The Gallery Spring 2009

The Gallery Spring 2009

We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.

— T. S. Eliot, Little Gidding

The Gallery

Volume 23, Number 1 Spring 2009

Staff

Spring 2009

Editors-in-Chief Kelsey Parrish Laura Daniels Poetry Editors Elizabeth Pedraja Hannah McCarthy Prose Editors Carrie Crow Marley Brown IV Art Editor Kristine Mosuela Productions Managers Andrew McCartney Arielle Kahn

Table of Contents Poetry My Father Visited Ireland as a Boy Farmer Mama and Poppers Round An Old Friend Love Verses Long Night’s Journey Where Sand Meets Sea Meets Sky

Brian Doyle Will Murphy Megan O’Connor Arielle Kahn Elizabeth Pedraja Will Huberdeau Aaron Fallon Alison Gondek

6 13 16 18 28 29 30 40

Rachel Olcheski-Doboga Julia Schaumburg Rachel Olcheski-Doboga Rolfe Shiflett Rachel Olcheski-Doboga Kelly Meanor

8 14 20 24 32 42

Spencer Atkinson Spencer Atkinson Stacy Lewis Megan O’Connor Stacy Lewis Nicole Brzozowski Amanda Cottingham Nicole Brzozowski Eric Rydin Eric Rydin

7 11 12 17 19 23 27 31 39 41

Prose The Living Flames Meyer Ward Traffic The Bus Trick or Treat The Rhythm of the Rain

Art Adam Donna Boy Spring 2008 Jimmy I Truly Do Joanie Embarassment Leaves on the Ground Purple Flower

My Father Visited Ireland as a Boy Brian Doyle

My Father visited Ireland as a boy And they showed him the tree where my God knows how many greats Grandfather Was hanged by the English in 1798 When my father took me to the Old Country He didn’t know where the tree was Or even if it was still standing We only drove along the road By which it had stood Someday I’ll take my kids to Ireland— And I won’t even know the road

6

Spencer Atkinson

Adam

7

The Living Flames Rachel Olcheski-Doboga

I was in the corner at our tiny table. This was my usual position; I was kept safely immobile and under constant observation. It was such a squeeze that our legs were tangled and our knees pushed hard against one another. I couldn’t tell which were attached to whom, or even which were my own.

I tried to smile so one of them would play the old game and try to make me stop, then watch as it spread across my face uncontrollably.

My smile quickly dissolved; I realized they weren’t up for playing. That is how it always was now. They sat across from me so their backs faced the rest of the world. They were making a pen for me like the lamb they sometimes called me. They laughed at the idea of me being helpless and said they couldn’t help wanting me and wanting to hurt me.

They look at me steadily. I decided they didn’t deserve my gaze so I allowed my eyes to wander. We were just about the only people there, but I never wondered why we were bound so tightly together that the back of my head was grating against the rough brick wall. The light was tinted red, but I couldn’t see where it came from. There were a couple of girls at the long dark bar and I envied that they could walk out freely.

The music sounded Brazilian or something else exotic and it was so loud it went past hurting my ears. It changed the beat of my heart.

I said this to the one on the right, who from now on I will call R. He wasn’t really human, you see, so making a human pseudonym would be too much of a lie for me. And believe me, I had had enough lies. If I remember correctly he nodded, but just barely. Because he seemed a bit kinder (for the moment) than the wolf on my left, who of course I will call L, I chose him, but again, only for the moment. I said to the expressionless face, “I think later I won’t believe I was here.”

“Don’t worry. I can attest you were,” R said, looking around as though that was the last thing on his mind.

L was about to say “You asked to come,” but R, who dressed up as a sheep to make me less afraid, turned to stare at him. He kept the wolf quiet.

L was too stupid a wolf to wear a disguise, even though I would surely have seen through it. He got up to go to the bathroom. As soon as he left it was much cooler and my clothes clung to me a little less.

“I didn’t think it would be like this. I just wanted to go where you go, and when you promised you’d take me…”

8

“I didn’t promise you’d like it, only that I would keep you safe.”

“Safe? What about him?” I nodded towards the bathroom. Just then the wolf came out.

“What about him?”

“You know I hate him. I asked you not to let him…”

Just then L sat down again.

“I want to leave,” I said.

They obliged and the three of us walked, only earning a quick glance from the bartender. The night air felt clean after having been soaked from the blood bath inside. A few men lingered in the alley. I checked to see if they were sweating as much as I was. They were dry and apparently at ease leaning against the walls. I shouldn’t have been surprised. I simply couldn’t find it in me to pretend I wasn’t on fire, not after that red light, not while I was standing between them. The men looked back at me with other ideas, other questions. I stood between my wolves and the main road was in sight so I remembered not to be afraid.

I try to find the good in life even when it seemed to have abandoned me without looking back, heartless to the last. I knew I was burning up, much like those innocent witches who were tied to stakes. However, I had the good fortune of being able to choose my fire. I appreciated this small liberty. I thought of them as both fire and wolves, for both could and would consume me. Really, it just depended what mood I was in. If I already felt the pain eating at me skin I said fire because fires rarely have self control. If I just felt them lurking I called them wolves because wolves have the grace to stay back, at least for a while, so one can get to know them.

I knew I must burn. I was certain because I had been trying to shake them off for weeks, but they were devoted and tireless. Somehow they had come to believe I was the tinder that could keep them going, but there was not enough for both of them. Only one could have me and I had made sure that would be my choice. There are different types of fires and I have my preferences.

First, there are puny pathetic fires — they try to burn, but the wind and rain are too much and they are doomed to be buried in infant graves. Right. Left. Neither.

There is the fire that has damp logs as its foundation and really only serves to break up the dark. I liked this type. The chances of it being fatal were so slight I felt comfortable ignoring them. Right. Left.

Neither. Of course I could never have that kind of luck.

9

Then there was the fire that made the news. It starts when some stupid kid dropped a match in a dry forest and the fire sweeps across the southwest with no thought or direction, killing indiscriminately, and then suddenly burning itself out. It was self destructive, pointless, and eventually the victims recovered (if they were not dead). Right, Left. Yes. Left. L hadn’t spoken yet. He was the thoughtless fire. Maybe for a time he believed he was ravenous for the forest he devoured, but soon he would realize nothing could fill him up, not even me. Once I had thought he would hurt less, but now I decided it was best to simply move out of his path and let him commit suicide. His chances were not looking good.

All that remains is the last type of fire. It is built for warmth. It obliges. It wants to help, to be loved and allowed to stay close. It is devoted and will fight the cold for you with great bravery. But this love is conditional. You have to stay awake, pay attention, tend it, repay it.

Once you fall asleep it gets scared. You have left it alone in the dark.

Wake up, wake up! It creeps closer to get your attention but your eyes do not open. Now it is angry. WAKE UP! And suddenly the flame is on you. Your skin is crackling. It still loves you, but what it will not do to wake you up, to draw you near? As soon as you wake up, scream, cry, it retreats, quelled by your tears. It tries to be sorry, but that is hard.

Didn’t it work?

Yes, R would kill me slowly. But please pay attention and notice this fire’s brilliance. It has a plan and in its own way a heart, no matter how selfish. I would rather stay with him and die by his light when the time came. Nobody wants an arbitrary death. I can’t stand ending in a flash of oblivion. Besides, I appreciated that this wolf took the time to dress up for me, to put me at ease. Also, there was a capacity for laughter with him and in our game he was always the one who made it hardest for me to stop smiling. Yes, before he had come too close, he made me smile everyday.

It was time to part ways.

“It is too dark for you to walk home alone,” said L, the Wild Fire.

“I know,” I said. I turned to the gentler death, and said, “It’s on your way, right?”

They looked at one another. I tugged at his denim jacket. The wild fire looked at the ground and mine looked at me.

“Right,” he said. We crossed the street in silence and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards the tiniest bit when he looked at me. It was so much better to die by a fire that could smile back.

10

Spencer Atkinson

Donna

11

Stacy Lewis

12

Boy

Farmer

Will Murphy

You, farmer, I remember you.

I hoped, once, that we would pity dead Earthworms together, that we might Carve nests in the cakey earth for little Tulip bulbs and side-by-side mock The foolish acrobatics of the Border Collie We had trained to pluck sticks from air.

Perhaps, if I had been more open To the yellow scent of lightning Off the stormy river, or spent more Lazy afternoons entranced by the Porch swing’s rhythmic screech…

Still, on rare occasions when I’m barefoot, Out of doors and seeing no life, just a blinding Sunrise, southeast in wintertime, my toes Go numb amidst the sickly, crystal grass, I feel the wind pluck heat from me Like needles from a pine bough, And I think of you.

13

Meyer Ward

Julia Schaumburg I was easily the sanest person present, and I hated everyone else for it. I kept to myself, sitting dimly on the industrial, mass produced armchairs, trying to focus on the square patch one of the borderliners was crocheting next to me. She hid a neat pile of them under her bed.

She showed anyone who would look. They wouldn’t give her enough yarn to make anything else; somebody would inevitably find a way to hang themselves. They wouldn’t let us knit, because giving small metal spikes to mental patients was considered imprudent. I guess they figured the hooked crochet needle would at least take a little more effort, would bruise before it punctured. It wasn’t as if their fears were unwarranted — I’d seen a small frail girl rub away several layers of skin with a pencil eraser. Desperate people are often inventive.

It was a strange place. The fluorescent lighting killed all sense of time, like you had always been sitting in this chair, like you always would be sitting in this chair, watching some nut crochet the same row over and over again.

Usually the e.d.’s were sullen and hungry looking, and everyone else was doped into silence. You could tell the ones that were on thorazine — they had this odd penguin shuffle, like the balls of the feet were stuck to the linoleum. If you stood in their charted path, they’d just stare at you for hours until you moved, and then they’d keep right on shuffling. The Lithiums, their hands shook hard and fast. The Valium kids, their faces were all slack and asleep even when their eyes were open. The Zyprexas, they all sat around and sulked, missing their mania, resentful of their sudden, forced return to reality. But the ECT kids were the best. They’d come in looking strung out, with the greasy spots on their temples where the shock pads had been and not a bit of short-term memory. I’d fuck with them a little, hide their shit when the nurses weren’t looking, spit into their coffee, glue their fingers together, then wait five minutes until they’d forgotten and come up with inventive explanations. I allowed myself these small cruelties, these small glimmers of entertainment.

It was around three in the afternoon when the quiet broke. There was this new woman, a woman who came in through the big metal doors labeled Elopement Risk screaming at the man-nurse softly guiding her wheelchair. We all looked up, even the Valiums, desperate 14

for something to break the monotony — but were disappointed when she was carted away by a white flock of nurses before she could provide much of a distraction.

I found out later she called herself Diamond Princess. When I say that I mean she screamed her introduction into my face, smelling vaguely like urine, spit flecking my cheeks. She had a lazy eye, and multicolored plastic rings on her fat sausage fingers, and a fucking bellybutton rod in her nose. She carried around the ashes of her daughter in a pickle jar and refused to be parted from it, even at meals. In group she kept yelling about how she’d been kidnapped, how the hospital used to experiment on blacks in the thirties, and now they were starting it up again. The poor, underpaid social worker said she was obstructing the healing process. They took her to solitary until the drugs could have a chance to kick in.

She came from one of the neighborhoods that surrounded the hospital, the ones where every window was barred and the ABC stores were held up nightly. Baltimore — “the city that reads”. Hilarious. That’s what the benches say at the bus stops, if you could read it through the spray-paint. Anyway, I’d seen the type. Most of them were lifers, people the nurses knew by name. Tyler was one of them, a kid who was smart enough to get a full ride at Kenyon, but had to walk around with these fat, white, pillow-gloves on so he wouldn’t scratch all his damn skin off. He played flamenco guitar, learned it in an effort to keep his hands busy, and when he had the gloves on he would hold the instrument flat in his lap and just sort of pad on it morosely. Neither of them had insurance, so we could look forward to their swift departure. The ward would probably just write some prescription they couldn’t afford to fill and boot them. That is until they found her, again, trying to bash her own head in on a brick wall. Or him, again, flaying himself alive. That, my friends, is the deinstitutionalization movement in a nutshell.

They gave me a phone call once a week and at this point I’d exhausted my options. I didn’t have anyone else to call. Her voice was tight. She said she couldn’t talk to me; it wasn’t healthy.

It was around three in the morning when I stood in the empty common room and didn’t realize I was screaming. The night nurses are fast, but they’re also cautious. They surrounded me in a loose circle, ready to pounce, and I knew that if I didn’t shut it I could look forward to five-points for the rest of the night. They just stood there and it was Diamond fucking Princess who pressed me to her chest with her sausage fingers, and Tyler who padded at my back saying shh, shh.

15

Mama and Poppers Megan O’Connor

There I am sketching a Thursday afternoon in Piazzo Santo Spirito, when three little ones with gelato-covered faces make Home Base of the statue I’m sitting on.

“Che disegni?” asks the eldest — what are you drawing?

They all come close and peer at my sketchbook, not recognizing themselves on the paper.

I ask if they want to draw too, offer my pencils and push blank pages open across my knees.

From their bench a lady calls to them, “Lascia stare!”— let her be!

I close my eyes and feel their unabashed limbs jostling my knees, Please don’t listen to her, or notice anything else more exciting, just stay with me one more sweet moment.

They babble things I can’t understand completely, and run away when it starts to sprinkle.

The next week at Santo Spirito, when I’m writing to you on their bench, they come again.

The lady points to waiting me and says to them, “Guardate, ricordatevi?”— look, do you remember?

I take out and show them their scribblings — pointing furiously, hoping.

I help the little one, Niccolo, blow his bubbles — he carelessly keeps spilling the fluid on the stone.

I hold distracted Carlotta’s ball while she frees herself from her jacket — she lets me help her out of the sleeves.

These things mean nothing to them I know.

They have no idea what masterpieces they’ve made.

Thanks for sending the new paper and jacket. I’ll come home soon.

16

Megan O’Connor

Spring 2008 17

Round

Arielle Kahn You told me life was circular Spiraling through space, twisting tangling and timeless No end, you promised, just a giant cosmic slinky And I grinned and forgot my fear of naught Because I knew that existence was a smooth silver ring, Iridescent soap bubbles that never burst on your fingertips, And milky marbles rolling swiftly uphill — So I traced your confident cartwheels to the shore.

You laughed at my tears when you were leaving Hair tossing and dimples bright, but I knew better Watch me sail away down under the horizon, you cried, Look for the curvature of the earth, see how it sags at the ends You know, it’s not as big as you thought.

But after you were gone I stood there eons Watching silent and then, triumphant, I thought I saw it but — Vertigo. What if I fall off, I whispered, afraid.

You didn’t come back like you said you would, and I lay plastered in a flat world all sharp edges and poking corners I imagined you on the other side of the earth Directly beneath my feet, somewhere Pacific Swimming with dolphins and humming whale songs.

I would hurl myself into orbit just to dive with you Close those tiny bubbles in my fist and smile Because we both ended up where we began.

You said all endings are beginnings, and I forced a smile I would believe anything then, but now I know better And you are gone somewhere out there.

I looked at the moon and was comforted knowing You had gazed upon those same speckled seas.

I couldn’t see your eyes reflected in its quiet face so I got to my feet and turned in a circle And laughed because I was looking in your direction.

18

Stacy Lewis

Jimmy

19

Traffic

Rachel Olcheski-Doboga “Why, Nick?” Sara asked.

“Don’t do that,” Nick said. “You can’t start doing that now. We both decided this is the right thing to do. We deserve happiness.”

“That’s not what I meant. Why am I such a horrible person? Why can’t he be the bad one?”

“Not enough imagination?”

Sara was leaving Frank, but it still irritated her when Nick insulted him.

“Damn traffic. What’s going on up there?” Sara muttered.

“It’s the rain. You know how people get. A little precipitation and it’s the end of the world.”

Sara watched the wipers swing back and forth like the pendulum of an old clock.

“I left a note,” she said.

“Oh?” “Yeah.”

They were silent for a few moments. Then Sara asked, “What about you?”

“Did I leave a note, you mean? I am not a very good writer. I might call her.”

“How could you not leave a note? What’s wrong with you, Nick?”

“Nothing, I’m just praying you’re not in one of your moods and wishing the light would turn green.”

“I’m not in a mood,” Sara snapped. “I just think you’re being cold.”

“So you want me to be kind to my wife, the woman I am leaving for you? I’m sick of her. She makes me miserable. I didn’t write a note because I didn’t feel like it. And what about you?”

“What do you mean, ‘what about me’?” Sara’s voice rose.

“You think you’re some kind of saint for leaving a note? Don’t tell me you feel sorry for him. Do you even remember why you kissed me? You said he was boring and you hated him. You said I made you happy.”

“You do. You do make me happy,” Sara replied automatically.

“Good to know,” Nick said. He aimed for levity, but sounded bleak.

Sara thought about the note on the kitchen table. She wrote it on paper 20

from the pad by the phone. The paper had pansies around the border.

How horrible to get a note like that on pansy stationary.

Frank had bought her that paper. She liked making lists. He thought it was funny, sweet, and bought her pretty paper every few weeks. Frank worked at a bank. He was a quiet man. Did that make him boring? Was that why Sara hated him? Nick did something with computers in a high rise with plate glass windows. He wore smart suits that made him look long and lean. He bought her jewelry she never wore. It was in the sock drawer.

“I don’t like jewelry, Nick,” Sara said.

“What?”

“The jewelry you bought for me. I don’t like it.”

“What do you mean? I spent a fortune on that bracelet, Sara. I thought you were just afraid to wear it. I thought when we left you would wear it. Did you even pack it?”

“I’m not afraid to wear it. I thought I was, but I hate it. I like reading.

You should have bought me a book.”

The cars ahead of them started to crawl.

“What is this about, Sara? You’re acting crazy and I can’t deal with it right now. I got a transfer for you. I am going to be working in a shitty office building with a view of a brick wall.”

“Ok, that’s it. Take me back.”

“What?”

“Turn around!” Sara shrieked. “I can’t do this, take me back. Keep your office, you can have the jewelry, just take me home.”

“I can’t do that. We can’t go back.”

“Yes, we can.” Sara pointed at the digital clock. “It’s 4:45. If we leave now, I can cut up the note, throw it away, Frank will never know. You’ll be home before Judith gets back.”

“I don’t want to be home when Judith gets back. I want to be with you.”

“I don’t care what you want, Nick. Just take me home!”

The car ahead of them was almost out of sight. Angry honks blared from behind.

“Fine. Alright. We’ll turn around. Go tear up your damn note. I don’t give a damn. Good luck with Frank. You’ll beg me to take you back in a week.” Nick slammed his foot on the gas and the car lurched forward.

“Be careful, Nick,” Sara said, gripping the seat. Nick’s arms were rigid and his eyes were wet. Through the rain and tears he couldn’t see 21

that the light had turned red.

“Nick, stop!” Sara pleaded, failing to keep the hysteria out of her voice. They zoomed into the intersection and headlights pierced Sara’s side window. The airbag went off and hit her in the stomach, hot and hard.

When the car finally stopped spinning, only the squelch of the wipers disturbed the quiet. Breathing was hard and Sara’s vision blurred, but she could still see the clock. She watched the fuzzy numbers change from 4:55 to 4:56. Dim thoughts of pansy stationary flickered through her mind.

22

I Truly Do Nicole Brzozowski

23

The Bus

Rolfe Shiflett I feel much safer on the bus than anywhere else. I can blend in with all of the crazies, so most days I don’t even need to do my hair. Of course, I always do my hair on Tuesdays and Thursdays, because those are the days Robert Willington rides the bus to work at 6:00 A.M. and home at 11:30 P.M. Robert Wellington tells me all about himself. I like when he pats my arm and talks about how he’s going to make it big some day when he finally finishes his novel about me. The first time he did it, touched my arm, I mean, the first time I thought I had done something wrong again.

But it turned out he just wanted to touch me, which felt nice. His novel’s not really about me, but he is writing one — it’s just not about me, he says that just to make me laugh. I went to the dentist on his day off to get my teeth whitened so that I could have a nice smile when I laughed for him.

Ronald works at the grill on the intersection two blocks away from the sixth stop. He says he’s used to touching people when he talks to them, because it puts them at ease. He’s right! I remember when I first saw him, I thought he was like them, those dirty boys with beards and loud music who talk about making love, only they don’t use that word.

Making love this and making love that, and if it’s not that then it’s that music and I’ve read the rules for the bus — only the driver is allowed to pick the music for the day. I told him, the bus driver, about that rule once. He ignored me, so I told Ronald instead, and Ronald asked those boys to turn down their music, and they didn’t listen but at least he tried. He’s not like them.

We always say hello the same way, Ronnie and I. He’ll come in, look around, look right past me! Just stare right through me as if he wasn’t seeing me.

“Mrs. Wilkinson?” He’ll call out. Then he’ll look around, and scratch his beard, and take his hat off and hit his thigh with it, “Mrs. Wilkinson?

Has anyone seen Mrs. W? Mrs. Wilkinson?” And people will look at him like he’s crazy but he sure doesn’t care!

Then he’ll see me. “Why, Mrs. Wilkinson! You’ve gone and got yo’ hair did!”

He likes my hair.

I love him very much. I’m going to get him a present for his birthday.

Tomorrow.

24

Tomorrow He came on with a girl today, with filthy braids and filthy little slut pants and just everything she had hanging out for anyone who wanted it even though Ronnie probably wanted it, probably keeps her around just for that because he’s a good boy even though he’s made a stupid mistake trying to fall in love with this slut girl woman child probably isn’t more than seventeen he could go to jail for that!

To jail, for that!

To jail, for that!

To jail for that!

He tried to introduce us no me to her I’m the established one she knows that I’m the one he respects and I can tell how much that makes her want to just reach over and stick her arms down my throat or through my tracheotomy hole and just feel around in my stomach for whatever it is he respects about me so goddamn much because lord knows he’s talking about me to everyone he knows I see it in this slut girl woman child’s eyes. Just reach around inside me while I look at her, guilting her righteously with my eyes of flame (and I don’t even need the bible to do it!) and grab at straws until she finally draws whatever it is inside of me outside of me bleeding and raw and stuffs it greedily into her mouth, this respect organ she stole from me but she better hop on the treadmill fast if she’s going to keep spilling out of that the way she is.

She wears too much make up. Making love to that. He’s young but he’s making love to that. I held tight onto my present, I wasn’t going to give it to him while she’s around and the she, right in public, reached over and kissed them they were sitting in front of me and she looked back at me.

I saw it.

I saw it!

I saw her do it!

She looked at me first and then she kissed him. Whore slut. Slore Wut? What was she trying to do she already swallowed my respect what more could she want? I left my present under.

said.

Robert Willington/ Robert Wellington/ Ronnie/ Ronald “Mrs. Wilkinson? Has anyone seen Mrs. W? Mrs. Wilkinson?” he

“Hello Ronald.” she said.

“Oh there you are. Mrs. Wilkinson. You’ve gone and got your hair did!” he said.

25

“Hello, Ronald. No girl today?” she said. She asked.

“No, not today Mrs. Wilkinson.” he said.

“Oh. Well.” she said.

“Wouldn’t want to make you too jealous, Mrs. Wilkinson.” he said.

“Oh, you didn’t.” she said, hurriedly.

He said. She said.

“Mrs. Wilkinson, mind if I ask you a question?” he said.

She said. He said.

“Well, I’m going to ask you anyway. Here I go. Where do you go all of these days I see you on the bus, Mrs. Wilkinson?” he said. He said. He asked.

“Where do I go?” she asked.

“Yeah, where do you go?” he asked.

“Where do I go?” she asked.

“Yes, where —” he asked.

“Where do I go?” she asked.

“Mrs. Wilkins —” he interjected.

He said. She said he said.

“Where do I go?” she asked.

“Listen, Mrs. Wilki —” he tried.

“Where do I go?” she asked.

“Listen, I didn’t mean —” he half explained.

“Where do I go?” she asked.

“Listen! Just listen —!” he cried. He insisted.

“Where do I go?” she asked.

“LISTEN!” He screamed at the little shriveled old woman with eyes like marbles.

“Where do I go? Where do I go? WHERE DO I GO?” she asked. She maintained. She screamed.

Officer Charles Haverfield “Was the damnedest thing I’d ever heard of. She just rode around all day and at night she’d get out at one of the stops and bundle herself into the luggage bins underneath the bus.

“We found all sorts of shit in there. Even this big old ball of her hair, all knotted up and gray and greasy. Weirdest part was, it was wrapped up just like a birthday present. Bow and everything.

“We found all sorts of shit in there.”

He said.

26

Amanda Cottingham

Joanie

27

An Old Friend Elizabeth Pedraja

My lungs were filled, the lining roughly raked by Tangy smoke, now kissing the purple velvet in tiny, perfect circles I bet this is what You would taste like

28

Love Verses Will Huberdeau

Dreamily Bird droppings lay about, innocent, and I am happy with my right eyelid weighed down dreamily.

Lovers’ Kitchen I’ve finally met an onion I can relate to.

We cry together like family.

It’s like we split and stew over the same things.

Right and Left Hand This is the hand I don’t want chapped, and this is the hand I need to lose to get on the wrestling team, but I’m not so tied up that I don’t have time for you.

So, are we still coming of age?

Lovers’ Apt. This reminds me of an empty box.

Oh how I want you like an apartment!

Life is complex — pay a bill then pay the next.

Appointment I have an appointment to keep.

It is Samuel Alito and I’m never going to let him go.

29

Long Night’s Journey Aaron Fallon

I hear a dog bark.

The edge of the woods is not far; and through the dark branches, I can see the sky streaked blue in the morning chill.

I imagine a pack of wild-eyed wolves howling in the deep forest behind me.

I watch myself approaching the pack the carcass of a fresh kill at the feet, the alpha eying me slowly, the beta nipping at the sneaking omega, and I become as they become, and together we commence.

I and I foresee a triumphant arrival at the gates of the world of man.

Blood streaked lips and beard stiff with the morning’s kill, they welcome me into their smothering arms, a hero gives me his most treasured words and the citizens congratulate each other and bear witness with all their might.

And the trees grow thinner, I am standing at the end of the earth — the fields beyond the tree line, golden with barley in the flame of the new rising sun.

30

Nicole Brzozowski

Embarrassment 31

Trick or Treat

Rachel Olcheski-Doboga

A pimply teenage clerk dressed as the Cowardly Lion held up Romeo and Juliet costumes, saying, “Is this close enough?” His voice was dull, his eyes bloodshot.

“No, it’s not close enough. In fact, you’re about three hundred years off, you idiot. I realize you’ll probably never graduate high school, but try to gather what brain cells you haven’t killed with drugs and focus.

Give me the damn Victorian costumes or my last chance for happiness will be ruined.”

Ray didn’t actually say this to the gangly boy at the costume shop, but he came very close.

Apparently confused by his customer’s silent glare, the clerk continued, “I mean, it looks historic. Anyway, it’s all we got.”

The white walls stretched behind him, boasting countless rows of empty hooks and a handful of Scream masks. A forlorn witch’s hat and a mermaid costume lay in the corner amongst a pile of hangers.

“You should go down the street to ‘A Step in Time.’ They have all that stuff. No alien costumes, though.”

“Right, thanks,” Ray said. Slamming the door behind him, he muttered, “The dumbass will work here the rest of his life.”

The car clock read 7:30. He had half an hour before he picked his son up to go trick or treating. He knew he should have started the costume hunt days ago; he told himself this every time he left a shop empty handed contemplating murder. But he’d only gotten the nerve to start searching two hours ago. And he needed those Victorian costumes.

After waiting at every red light despite the empty streets, he pulled into the parking lot of ‘A Step in Time.’ An old lady flipped the sign to “closed” in the window.

He leapt from the car, flying at the doors.

“Wait, no, wait! I’m here, I need a costume!” He put his hand on the door to keep her from locking it.

She jumped, but recovered quickly, saying, “Sir, calm down. We’re 32

closed. Please let go of the door or I’ll have to call the police.”

“Listen, ma’am, I’m sorry if I scared you. I promise I won’t be long.

I need two Victorian costumes, one for a man, one for a woman. This is very important. Please, help me.”

“You should’ve come earlier, young man. Now please leave.”

“I know exactly what I need. Something they would’ve worn in the 1840’s, like in Jane Eyre. It’s for my wife. She loves that book.”

Claire had read Jane Eyre eighty-three times when they divorced just over a year ago. That part was true. And maybe after tonight, if all went well, she would agree to be his wife again.

The woman paused. “Jane Eyre. That’s a good one. Lovely story.

Your wife has great taste.”

“Yes, she does. These costumes would make her very happy.”

“Well, all right, if you’re quick. I’m expecting my grandson in half an hour.”

“Thank you, thank you so much.”

Now that she didn’t stand between him and possible reconciliation with the woman he loved, the shopkeeper wasn’t so bad. She screamed tea cups and doilies. Claire would have loved her.

“1840’s, you said?” She ambled past Elizabethan gowns and gladiator shields.

“Yes. Something really nice, your best.”

She interrogated him about sizes and colors while she rummaged.

At last, she emerged from the rack holding a plum dress with white lace. “How’s this? I know you wanted black, but this is the closest we’ve got.”

“It’ll be perfect on her. I don’t care what you get me, as long as it’s top of the line.”

“Sure thing.” Snatching another costume from the rack, she waddled to the register. “That’ll be four hundred dollars and ten cents.”

“What? Are you kidding me?”

“No. You said you wanted the best. And you get to keep them for a week. Plus, these clothes are expensive to keep up, so we include a twenty dollar fee for any damage you might incur during your possession of the costume,” she recited the store policy solemnly. Then, in a confidential tone she added, “Most people end up spilling wine on them. If you don’t, you get the money back.”

“Wow, a whole twenty dollars,” Ray muttered, taking out his wallet.

But Claire would like the costumes, so it was worth it. He should’ve done this kind of thing for her while he still had her. Maybe if he’d 33

been a better husband, she would have realized she was the only one he could ever really love. She would have forgiven him for Sandra.

“Is there a place I can change here?”

The old woman pointed to a small dressing room in the back. Five minutes later, he stared at himself in the mirror under harsh florescent light. “Beautiful.”

Taking Claire’s dress, now sheathed in plastic, he hurried back to the car. This would be perfect. He had the speech memorized.

He would start out simple, casual. Just an invitation to come trick or treating with him and Max. They could all go together, for their son’s sake. She couldn’t say no, not when she saw the dress. She loved all things Victorian. She deserved more than her lot of teaching one Brontë novel a year to teenagers with glazed eyes. He should’ve agreed when she wanted to go back to school to become a professor. She would’ve been great.

“So, I figured you might not be doing anything tonight,” he said to the rearview mirror at a stop light. “No, that’s bad, it’ll seem like I think she doesn’t have a life.”

The light turned green. He sped past strip malls, fast food joints, lifeless cell block apartment complexes.

“We could do it for Max. I know last Halloween I said no one would know who we are if we dressed like this, but we’d know. Oh, by the way, I’ve been tinkering with this new dish for the restaurant. I think it’ll be a hit. If you want I could make it for you and Max tomorrow.”

At the next stop light, Ray realized he’d never turned his headlights on. Flipping the switch, he muttered, “God, I’m a mess. I wouldn’t take me back.”

Nothing else had worked, though. When he told Claire about Sandra, he’d already ended the affair. He hated that woman more than Claire ever could. He hated her apartment, full of knick knacks and Yankee candles, hated the eager smile he used to love because it meant she wanted him. Claire wanted him, too, but she also wanted a lot from him. Errands, chauffeuring Max across town, the laundry, the dishes.

And things had changed. He knew every gesture and joke before she made it. But after a month with Sandra, he realized he wanted Claire’s corny jokes, the frenzied nights of getting Max to hockey, making casserole dinners, helping with homework. His hands felt dirty. They’d been all over another woman and he couldn’t wash them enough.

He knew Claire would be hurt when he told her; she would scream, cry, but he never thought she would say those horrible words: “I want 34

to forgive you, but I can’t. You’ve cut me up. You’ve killed me.”

She didn’t care that Sandra was gone. She didn’t look at him when he crumbled to the floor and begged. But that was a year ago. She’d managed to be civil to him three months after the divorce. Ray had glowed for weeks after her first polite, “Here’s Max’s things.”

A few weeks ago, she’d actually smiled at him. When her lips curved ever so slightly, Ray felt sure if only he found the perfect way to ask her she would take him back. A grand gesture, then an intimate dinner with the dish he’d been devising just for her for the past few weeks, and she’d have to listen. Then he could tell her he didn’t care how much graduate school costed; she was brilliant, precious, she deserved everything he could give her and more. He would tell her he still hated himself, always would, but if she loved him he could be happy, could make her happy. She would hear him. She was a romantic. Whenever she talked about Cathy and Heathcliff, she said, “Love never dies.” And he knew she had loved him. She had loved him very much. ****** Ray pulled into the driveway of what used to be his home. Cheery marigolds and pansies lined the brick walk to the front door, glistening under the glow of the porch lamps. Claire must’ve watered them after dinner. She normally did that for about a week then forgot about them, leaving the flowers to die of thirst after a brief life in the shadow of the oak tree.

He hoped she wasn’t looking out the window, watching him sit in the driveway. He couldn’t get out of the car, not until his hands stopped shaking. Casual was key.

Circumnavigating puddles, he held the dress high and made his way to the front porch. He’d expected a sloppy pumpkin, but it looked wonderful. It disturbed him, like a rock in his shoe. Focusing on remembering his speech, he pressed the bell.

Footsteps trotted towards the door; Claire would be running late helping Max into his costume. That’s how it usually went. She wouldn’t be upset, though. She wasn’t easily ruffled. He even heard her laughing inside.

“Hi Ray,” she said breathlessly. “Wow, what’s this? Are you going to a costume party?”

“Oh, no, actually, I thought —” the speech dissolved. The practice was worthless. Claire was too beautiful.

“Where’s your pumpkin shirt?” he stalled.

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“What?”

“The one you always wear on Halloween. With the tiny pumpkins all over it.”

“You mean the one you used to call frumpy? It was really faded. I dropped it off at Goodwill. But what does that have to do with anything?

And you never said why you’re dressed up. Who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m Mr. Rochester,” he said, thankful she’d forced him back on track. “I thought if you aren’t busy we — I mean you, me, and Max — could all go trick or treating together. I got you a costume, just in case.

It’s supposed to look like Jane Eyre’s dress. I know you said she wears black, but I could only find dark purple.”

“Ray, I —” “Dad!” Max screamed, bursting out of the house dressed like Superman.

“Hey, how’s it going?”He leaned down to hug his son, but Max wriggled free, dashing to the car. Claire had promised it was just his age; it meant nothing that Max wouldn’t hug him. Ray pretended she was right.

“All the candy will be gone! Hurry!”

“Sure, in a minute,” he said. He offered Claire the dress. “You could change in the house. It would only take a minute. I’m sure Max would love it if we all went together.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Her voice was soft, sad.

She wasn’t smiling. She didn’t even look at the dress. Ray had been too nervous to eat dinner, but he felt nauseous. This wasn’t supposed to happen. She should be surprised, happy, almost ready to forgive him.

Other people’s marriages ended forever. They never kissed again. But that wasn’t him and Claire.

“OK, I understand. I caught you off guard. But I just think we should talk,” his voice trembled. “If you aren’t ready, that’s fine, but sometime I’d like it if we sat down and talked.”

“You didn’t upset me. I’m busy tonight.”

Heavy footsteps approached.

“Is someone here, Claire?”

A man filled the doorway behind her, blocking the living room from sight. He put his hand on Claire’s back, saying, “Hey honey, Max forgot his bag.”

He was Indian, had glasses, and loomed a good foot over Ray. “Who are you?” he asked, knowing he was being rude but unable 36

to care.

“I’m Peter. You must be Ray.” His voice was cold. He didn’t shake Ray’s hand.

“We’re going to the Bella Rosa tonight,” Claire said. “But don’t worry; I know Max is fine going with just you. He’s been really excited about new candy territory. He said your neighborhood looks like a jackpot.”

Of course she was going out. She wore her good earrings, her hear swept up in an elegant configuration of curls, and her favorite cashmere sweater. And to a romantic restaurant. He’d taken her there once. She’d loved it.

“Great. Ok. Great. Sounds good.”

Max rolled down the window. “Dad! Hurry!”

“Be right there,” he shouted. Turning back to Claire and the man who could make her laugh, he said, “I guess I’ll get going then. Have a great time.”

Peter said, “Good to meet you. Nice suit.” Handing Ray the candy bag, he walked back into the house.

“Well, I guess I’ll see you Sunday,” Claire said. “Don’t let Max make himself sick. And check to make sure all the candy’s wrapped.”

“I’m on it.”

“Great,” she smiled. “Have fun Max,” she shouted, blowing a kiss.

Ray started down the driveway. He’d forgotten how to walk. He felt as though his feet were being sucked down by mud. It’s over. The words pounded like a drum in his ears. Life without Claire loomed like an axe over his neck. He couldn’t let it fall.

“Claire,” he called. She’d almost closed the door.

“Yes?” But he couldn’t think of anything to say to make her want to put on the dress. Met with the sight of her standing in a halo of light coming from inside the house, he could only tell her, “You look beautiful.”

She stared at the ground, silent. Just when he decided she wasn’t going to answer, she met his eyes, saying, “Thanks. And I’m sorry about the costume. I hope you can get a refund. Have fun with Max.” The square of light on the pavement from the open door disappeared with Claire. A refund. What the Hell did that matter? He wanted to burn the costumes. He couldn’t stand the idea of going back to the little shop and seeing the old lady who would probably ask how his night had been.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he was greeted by a sullen Max. 37

left.”

“Sorry, buddy. Don’t worry, I promise there’ll be a ton of candy

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

The hideous encounter had taken five minutes. Enough time for his heart to be broken, but not long enough for the candy to be gone.

“So, this Peter guy. Does he come over a lot? I haven’t seen him before.”

“Well, you don’t come here that much.”

“I guess.”

Diamond raindrops littered the windshield. Headlights shone through, blurring into little stars. He turned on the wipers and shifted to reverse.

“So do you like him?” he asked.

“Yeah. He has a dog.”

A dog. He’d been sold out for a dog. The kid was too young to realize he should hate this man.

“That’s neat.”

“And he carved the pumpkin. He’s pretty good.”

“Yeah. I saw that.”

“He treats me like I’m a baby, though, and he knows I’m in the fifth grade. And he’s not any good at football. Not like you.”

“Thanks, Max.” For what?”

“Nothing, don’t worry about it. Your costume’s great.”

Max ignored the compliment, still fixated on the candy. “Are we close, Dad?” “Yeah. We’re nearly there.”

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Eric Rydin

Leaves on the Ground

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Where Sand Meets Sea Meets Sky Alison Gondek

I dreamt I walked along with You Where Sand meets Sea meets Sky — A Song sung softly ’neath my breath With Words You did supply.

Small Shells and Stones pricked underfoot; The Water, clear and blue; The Wind whipped round our home-turned heads; Our Hands interlocked, Two. The Sun sank low beneath the Waves Where Sand meets Sea meets Sky — We turned our Footsteps homeward bound My Darling, You and I.

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Eric Rydin

Purple Flower

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The Rhythm of the Rain Kelly Meanor

I unplug anything I can think of, but the clock runs on batteries and it keeps ticking. Other than that, it’s silent. The house holds its breath.

To look outside I have to peer through the boards over the window.

When I do, the smell of fresh pine tickles my nose. The boardwalk glitters through the gaps like an abandoned wrapper. I wonder what it would sound like out there, with all the tourists gone and the town empty.

Across the street, the neighbors’ window reflects the sun in a flat sheet of white. They didn’t bother with boards. The house might be all right, but I worry about their restaurant. It’s right on the beachfront where hungry tourists can find it.

On sunny days, David’s Honda would glow cherry red in front of our house. Now the driveway is empty.

David is walking up and down the beach with a tackle box slung over his shoulder. Smooth translucent lumps of beach glass, strung on wire and hemp, dangle from his long fingers. The tourists buy bracelets, chokers, keychains. Sometimes when they give me pictures to develop I recognize something he’s made.

His workshop is the kitchen table. He gets so absorbed that he won’t notice if the spaghetti boils over.

When I get angry with him he holds me until I shut up. Then he pulls out his guitar. The music never leaves him.

I boarded the windows because the walls are covered in photos and I don’t want them ruined. I had to look for a long time to find one of him that was formal enough to send out with the announcement.

Almost all the pictures of us are spontaneous. I like them because they’re not like the dull, posed ones I have to handle every day at the camera shop: fat man in front of fry stand, fat man in white shorts, fat man with freckly wife, fat man unaware of the enormous wave behind him.

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I leave the window and start taking down the ones I like best. They go into stacks on the table beside David’s most recent project. I can’t tell what he had in mind. It’s still just a heap of blue and green pebbles, lightly frosted, the way that things get when they’ve been tossed around by the tide for a while.

David is playing guitar in front of the neighbors’ restaurant. It brings good business. Their mom-and-pop joint has to compete with fast food stands down the boardwalk.

Tourists know he’s not one of them because he tans, he doesn’t burn like them. He’s been here all his life, which my family thinks is a bad thing. The tourists give him tips and ask what it’s like living right on the ocean.

They ask if he has a boat.

They ask if he has a girlfriend. They ask if he wants one.

They ask if he’d like one on the side and add that his wife doesn’t have to know, which makes us both laugh. The ones who ask that are about fifteen and flat as a low tide sandcastle at high tide. They like his music and his tan.

David is mine.

I rubberband the photos and put them in my pocket. I sent a few with the neighbors when they left this morning, after promising that my sister was coming to give me a ride.

Suddenly it’s all too close, with the house silent except for the clock. I can’t breathe in here. I sweep the beach glass into my other pocket and take David’s guitar from the corner. The stiff new strap scratches my shoulder. When I unbolt the door, the pressure changes.

The sky is the color of smoke, and little bursts of clouds skitter across it. The sunlight fades. The air is thick.

The guitar bumps against my hip as I walk down the middle of the street. It turns out that the neighbors did put up storm shutters for the restaurant. They’re the same vinyl as the ones my boss and I put up at the camera shop. They’re advertised as able to withstand terrific pressures. For the house, boards were cheaper. I’ll find out soon if they work.

David is glowing like a skinny sun god, but day by day he dims. The machines whirring and beeping and ticking all around him are bleeding his color away. It takes a long time to drain the summer from him.

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I wait every day. My boss covers for me. The neighbors tell me that people notice him missing from the beach. My family pays the medical bills because David and I don’t have enough saved up, and for once they don’t say anything.

A little money comes back from the insurance company and from the wreckers who took what was left of the Honda. I buy a new strap for his guitar and I bring it to show him, but his eyes stay closed. The doctors say he’s only breathing because of the machines.

They say that what is David is gone.

I believe them because I can’t hear the music now.

Heading down the boardwalk and out onto the empty pier, I call my sister. She’s on West Coast time and is just having her lunch break while it’s getting toward evening here. She asks how I’m doing with David gone. She asks about the weather. It’s not bad; the wind has picked up.

She asks other things. Will I be home for Thanksgiving? We’ll have to see. I’m not sure of my plans right now. I don’t mention that the town is empty now.

When we hang up I drop the phone over the edge of the pier. The ocean swallows it in a gulp. The waves are coming in faster than usual, throwing white froth against the beach. Spray soaks through me.

Since no one will see, I take off my clothes and drop them in, too.

They clump around the girders like dead men washing in and out. My pants sink faster because of all they have in the pockets.

David is gone. I wait while one by one the machines go quiet.

I squeeze his hand.

It’s a relief not to hear the clock anymore. I sit down, careful of the hot cement, and dangle my feet over the edge. If it were sunny I’d burn like the tourists. I hold the guitar on my lap the way David showed me, but I don’t play. Music is his, not mine. Instead the waves and the wind fill up the silence.

While the hurricane is still a smudge on the horizon, the first rain starts to fall. It comes in fat, heavy drops. When they plunk onto the guitar, it echoes. I tilt it upwards and let the rain spatter over it. It makes a sound almost like notes, almost like music.

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The Gallery is: Kelsey Parrish — Editor-in-Chief In a previous life, Kelsey Parrish was the fire that consumed Joan of Arc. In her current life, she is enamoured of several non-humans/muppets/fictional characters, including Elmo, Knut, Jemaine from Flight of the Conchords, and Tila Tequila.

She was born with a tail and her parents elected not to remove it, claiming that it was the will of God. Kelsey is back from France, and shares with us the wisdom of the Old World.

Laura Daniels — Assistant Editor/Overseas Correspondent Laura Daniels, co-editor-in-chief of The Gallery, once met Dora the Explorer in Mexico. She has also participated in a flashmob that went to the Capitol and dropped panties on the lawn. Laura’s life dream is to drop out of school, be on “Girls Gone Wild,” and have a baby. Until then, she is a sophomore English and Classical Civ major, who is studying in Greece so she can teach us all the right way to fold a gyro.

Elizabeth Pedraja — Poetry Editor Elizabeth Pedraja, member of the gallery staff, was born into royalty in a small, European principality. Knowing that a true leader must learn from the people, her parents hid her away among the commoners until such time as she can reclaim her birthright. Because Harrison Ford once saved her father’s life, her birthright includes a grand wedding to the handsome actor. Until then, she’s a student at the College of William and Mary.

Arielle Kahn — Productions Manager Arielle, a freshman at the college, was named after the eponymous Disney character. She admired the cartoon girl so much that she collected spoons and forks until her teenage years. After puberty, she decided that her main career goal is to be the Lemon Fanta girl so that she can spread world peace through fruity interpretive dance. Until her philanthropic goals are able to be realized — i.e. until the world is ready for her — she works in the productions staff of the Gallery.

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Andrew McCartney — Production Manager/Webmaster In the greater scheme of things, no one has shaken the world more than Andrew McCartney. Born in the fiery inferno of a volcanic eruption, he decided to become Master of the Universe in the most logical of ways: the internet. After inventing the internet, eBay, and YouTube, he continued his massive plan for universal domination through The Gallery, his most influential web design project yet.

In his free time, he placed second in “Wilderness Survival” and was recruited by “Lost” producers to create DHARMA Summer Camp for Slightly Hard-Core Kids. Sources have confirmed that he might be dating a girl, but there is no solid evidence because all photographs taken of him immediately burst into flame.

Carrie Crow — Prose Editor Carrie Crow eats animal crackers for breakfast and her eyes can break through cinderblock walls, an ability she has spent most of her academic career perfecting. She is also skilled at somersaulting in the sand and blowing bubbles underwater with wands fashioned out of kelp. Her life dream is to drive an Oscar Meyer Weiner truck, selling hot dogs and ice cream to children all around the world. Her favorite ice cream toppings are marshmallows and multi-colored sprinkles.

Kristine Mosuela — Art Editor Kristine Mosuela spent her early childhood mastering a green belt in ninjaism, a level so high that it required creation of a new color. Afterwards she took her talents to Hollywood, choreographing fight scenes in movies such as Bridget Jones’ Diary: The Edge of Reason, High School Musical, and Penelope.

It was on this project that she met her fiancé, James McAvoy, who then caused a minor scandal when he left his wife to be with Kristine instead.

They now live happily in Scotland, where Kristine spends her time editing The Gallery as she awaits her wedding.

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Marley Brown IV — Prose Editor Marley Brown IV comes from a long line of Marley Browns.

Like his predecessors before him, he was born and raised in Williamsburg before jetting off to boarding school in New Hampshire. After becoming embroiled in a sex scandal, he returned to the ‘Burg amidst rumors and gossip that followed him wherever he went. Did he get kicked out of boarding school for snorting coke in a classroom with the professor with whom he was having an affair? Is he really an avid aerial wolfhunting enthusiast? You know you love me, XOXO, Gossip Girl Hannah McCarthy — Poetry Editor Hannah is the secret Victoria tried to keep. The palindrome of her name contains the secret, final digit of pi; however, the kind folks of Area 51 threatened instant death by pipe cleaner upon its revelation. No other mode would do, for her body is impervious to extreme changes of temperatures, which she found out after her pilgrimage to the sun, and the bottom of the Marianas trench. You may know her by her “freakishly large eyes,” the leading scientific description of this age, which offer her sight into the future. She enjoys long walks on Florida beaches, protracted by her titanium knees and man muscles, and getting caught in the rain.

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Editor’s Note (or, “We’ve Come a Long Way, Baby”) It is 11:26 on a Sunday night. I have class tomorrow morning and six chapters of a book left to read. But I’m still locked away in the Publications Lab in the possibly haunted basement of the Campus Center. There are finishing touches yet to be applied to this first print issue of the Gallery; I have spent the last twenty minutes scouring every line for misplaced apostrophes (if you notice one I missed, please forgive. It was late and I meant well, really.)

I am bleary-eyed, and alone, and there are strange thumping sounds echoing outside the door.

Honestly though, it’s cool. I haven’t been alone for that long, because fortunately, Laura and I managed to somehow put together a staff that’s so dedicated, they’ll come to impromptu meetings of indefinite lengths on weekend nights (two! in a row!) Graduation is terrifying, and I have already started searching the IKEA online catalog for cardboard box décor. But the one thing I’m not worried about is the future of this particular literary outfit. We’re small but kind of powerful, and we generally accomplish what we intend to.

We may not last another thirty years, but we’ll know we tried our damnedest.

It’s not that I decided to take this on because I’m affected by delusions of grandeur (Laura may be, but certainly not me). I’ll have you know that I’ve never even submitted a piece of writing or art to the Gallery (they’d probably shoot it down right in front of me. These kids are picky.) I don’t care so much about leaving my mark on the College — in fact, I didn’t even want to leave this mark on the magazine (but Andrew made me). In our experience with the rest of the lit mag family on campus, Laura and I — and the rest of our staff — just felt like there needed to be something…different. Not better necessarily, just something to fill the void we felt was there but couldn’t quite define. What was missing, we realized, was a magazine that made us want to be better writers altogether. We needed something to strive for that wouldn’t pigeonhole our creativity into a specific category. We wanted to read the best of what W&M students had to offer, whether it was about gender confusion or blue socks, written after Allen Ginsberg or William Wordsworth. And we wanted it to look like those fancy schmancy literary reviews you can buy at the bookstore for $10.

So, the Gallery was concocted from everyone else’s leftovers, plus the long tradition established by its predecessor, A Gallery of Writing. We hope to keep transforming the Gallery into what William & Mary students need in a literary magazine, to prove a valuable member of the College’s lit mag family, and to do so for a long, long time. And if it ever dies again and some snotnosed socially inept freshman wants to start it up, feel free to call me for tips, but please don’t ask for donations. Thanks.

Kelsey Parrish Editor-in-Chief

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