love all your stories And even if I’m a little more top 40 When you show me your music You show me yourself Beyond dad jokes and t-shirts, which is all good and tell But I like taking time to get to know you And who you were at my age And as the beat peters out and the guitar starts to fade I’ll play it again Or play something new 34

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Thanks for the music, Dad Thanks for sharing you

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Sunday by Emma Paolini The smell of love is the smell of coffee before you wake up Slow and smooth Sliding cross the kitchen floor Under your door It says “hey you” It says “breakfast has begun And sorry but we didn’t want to wake you up We let you sleep in” And this is what Sundays are made of Where I’m from Rain on the windowsill and long lazy mornings that stretch into afternoons Coffee cups littered across the counter We’ll get to them soon And the world’s crashing down around outside I feel like I’m falling But before I hit the ground I’ve found There will always be rain and Sunday and a mug to wrap your hands around No matter how cold the wind blows Just listen There’s a voice that says “hey.

You don’t have to carry this alone I know that it’s heavy, I’ve got a lot of stuff of my own but let’s share.”

And sometimes there will be august evenings And peach cobbler and maybe someday ice cream And you feel really lucky when you find the people who make you feel weightless But even if you don’t there will always be coffee Fresh and hot and strong You smell it before you wake up You knew it was there all along Good morning Come and join the waking world

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Recipe for Fall by Emma Paolini Light a match for half a second And set the sky aflame Red, orange, pink, gold There will be rain And it will plaster bright yellow leaves to the sidewalk like stars Let them fall Turn the temperature down, down all the way Whisper winds through wilted flowers Crunch frosty grass under your feet In the morning, the sun slowly bobbing somewhere just above the horizon Don’t look up Don’t look down, either The best things are in between The best part is the waiting Somewhere on campus, a scarf is fluttering in the wind Birds are flying south And now the sun is already going down Somewhere around the world it is spring But this is

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Out of Tune by Emma Paolini I don’t remember when or how I got my ukulele. Maybe I just ordered it online on a whim, or maybe I dragged my parents into the music store during the fall festival our town has every year. Maybe it was on sale.

Maybe it was a gift. Nobody else remembers, so I guess I’ll never really know.

But I do remember what I did right after I opened the box and held out that shiny new instrument in front of me. Like any thirteen-year-old, I was determined to cover any surface I could call mine with evidence that I existed. So I uncapped a shiny pink paint pen and started writing.

I covered the ukulele in doodles and hearts and squiggly lines, quotes from movies I liked (I was very much into the Notebook at the time) and lyrics from Taylor Swift songs. When the pink pen ran out, I switched to a black Sharpie and added a few lyrics from Les Miserables, my favorite musical at the time. Whenever I noticed a blank patch, I racked my brain for the perfect words or just stuck another spiral doodle in to take up the space.

I didn’t have a diary back then, but this came pretty close to capturing where my head was at the time.

The ukulele is a very forgiving instrument. That’s probably why I wanted one. After eight years of having to admit to my piano teachers, week after week, that I had forgotten to practice, I guess I wanted someone to go easy on me. With only four strings and a short neck for them to stretch across, my ukulele was accommodating and validating. We became easy and fast friends, and I soon felt comfortable holding the instrument, expertly manipulating the frets, as though we had known each other forever. I hugged the body of the ukulele close and it hugged me back.

The first song I learned was a sweet and charming four-chord melody about love called In Your Arms remarkable mainly for its music video going briefly viral because of impressive animated jelly bean backdrops. “Anything we have known/anything we’ve forgotten,” I would croon enthusiastically, if a little off-pitch. “In your arms I’ll stay.” And the ukulele sang back.

I don’t remember when or how we fell apart, my ukulele and me.

Maybe it was when the weather changed, the strings expanding and contracting in ways that warped the sound. I tried to tune my ukulele the way I wanted it, but it never sounded the same. Or maybe I just fell out of practice, the way I did with other instruments I’d tried before.

But I didn’t give up. I made a point to bring my ukulele with me to summer camp the July before ninth grade. It hid in my bag the whole time.

Years later, I brought it with me to my freshman year of college, but my 38

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junior-high scribblings embarrassed me, like tattoos you swore you’d never change your mind about. But then you did.

My roommate played the guitar freshman year. They had a serious relationship, she and her guitar, a deep connection. On cold November nights, she sang silly songs and her guitar laughed along. My ukulele gathered dust on the shelf.

I’ve found myself telling people that I’m a better audience member than a performer. Not all of us belong onstage. But I don’t know if that is what I wanted with the ukulele. I liked the idea of pulling it out at campfires and getting people singing, being the one to bring everyone together with the music my ukulele and I would create together. But if the two of us can’t work together, it’s hard to imagine being a leader like that.

My ukulele sits in my bedroom at home now. For about five months, we stared at each other contentiously, daring each other to try again. But I don’t know if we ever will. I have music I can listen to at school, playlists full of ukulele songs from people who made it work. I have friends who play the ukulele and I’m content to sing in the background and sitting on my roommate’s floor while we stumble through pop hits and chord progressions, I don’t miss my ukulele at all.

But I wonder about that little instrument now and then, left behind in my bedroom with my books and summer clothes. Does it miss me?

Maybe we’re both a little out of tune, but our strings expand and contract with the seasons, weathering the rhythms of life. Perhaps we’ll stroke the same chord, however off-pitch, once more

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A Change of Heart by Lucy Peterson There’s a disquieted place I sometimes go And tonight is one of those numb yet never-ending nights where Loneliness clashes with the all consuming madness Of something I saw; someone I loved feelings I can’t so easily forget.

Inescapable burden seemed to be a risk worth taking But was I blind, or am I bitter?

Surely it’s selfish to overindulge in the contentment I gained At the expense of rewriting the middle, and destroying an end.

Of a fictional reality which lives on I feel the firm yet fragile candor of an indefinite wind Lies to me, lies to you Who knew I’d be the one?

Yet here I unequivocally stand admitting weakness, accepting defeat And desperately wishing our temporary existence never needed to end So yes, there’s this disquieted place I sometimes go But it’s a stable kind of love Where I long for you, and I long for then Without longing for the self I lost in us

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Dream, if you dare by Lucy Peterson I’d be lying if I told you there wasn’t, but it’s agonizing to admit.

There was this magnificent dream who helplessly died here, in this place which gives birth to all kinds of life.

Deserving, malicious, uncertain, hopeful, and selfless Existing for mere seconds; A knowing glance eyes, worn, as they fall into sleep.

Existing eternally; Grasping hands as they stroll through the park Love.

But this dream of mine, died.

And it was probably meant to be Yet I can’t help but hold it against you.

This place which gives birth to all kinds of life But somehow could not sustain mine.

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When it Snows in Syracuse by Mason Rowlee When it snows in Syracuse the city does not pause, it delights in the blustery blaze of frigid cold as white blankets its borders and streets: cars and tractor trailers with heavy trails crush the frost below, forcing snow to climb between treads long worn bare.

When it snows in Syracuse, the city embraces its warmth from behind insulated doors, letting voices echo what the wind has swept all day in the bluster of its reflective pupils, an erasure of the landmarks, reality signs and mailboxes; only white sheets skating atop for its children to draw the world in Jack Frost’s image.

When it snows in Syracuse, and bruised bodies sit atop as maple taffy, freshly 42

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made and forgotten as snow suffocates them while

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mothers wait with candles and flames, laying blankets hat snag on every needle to keep the family warm to keep them alive.

How may I ever come home when the snow keeps f a l l i n g ?

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Body of Work by Mason Rowlee I remember you as you were: saturated font in sharp bleached bindings, the scars and constellations on my skin, making stories of family injury and love into a narrative read by lovers and the mirror.

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A Gemini Decision by Mason Rowlee

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ma·son /ˈmās(ə)n/ by Mason Rowlee mason /ˈmās(ə)n/ n. 1 designed to work, born to cement. 2 a name sake weighing heavily on a future constructed from stone. 3 (historical) steady, masterful men who craft monuments to kings in boldness.

Ex. “My father gave this gift to me a mason with a destination pulling toward a future laid in simple symmetrical brick.” v. 1 more than before, less than tomorrow. 2 the act of meagerly reminding me of the titles of words built from stone. 3 the grout of each line sweating in thick, chiseled tears that carve a clean meaning into dusty poetics.

Ex. “Towers masoned from brick will shiver in the wind and swallow themselves into a new project of rubble.”

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Nuisance by Shannon Zipfel “I don’t wanna be a nuisance” “I don’t wanna intrude” These are phrases I started saying at a young age Which was both endearing for adults And weird to other kids.

I started saying these things for two reasons, One was that I liked to read old books And I would pick up random, formal phrases Since I felt like old books had special knowledge That I needed to uncover and use And the more that the book felt like it was going to fall apart in my hands, the better the knowledge.

Another reason was because I felt like a nuisance.

All the time.

Of course, my parents would shoo me away when they needed some adult time, My siblings when I was being an annoying younger sister But also with my friends Who would ask me to leave them alone Or just avoid me altogether.

I never knew why these moments happened, Didn’t understand that kids are just mean Parents are tired And siblings are siblings.

But they felt like they were adding up So, I made myself fold in Pull back Shut myself up And shut myself off Hoping that this muted version of myself Would be more pleasing, More palatable.

I wasn’t good at being so restrained Or so quiet And I feel myself starting to expand Naturally trying to let myself back out.

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But my edges scream at me to Stop Hold back Say less Do less Just smile! Quietly!!

But being quieter has not helped me, Has actually hurt me.

Adult or child.

So. I’m going to be outspoken.

Open Big Upset And if I’m a nuisance, That’s a problem you will have to deal with.

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Blind Absence by Shannon Zipfel Sometimes I’m blinded by absence The (people) that I no longer see Are thrown in front of my eyes The (things) that I no longer touch Press down on all parts of me The (voices) that no longer speak to me Deafen everything else My (present) is replaced With memories burnt around the edges It makes me (ache) Even though nothing’s there Sometimes I’m blinded by absence

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I’m like butter on the kitchen counter by Gracey Zostant I’m like butter on the kitchen counter Waiting to be cut Remaining elusive, whole, desired in their eyes, Though never to be experienced I prefer never to fully satisfy the drooling mind, but rather its imagination If you’re to put the knife to me, you’ll be sourly mistaken Cause melting til’ I’m useless in the afternoon is A sweeter alternative to criticism

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Untitled by Gracey Zostant Eyelashes under the sun My woe is germane to no one I yearn someone to sing Bout’ lavender rings They show round my iris When my eyes are tired But who, could give me this thing?

When my thoughts are quiet When my mood turns violet Who will be there to love and to stare Flushed cheeks, butterscotch hair It holds all my secrets I won’t let you see it But oh how I wish you’d be there…

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& Fall 2020

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Bios Erin Archbold: has to tell you that oat milk is the only milk alternative that she will endorse.* Daniela Akoh: Hi, all! I’m Daniela, a freshman at Fordham University.

I’m majoring in Computer Science with the intent to minor in Visual Arts (Concentration in Graphic Design). I may be heading down the UI/UX Design or Web Design career route, but writing has always been and will always be my passion. I love weaving words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs.

The creative process is strenuous at times, but having autonomy over what I write and how I write it is a pleasure that will stay with me forever. Thanks for reading, and hope you enjoy Julia Bavaro: probably baked about 30 different types of sourdough in quarantine.* Amanda Caputo: was voted most likely to become a great success in theater in Translyvania.* Julia Cianflone: lives exclusively off of chocolate covered espresso beans and charcuterie boards.* Mikey Duffy: is distantly related to Frank Sinatra.* Liam Gibbons: is the star of a popular telenovela.* Ellana Gruvman: can make the best snow forts this side of the Mason Dixon line.* Megan Kurz: will one day own the most famous donut shop in the tri-state area.* Alexandra Lewis: Alex spends her days scribbling in her journal and scrolling through Netflix, hoping there will be new movies and shows that she hasn’t already watched. As a senior at Rose Hill, she loves watching the seasons go by on the beautiful campus!

Sophie Ortega: Sophia Ortega, Fordham College at Lincoln Center ’22, is excited to be featured in the Ampersand. She is earning her BFA in dance and a minor in English, her two passions. If she’s not busy dancing at The Ailey 54

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School or writing a paper, you can find her picnicking in Central Park or obsessing over every dog she sees.

Emma Paolini: mysteriously gained the ability to cook like a 5 star French chef and no longer takes off any hat that she is wearing.* Lucy Peterson: inspired the main character of tat really famous dystopian novel (yeah it was the one you first thought of).* Mason Rowlee: is fascinated by Florence Welch and the Taco Bell value menu.

Shannon Zipfel: is unsure what day or year it is. Ever.

Gracey Zostant : will one day own Fordham University.* * the & staff took the liberty of creating a bio for this writer.

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the Ampersand (est. 1881), a biannual literary journal, is a student-run publication devoted to providing a forum for Fordham University’s best student poetry, prose and artwork. Creative work is solicited and reviewed by the editors and a committee composed of the club’s members. Students are instrumental in all aspects of production, including selection of works, layout, publicity, and distribution. In addition to the production of the magazine, club members conduct a bi-monthly writing workshop, craft a supplemental publication, the Vagabond, and host an open mic series. The members of the Ampersand strive to offer a supportive outlet for the arts at Rose Hill.

the Ampersand was designed using Adobe InDesign®, version 9.0. The typeface for the body text is 10.5pt Times New Roman. The typeface for the titles is Times New Roman 11pt. bold, and the typeface for the bylines is 10.5 pt. The Ampersand is printed by Fordham University Press, 45 Columbus Avenue New York, NY 10023.

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