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TENEOR VOTIS I am bound by my responsibilities

©2019 Holy Family University, Philadelphia, PA All Rights Reserved i

Staff Editor-in-Chief Patrick Murray Editors Jacob Gutman Amanda Gurecki Sarah Maloy Art Coordinator Brittney Thompson Graphic Designer Robert Ficociello Layout Consultant Chris Pahnlick Faculty Moderators Dennis Millan Robert Ficociello Special Thanks to Dean Robbins for her unwavering support of Folio.

Note on the printing of this issue: Folio 42 was proudly created, printed, and bound on the Holy Family University campus.

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Folio Serving as Holy Family University’s literary magazine since 1959, Holy Family Folio is a lasting tradition that celebrates the creativity and artistic integrity of its contributors. Every year, Folio collects work submitted by students, faculty, and staff, compiling it all together to be printed in the magazine. The pages of the magazine include original works of prose, poetry, artwork, and photography. This collection process unfolds over the course of the Fall semester, during which Folio hosts various events to reach out to students to be involved.

It is during the Spring semester where the contributions come to life on the pages of the magazine, laid out and printed with great care by Folio’s wonderful staff. This all leads up to the annual Folio Night, where the newly printed magazine is distributed to the writers, artists, and photographers who helped bring it to life. These very same contributors are invited to share their works with the school, and the best of each respective category are presented with awards.

Folio is one of Holy Family’s longest-running publications and a tradition that we, the Folio Staff, treat with great respect. With great enthusiasm, we invite you to be a part of this tradition as well.

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Table of Contents “Boardwalk Sunset” by Ashley Beam Cover Art “Completely Full or Completely Empty” by Gabrielle Maloy i “Hello, Delicious Friend” by Kyle Knudson vi “One Heartbeat at a Time” by David Whelan 1 “A Lesson of the Soul” by Larry Hilton III 2 “Hymn to Heartbreak” by Kira Stallworth 4 “Evening, St. Catherine Church” by Mary Carroll Johansen 6 “Hymn of Praise” by Sister Doloretta Dawid 7 “The Hunger of Little Lee” by Jennea Coleman-Cubero 8 “Thanksgiving Dinner” by Jessica Bruzzese 9 “The Path of Time” by Jonathan Fredlund 11 “Sawmill Race” by Kevin Zook 12 “The Path to Autumn” by Jonathan Fredlund 14 “Grandpa’s Home” by Tyler Mulholland-Gain 15 “Las Flores” by Rowena Millan 22 “Vase of Flowers” by Rowena Millan 23 “River Blues” by Meggie Farber 24 “The Blacksmith” by Jeremy Selkow 25 “A Portrait from the Life” by Warren Hope 26 “In Him, with Him, and through Him” by Mary Ellen Graham 27 “To be a Salamander” by Mary Ellen Graham 28 “To be a Salamander” by Julie Kring 29 “Hagan” by Jim Acton 30 “Fish with Me Again” by Kevin Zook 32 “The Human Construct” by Jonathan Fredlund 34 “A Haiku for The Arctic Air” by Jennea Coleman-Cubero 35 “Hymn to the Inner Flame” by Saba Mufti 36 “Topaz Blues” by Meggie Farber 37 “My Cave” by Sister Doloretta Dawid 38 “Bryn Athyn Cathedral” by Amanda Gurecki 39 “The Crucifix” by Sister Doloretta Dawid 40 “The River Styx” by Sarah Maloy 41 “Today is a Day” by Caitlyn Connelly 42 “Praying” by Colin McKeon 44 “I Will Try” by Colin McKeon 45 “Child Post Egomaniac” by David VanDewater 46 iv

Table of Contents “Elfreth’s Alley” by Amanda Gurecki 47 “July” by Gabrielle Maloy 48 “Sunset in Cape May” Christy Hearn 49 “Simply Being” by Caitlyn Connelly 50 “Coffee Cup” by Amanda Gurecki 51 “Useful” by Molly McAtee 52 “Stairway to the Sun” by Tyler Mulholland-Gain 53 “Collateral Damage” by Kira Stallworth 54 “Dancers of Light and Fire” by Lawrence Goldberg 56 “Jake Ewald – Slaughter Beach, Dog” by Amber Schiffner 57 “Eternity” by Kira Stallworth 58 “Fall Foliage” by Rowena Millan 60 “Flower Blues” by Meggie Farber 61 “Private Party of One” by Sarah Kleinbrahm 62 “Tail” by Janice Xu 63 “The Tale of Jonathan Jeager and Ryley Conner”

by Jeremy Selkow 64 “Autumn Chore” by Thomas Lombardi 70 “Serenity” by Molly McAtee 72 “Composure” by Molly McAtee 73 “Roots” by Sarah Montgomery 74 “High Noon” by Larry Hilton III 75 “Unconditional Love” by Christie Hearn 76 “A Love Bite” by Colin McKeon 77 “Winter Flower” by Rachel Sweezy 78 “Pink and Green” by Amber Schiffner 79 “Measly Leaves and a Box of Matches” by Gabrielle Maloy 80 “Dancers of Light and Fire 3” by Lawrence Goldberg 81 “Bryn Athyn Cathedral” by Connor Crafton-Tempel 82 “The Phoenix” by Larry Hilton III 83 “Summer Sunset” by Cailin McGuire 84 Contributors 85

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One Heartbeat at a Time David Whelan I traveled so long on an unlit trail, Without your measure, without your scale I shivered so long outside the suns’ heat, Without your note, without your beat Went through many years, isolated, alone, Without your tambourine, without your tone I hid in a shadow for such a long time, Without your rhythm, without your rhyme I dwelt in darkness for so long, Without your voice, without your song Now, I’ve emerged from the dark, Love’s music and dance ignited the spark Moving onward toward the light, Like harmony and melody, we unite One heartbeat at a time.

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A Lesson of the Soul Larry Hilton III

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hat is the strongest feeling in one’s heart and soul?

Is it joy?

No. Joy is but a “high” one feels in a situational moment of excitement. Joy is both subjectable to change, and as fragile as a sheet of glass. All it takes is one twist of fate to come and shatter it.

Is it anger?

No. Anger is a plague, turning the most reasonably, rational individuals into wild bulls. All they see is red, and they charge into anything they see just to tear it down. But even the most violent beast can be tamed.

Is it love?

No. Love is just as blinding as anger. The only difference is that sometimes when you look at someone or something you love, you are unable to see things for what they truly are. In that moment, the pain becomes as sharp as a blade, and the heart is plunged into darkness.

Then it must be grief, is it not?

No. Grief is but a temporary response to pain. A mind-altering drug that turns one upon one’s self, torturing and tearing one’s very soul apart. But one would eventually realize that as one door closes, another door opens.

If none of these thoughts and feelings are considered the strongest, then what is?

Forgiveness. A single act of forgiveness can change the course of history.

Forgiveness allows us to overcome grief by understanding one’s flaws and those of your own.

Forgiveness allows us to find a safer and more peaceful outlet beyond the plague of anger.

Forgiveness allows us to continue to love, regardless of how great the odds are, and despite how rocky the roads become.

Forgiveness allows us to take back the power we’ve foolishly handed to others, and helps us find our joyful noise once more.

In the end, our souls continue to endure in harmony, so long as we remember to forgive others and forgive ourselves.

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I see.

So, what is the strongest feeling in one’s heart and soul?

Forgiveness.

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Hymn to Heartbreak Kira Stallworth Time & time again, We fall for our own heartbreak, Time & time again, We make the same mistake.

Something was done, Something was said, I can no longer trust you, To even break bread.

Someone has stormed out, While the other is in tears, Not knowing what to say—, Becomes the greatest fear.

You expressed yourself, But no one really understands, You have poor articulation, With a warm heart & cold hands.

You can almost taste it, The attitude on my lips, Hurling insult after insult, & sealing with a diss.

So many verbal blows, Only to reiterate the pain, Love is turned to hate, From you, I must refrain.

But who is it really, That breaks your heart?

Not just your boyfriend, It’s who was there from the start.

Our friends are a part of us, More than money can buy, But friends will break your heart, So much worse than a guy.

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We argue, we bicker, We get completely out of hand, But who is going to be there, When you cry about your man?

We fight all the time, In a war of clever prose, We bring each other down, Until our conscience has rose.

We are a dance, We harmonize as one, There’s a feeling in the beat, Even when clouds cover the sun.

We think in the same count, & vibe to the same groove, We analyze each lyric, & have fire in the way we move.

We take on a routine, Until the rhythm has changed, We are here for each other, So let there be rain.

Our friends bring out the best, But they also bring out the worse, But we will always get through, A tough time & hurt. ~~~~~ Heartbreak is intimacy, Heartbreak is love, Heartbreak is friendship, But we shall all rise above.

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Evening, St. Catharine Church Mary Carroll Johansen

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Hymn of Praise Sister Doloretta Dawid In the early morning hours when dawn is drawing near the world awakens slowly.

Sitting quietly, one becomes aware of the sounds that beckon a call to worship: doors opening and closing, water running, footsteps along the hallways.

Outside: The gentle rolling thunder of a train and the distant echo of its whistle as it travels towards its destination.

These do not become distractions but rather a presence that leads to praise of the Creator the Maker of the universe.

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The Hunger of Little Lee Jennea Coleman-Cubero Christmas time is here again!

Homes and trees are in array, Stuff is bought, money is gained!

Yet streets are in disarray.

In the cold, damp area, A boy by the name of “Lee”, Lays in with insomnia.

“Where is mommy and daddy?”, His mind inquired once more, “Why are they not home with me?”

With knowledge, his heart grew sore.

That, he knew internally, Mother and father are gone.

Have been for quite awhile.

Alive? The question goes on.

Where to? More than a mile.

What little Lee could recall, Was a quarrel, harsh words ensued.

The next thing Lee knew was that allAll, but him and his low mood, Vanished into the spring night.

And now, here is poor sweet Lee, With poverty at its height, And with a stomach empty.

Chicken, turkey, honey ham, Christmas cookies, cakes and pies, A bevy of goods would ram, Ram right in to cause his cries.

Vacant stomach, gurgling, Occupied mind thinking so, As a storm goes rumbling.

My friends, remember this woe. I beseech you, remember.

As you through any time, When lights glow red and amber, Allow your pure thoughts to chime, Of children like little Lee, Suffering from poverty.

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Thanksgiving Dinner Jessica Bruzzese

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or Thanksgiving the past two years, we started cooking at home since I have been at college. I have not been able to make dinner when they would go out to the restaurant like every other year. On Wednesday we would have to start the gardinera (which is a vinegary salad) since it has to marinate for a day to start getting the flavor to build up. When they all got home on Wednesday I was busy working on my biology paper. We planned on having salad since we would be eating a ton of food the next day, which was Thanksgiving. My mom and her boss had to go and get some mozzarella, so me and my sister started cutting up the food for the salad. We decided to start chopping the food for the salad instead of waiting since we did not want to be eating late. When they got back an hour later we had just about finished chopping everything up.

After eight o’clock we were finally ready to eat. After dinner we cleaned up and started getting everything we would need for the gardinera. We only had two medium size cutting boards, so one of us had to use the tiny one.

They would only be able to cut pieces that were not already huge since they did not have a lot of space. My sister, my mom’s boss, and I were all busy cutting up everything for the gardinera. This year we were prepared to be up until almost 11 o’clock cutting everything up into bite size pieces. Last year, it had taken a few hours to eat and get all the pieces chopped up. My mom was busy opening the cans for us and getting other things prepared.

My sister and my mom’s boss had gone to bed before me and my mom, since she was getting the Jell-O ready. I stayed up as long as I could since I was waiting for my phone to finish charging, but by 11 I decided to head upstairs since I was getting tired.

The next day we had breakfast before getting our Thanksgiving dinner ready. We had made some croissant and some fruit to make it a light breakfast. We were also watching the Thanksgiving parade as we were eating, and there was many new balloons added to the parade this year. We then had to prepare the turkey since it would take the longest to cook. Since it would need to get up to 165 degrees. After emptying the turkey we had to butter it to give it a nice golden brown when it cooks. We put the neck, heart, kidneys and liver from the turkey in to a pot to cook. We then got the mash potatoes in the pot, but this year we did something different with them. They put slices of mozzarella on top along with bread crumbs. As it cooks in the oven, the top layer of potatoes are all cheesy and crunchy from the bread crumbs. My mom put the string beans and garlic into the pan to cook them.

As well as a small pot with the gravy for the turkey when it would be finished later. When the turkey got half way done, we put the neck, heart, kidney, and livers into the tray to get some extra flavor. The next thing to cook was the stuffing. Last year we must have used a smaller tray to make stuffing 9

because this year we had made twice the amount. In between all the cooking I was going between working and helping out, since I did not just want to be working. After we had dinner we cleaned the table so we could get it set for dessert. As we were cleaning up my mom’s boss and my sister filled up some containers with food to take with them the next day.

The purpose of this story is that during the holidays you get to spend more time with your family. You can spend it cooking, shopping, or just sitting around the house. I felt that this was important because for up to eight months a year I am stuck at college so I do not get to see my family much. Since I am at college for most of the year it is a nice way to spend time together while we are all home. Instead of us doing separate things we spend it together, even though I did not get to see my grandparents or my cousins.

It was nice to spend time making the gardinera since we only started this tradition last year, since they started going to a restaurant a week before I come home. I hope we can continue this tradition after I get out of college.

Many people now do not spend time cooking together, there is ether just one person cooking while everyone relaxes, or they go out to a restaurant.

Even if they are spending time together in the restaurant that is only an hour or so unlike if they spent it together cooking for a few hours. Spending those few hours cooking can be more meaningful to everyone then just ordering at a restaurant. Also black Friday has been taking away peoples family time on Thanksgiving because stores are opening as earliest at 6pm. This can get in the way of peoples time because they would have to eat and basically run out, cutting down how much time they spend with each other. Going shopping together is spending time together, but not time that you will remember.

Stores should really only open up at 10pm the earliest, so families are not rushing to eat and be done by 7 the latest so they could start black Friday shopping on Thursday. I rather not go back to a restaurant for Thanksgiving after I get out of college since cooking at home is more enjoyable.

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The Path of Time Jonathan Fredlund

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Sawmill Race Kevin Zook Evening calls of katydids In trees beyond a rusty gate, Muted by the brittle breeze And golden nights of Autumn's late And length'ning shadows cast upon Hand-knitted caps of woolen yarn, And morning cornfield cock-bird cackle Out behind an old black barn.

Oak leaves falling, chainsaw calling, Oh, to see my father’s face Again, with sawdust in my shoes.

Take me back to Sawmill Race.

Molasses on the Franklin warming, Drizzled wedge of mincemeat pie, Smokey chimney curls against A steely gray November sky, Walnuts drying by the woodstove, Gathered in their blackened hulls, Brown eggs gathered ‘neath white hens, Porch swing songs at wheelbarrow lulls, Hard-cider sipping, pumpkin frost nipping At my toes, Oh can’t you taste Half-moon pies cooling and coffee brewing?

Come with me to Sawmill Race.

12 gauge fights blackberry brambles, Chasing bright brass Britt’ny bell.

Orange and white ahead in sight, Falls silent as she tries to tell

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Of grouse about to take to wing, A thund’ring banded fan-tail flies.

Fence-row shagbark hickory limbs Hide gray for promised boys’ pot pies.

Hunting boot leather, flannel shirt weather, Time frozen in this sacred place, Corn stalk rustles whisper welcome Home again to Sawmill Race.

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The Path to Autumn Jonathan Fredlund

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Grandpa’s Home Tyler Mulholland-Gain

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swift gust of wind teases the wild grass that calls out with a light bristle.

The blades waving in unison at the sun perched overhead, hanging in the sky like a bulb from a lamp, kissing the sides of a house in disarray with its searing beams. The house itself left on its own in disrepair, the grass around it now crawling up to claim it inch by inch, clutching onto the doorstep, a brown mat tattooed “Welcome!” the endpoint of a slate cement pathway hidden under the unkempt green, hiding from the rising sun. Beyond the doormat, unsurprisingly, lies a door with nothing special at all of it, merely serving as the bridge to fill the gap between the ever-fading walls with grey finish that once glowed as a vibrant blue. Furthest from the door, a car sits in park right next to the curb, just on the corner next to a metal pole sticking out of the ground with a green sign reading “Cedar Lane.” Three car doors slam shut, three pairs of feet tread on the grass, crushing the blades as they crunch in bitter agony at the presence of the first guests in two years.

“Mom, do we really have to?” asks the eldest boy, bending forward into the car window from the grass. “Come now, Chuck, you’re getting an early weekend for cripes sake! And you promised your Pop months ago you would you’d have the house cleaned up by the time he came back from Korea.”

The youngest of the three dashes through the tall grass. “Grandpa’s House!” he yells, his sister tailing behind him, snagging him before he tears down the door.

Chuck leans in closer, almost in a whisper, “Did we really have to bring him?”

“Yes Chuck, if you and your sister get to play hooky, he does too, it’s only fair.”

“But-” “Not a word more!” she barked, dangling a set of keys in front of him.

Chuck sighs and moans as he snatches the keys before turning to trot toward his siblings, Penny holding their baby brother back from barging down the door. Chuck kicks the dirt beneath his feet, some grass flying up with it only for a shrill voice to stop him in his tracks, calling out behind him from the car window, “And remember not to talk about you know what, or else-” “Or else Dad puts me through a wall, yeah, got it.”

Chuck raises his arm to wave, but his mother speeds off before his arm could bend. He trudges his way through the jungle, the lone animal trying to work its way free from Penny’s grip.

“Cut it, Chet” Chuck’s chide falls on deaf ears, Chet’s need to disobey had been firing on all cylinders today ever since breakfast, the car ride there was only just the beginning of his reign of terror. Chuck lets out another sigh, his tenth 15

one today! He unlocks the door and Chet attempts to zoom into the parlor, Chuck extending his thin arm out, stopping all but the air from passing through. Chuck turns around, Penny squinting at him impatiently.

“Okay knuckleheads, I’m in charge now so-” “Now listen here!” Penny chimes in, making a case as to why she “don’t have to listen to him” but she does so in vain as the two begin talking over one another, reciting a lengthy list of made-up rules and garble, to which Chet simply tunes out, business as usual for him. He limbos under Chuck’s arm and wanders through the doorway, the stench of stale air creeping into his nostrils accompanied by the taste of cigars and whiskey forever stuck to the white carpets with brown splatters scattered around the room.

The once black curtains now have tinges of gray from the cocoons of dust crusted around them with beams of light flowing through the cracks and gray particles swimming in the light. He follows the ray of light further into a parlor until he comes upon a gathering of furniture, two beige sofas, a glass coffee table in the center, and a sleek ash tray being the only thing without a hint of soot. The beam finds its way into Chet’s eyes and he swings his hand up to cut it off but in doing so, he creates waves in the airway, the particles now swarming like disturbed wasps, flying into Chet’s mouth as he inhales.

His tongue quickly cracks up, turning bone dry with a taste of chalk and old cigarette evicting his saliva, a sharp tickle just in the back of his throat like a dried hair scratching the very back of his tongue, his nostrils playing along tingling with every small breath, increasing in intensity until…

“ACHOO!” His sneeze punches a hole into the dense dirt cloud.

“Bless-” rings Penny, “Shew! This place needs a dustin’!”

Penny flutters over to the broom closet under the stairway in search of a feather duster. Chuck paces through the living room toward the door to the yard and begins his mission in home improvement, but not before pointing his finger sharply at Chet.

“Now like I said on the doorstep, you just sit there and stow it!”

“The child can do as he pleases, like I said on the doorstep!” Penny chimes in.

Penny is the middle child, but the eldest sibling at heart. She begins a clean sweep of the house with her feather duster in hand.

“Fine,” sighed Chuck, “But even Penny agrees - upstairs is off limits.”

Chet gives a brisk little nod in response.

“Alright, blast!” Chuck says, waving Chet away as he marches into the yard to pry open Grandpa’s old shed. He opens the doors and pulls out a big red brick with four wheels and blades on the belly side - the love child of the automobile and the helicopter: the lawn mower. He yanks the cord and the loud rumble of grass consumption hums its tune. Chet immediately goes around the parlor’s bend to the wooden staircase, just as splintered as the door through which they just entered, and starts his climb on all-fours, but not before Penny gives the collar of his shirt a scolding tug and Chet immediately changes course, plopping himself on a beige sofa. The gray mist flies up into his face and the process begins once more: the cracking of the 16

tongue, the drying of the tongue, the throat tickling, and the nose follows suit...

“ACHOO!” His saliva spatters onto the carpet.

Penny tosses the tissue box over to Chet. It lands on the coffee table, knocking the ash tray over, leaving a small trail of disturbed dust in its wake.

“How come Grandpa never cleaned up?” asks Chet.

“Well, he kind of just didn’t…not since poor old Nan… bought the farm,” Penny trails off.

“Momma told me Grandma went to heaven, not a farm! Why don’t she ever visit?” the naïve boy rang, unaware of the euphemism.

Penny looks down for a moment, a sharp glisten in her eyes, the only thing bright on her now morose face. She quietly continued dusting as the hum of the lawn mower sung its song through the thin walls from the outside.

As time passes by, Chet keeps tabs on it by watching the beam of light sink from the wall to the floor, and he impatiently begins to stir, his glances over at the staircase at constant intervals. Penny catches his glances and is kept alert, but as she just finishes up her war on grime, she perks up as she stumbles across the old radio behind the large sofa.

“Golly! Pop used to play this for us all the time, do you even remember this, Chet?”

Chet, now almost dozing off in boredom, shifts his attention from the stairs over to the colossal wooden box, the black twisty knobs, the rough pockets where the man in the box would speak out of: this was the thing of which all of those stories were told by way back when! Chet walks over as Penny tunes the radio, adjusting the dials, the arrow moving up and down the spectrum, static pouring through and drowning out the humming of the lawn mower. Chet dreamily looks up, seeing jolly old Grandpa, the human embodiment of the sky in his fat blue pants and his white sweater underneath, tinkering with the radio as Grandpa loves to tinker, with his cigar tinkling between his rough lips, grey fuzz trickling down them to his chin, wrapping around his face as if the dust of the house was growing on him and his smooth bald head: a beacon for the sunlight to glow from and glow it did.

He looks down at Chet, his face a rugged mountain range with deep valleys running deep up his face, his grey eyes near-asleep in their socket beds, his droopy skin underneath the unkempt sheets sitting behind the large thick windows scratched with finger prints close to the black frames. He mumbles in his hoarse voice, a cough only at first…

“Remember this song, Chester?” his gravelly voice rumbled.

Chet blinks himself awake, Penny is back in the room smiling to the sound of Grandpa’s old radio. Chet lies back down on the couch and notices the ash tray on the floor. He bends forward and reaches for it. The song on the radio screeches to a halt, a speedy newscaster takes the reins.

“We interrupt this program to bring you news of a helicopter crash just outside of Kaesong, North Kor-” Penny flicks the radio off so hard the dial snaps off and rolls under the sofa. She looks over at Chet with a worrisome stare; he is perplexed by the ash tray, deciphering the engraving on the side 17

like some sort of code: poor little Chet just didn’t have the reading thing down yet.

“Penny, what does simper fiddles mean?”

Penny grabs the tray from him and places it on the top of the radio, out of his small reach.

“Pop says that to his pals sometimes, I’m not sure,” she shrugs as she rubs the lettering printed on the front, the words reading “Semper fidelis.”

The humming of the lawn mower comes to a close, Chuck waltzes in, skin red with sweat, or “labor sickness” as he calls it.

“What do you think Pop got you from his trip?” pipes up Penny.

Chet looks at her in confusion as Chuck scratches his head, wondering.

“Oh, I forgot, Chet doesn’t know, Chuck!”

“Well sure, he wasn’t born till about a year after Pop’s first trip, knucklehead. I doubt he would of.”

“Oh, blow why don’t ya?”

Chuck sticks his tongue out at Penny and fixes himself a glass of water.

“Well Chet, you see Grandpa always brings home wonderful gifts from abroad!” Penny beamed. Chet takes a swig of water, shaking his head.

“Speak for yourself, he got me a dumb jar of sand that said ‘Japan’ on it, you got that gold and purple heart-shaped necklace.”

“Buzz off, Chuck!”

Chuck shuffles outside, ladder in hand and as he steps onto the porch, pausing only for a moment to scan the flat green ahead of him - the battle against nature is won for now. But there is something else about the lawn; his chest now a cage and a bird inside, fluttering around tickling his nerves, shrinking into a pile of feathers after just a brief moment, leaving behind a certain warmth that toasted his heart lightly, but also a certain sense of longing for that feeling to come back. Chuck sees out on the lawn good old Pop, exuberant as ever, in slacks and suspenders dripping wet in the sunlight, steaming like a tea kettle in his red face, smooth as iron, hair clean cut and black as coal. He was painting the house, his white shirt speckled blue, his chest a cloudy day. He looks over; he painted so much his upper lip it seemed to be growing thick brown bristles of its own. His eyes, sharp and gray, spotlights honed in on Chuck, he snaps his hand over, and one finger casts out like a harpoon with a fine point, aimed directly at Chuck. A booming voice fires like a cannon, “Listen here, Knucklehead, today’s the day you learn ta paint!”

Chuck smiles ear to ear as he finishes remembering the days before Japan when his old Pop had hair and he props the ladder up against the wall, the rust-crusted gutter shifting in discomfort with a grind, groaning louder and louder as Chuck makes his rise up the ladder, a paint can and brush equipped. Chuck gives the ladder a shake as he’s on it and the gutter seems to settle after a final desperate cry and Chuck begins stroking his brush against the dim grey wall, giving it life anew with a deep blue, ignoring the gutter’s quiet cries of pain as it shifts under his heavy ladder with every stroke of his brush.

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Indoors, Penny wins the war on the ground, now ready to take her fight to the skies! She zips to the staircase and soars upwards into the murky second floor. Chet makes a self-governed decision to follow. He assumes position on all fours and prepares his ascent. In that instant, Penny slides down the banister, the fragile, defenseless wood grunting in pain, cracking under her weight. She dismounts immediately and waves her feather in Chet’s face, the process begins…

“Hold it, Bucko!” she barks.

The chalky cracked tongue…

“What did Chuck say?” she continues.

The throat tickles…

“No going upstairs, you knucklehead!” she brushes his face with the filthy feather.

The nose plays along…

“Now go bug Chuck or-” “ACHOO!” Right into Penny’s now scrunched up, reddening face, the steam just begins to pour form her ears in fury when Chuck lets out a holler that shakes the rafters, the drum-scratching shriek of metal carrying too much weight in tandem with his yell. In no time at all, a thud and splashes are heard, and then quiet moans keep the ears at work. Penny drops her feather duster and scuttles out. Chet drops to all-fours and begins navigating around the wooden ledges and the splinters mines.

Outside, Chuck lies flat next to his grounded ladder, a shadow of a dangling detached gutter dancing over his paint-drenched torso, spatters of blue all over him, his entire body a clear blue day. Penny snickers, placing her hands on her hips, “Well hi-de-ho!” she laughs.

“Hardy har-har” grunts Chuck.

Chuck attempts to stand, but his right ankle disagrees, audibly crackling to let him know he won’t be standing on it for a few weeks.

“Painting is for the birds!” he mumbles as Penny helps him into the house.

The pair hobbles into the sparkling parlor and Chuck crashes down onto the sofa, some blue speckles rubbing off onto it.

“Pop is gonna flip his wig!” Penny gasps, “It’s the last couple weeks of class, you think I wanted to kick off summer without my left foot, knucklehead?” Chuck growls.

Penny starts giggling, covering her mouth with her hand. She sees grumpy old Pop on the couch, just back from Japan, his right leg wrapped in a thick cast, his crutches just on the floor in his reach should he need them. His hair messy and without sheen, his face grainy as sand and his brow seemingly stuck at an angry slant, his harsh gray eyes lit with his arms crossed across his wrinkly grey shirt, a storm brewing on his torso as he grew tired of sitting idle. His fading teeth hidden by a gray cloud stitched to his jaw that bit down hard on a fat cigar and his gravelly voice carried by smoke spewed out.

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“Well, what is it?” he grunts.

Penny pipes down with a relaxed sigh and squats down next to Chuck.

“Say, do you remember what Pop looks like?” she asks.

“I remember him different every day to be honest, I can’t believe he’s been in Korea for two years” replies Chuck, “Didn’t he fight enough in the last war?”

“Hey! Keep your voice down, you know we can’t talk about the war around Chet!” she says in a whisper.

“I don’t see why we have to hide it, Pop’s just gonna show him his war room upstairs when he gets back,” Chuck sighed, crossing his arms.

Penny nods knowingly. The two sat in silence for a moment, an empty kind of silence. Suddenly, a shift upstairs, the siblings look at one another in fear.

Chet strolls into a pitch-black room, light from the hallway illuminating only half of a desk in the middle of the void, the lamp upon it just out of his reach. Chet climbs onto a soft chair, his weight shifts it backwards and it begins to teeter back. He grabs hold of the drawer handle and pulls it from the desk as he goes down with the chair. Lying there on his back, a piece of wrinkly paper floats down onto his face. The light flashes on suddenly, Chet’s eyes seem to fail him and as he’s whisked up by Penny’s arms, seeing an old sword hung on the wall, and a glass case with a scorched white flag with a red circle in the middle and a long rifle stood up in a case before Penny whisks him from the room. The door is closed before he catches anything more, the paper he holds tightly in his hands.

“Can you read this?” Chet asks, pushing the paper in her face.

Penny sighs and sits down, all three now in the living room. Penny clears her throat, scanning for any foul language to gloss over.

“Penny what are you doing?” Chuck breathes at the site of the letter.

“Mom said Chet’s too young to-” “You said yourself Pop’s just gonna show him this when he gets back…”

Penny trails off, her focus now on the letter.

“Nance, Hey, Hi, and Hell, Sorry this letter is so late - about two years overdue by my count. Tojo’s been kicking our…butts the past few. Poor old Shamus bought the farm yesterday, the baste-…uh…guy saved my life.

Now, I don’t want to cause you any worry, there ain’t no need.

We both know your old dad’s always been too poor to keep up that shack your mother is living in on Cedar, let alone buy a whole farm. I’m coming home soon, they get me safe and sound in the med bay, I took a good one to the leg. Till then, keep those two little knuckleheads safe.

See you soon, kiddo.

-Pop Penny puts down the letter, tears streaming into her eyes while she 20

is holding onto her Purple Heart necklace, wishing old pop never went to Korea, and just stayed on the couch after Japan. Chuck sits quietly, sniffing loudly and rubbing his face, hoping Pop helps him finish painting the old house instead of jumping at the chance to go to war a third time, should the opportunity arise. Chet sits still, a blank expression on his fresh face, wondering why Grandpa doesn’t just sell the house and buy a farm instead.

Just then a tall man steps through the front door, and a sense of urgency floods the room. The siblings look up, beaming with hope only for a moment, only to have that hope dissipate at the recognition of their father, his face solemn and grim, hesitant to speak.

“Kids, we have to go get your mom from work…Your grandpa was flying and…his helicopter…”

Their father trails off as he catches a glimpse of Chet sitting there smiling wide at him. His next words he picks very carefully. “Grandpa bought the farm” falls onto their ears in hopes of sparing Chet from the horrors of war, the saying still lost on him. Penny drops her heart on the floor, the thuds beating deep and weighty. Chuck struggles to sit up, his face flushed pale as the unpainted house - disbelief sucked from as too his liveliness. Chet perks up, and, although he doesn’t smile, the mood hints anomalies to him.

So, he just sits there, now wondering, when they too would visit grandpa on the farm.

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Las Flores Rowena Millan

22

Vase of Flowers Rowena Millan

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River Blues Meggie Farber The wind blows, the wind blows The wind blows, the wind blows Orange hair like fire sits against my shoulders So much to explore here Tree branches touching my hands Tree branches touching my hands Rain falling steadily against my shoulders Calming feeling washed over me I sit on the river bank I sit on the river bank Opening my eyes I’m back in my bed at home

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The Blacksmith Jeremy Selkow Hammer strikes steel The fire glows red Hammer strikes steel A song as old as man Hammer strikes steel The blade glows white Hammer strikes steel The smith’s arms grow heavy Hammer strikes steel Into the water to cool its heart With sharpening stone and hilt a sword is born

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A Portrait from the Life Warren Hope Critics are bound to say the thing is slight, A sketch and little more of just a head; Sitter and painter both unknown, but quite Clearly a pair of lovers now long dead.

Such data—hunches—should not influence Our judgment of a work: it is technique Or else the tracking of a provenance That lets us sort the strong work from the weak.

She looks up at the painter with a stare As he adjusts the oak wreath in her hair That I find suddenly familiar And so begin confusing you with her— Recognizing the earrings that she wears As those I first saw dangling from your ears.

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In Him, With Him, and Through Him Mary Ellen Graham Thin and angular, our priest grasped the walker and leaned in.

Enveloped by vestments, he lurched toward the altar.

Safely there, two male angels hoisted him onto a perch.

Then time stopped.

Lost from sight in a stunning fall, our priest lay A crumpled heap.

But the angels stretched and hoisted Raising our, rumpled and uncertain priest, but whole.

Still he fumbled for his place, searching for the words.

Spare him! I implored.

But the angels leaned in once more, stood fast, and waited.

And in time, from the depths of his priestly soul, hands firm and voice certain, the sacred vessels rose.

And we and our priest intoned “In Him, With Him, And Through Him.”

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To Be a Salamander Mary Ellen Graham If I were a salamander, I would slip into a smooth, silken wrap, shoulders bared.

My days would be filled with possibilities, my nights with mystery.

Time would stall.

But I am not a salamander and my skin ripples, my mind wanders, my heart falters The numbers punctuate the darkness - one then another and another.

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To Be a Salamander Julie Kring

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Hagan Jim Acton

H

agan collected junk six days a week. On the seventh day he rested, but not before he went to mass at St. Francis de Sales in West Philadelphia.

He was my mother's age, late 30s, I suppose, although I never considered him an adult like mom. He was about 5’ 6” and a tad chunky. He had short, dark brown hair and a handsome Irish face. He wore a white T-shirts and dungarees. When it got cold, he wore a Navy P-coat over his T-shirt and a Navy watch cap that was too small for his head. He was never in the Navy, though. He never even went to school, according to my mother.

I remember asking my mother, “What’s wrong with Hagan?” She smiled and said, “Not sure. He’s simple, but he’s kind, a hard worker, too.

He’s a good man, she added.” She told me never to make fun of him. Back then you could say “He’s simple” or “There’s something wrong with him” and not be mean. No one knew the right words to use.

Hagan walked like he was being pushed from behind by an invisible hand, like he was about to take a header. He took giant steps to keep his balance. My friend Michael’s aunt, a nun, told Michael and me that the Holy Ghost was the invisible man pushing Hagan. She probably meant, the heavenly force guiding Hagan, but Michael and I took her literally. We didn’t think in divine categories like the nuns. She also said that Hagen would go straight to heaven when he died. Michael and I were jealous. Neither one of us wanted to spend one second in Purgatory.

Hagan often stuttered when he spoke, but he had no trouble smiling and laughing. You could tell him the dumbest joke, and he’d laugh, so not to hurt our feelings, I suppose. He was incapable of anger. He was never mad: never in a bad mood.

His first name was Jack, but no one really called him that. On the odd occasion, though, my mother might say, "Good morning Jack Hagan."

Hagan walked the Kingsessing section of Philadelphia in the ‘50s and ‘60s collecting bottles and cans, newspapers, scraps of wood and metal – anything that was salvageable. He’d walk down one side of the street and up the other side. He’d walk the entire neighborhood, which took in parts of Southwest and West Philadelphia. Mrs. Walsh, the Irish lady who lived next door to us, described his route as his “path to prosperity.” I didn’t know what that meant. Everyone liked Hagan. Cops would wave and yell, “Yo, Hagan!” as they drove down 52nd Street in their patrol cars. The milkman, the breadman, the insurance man who carried a fat book of receipts, they would all say hello.

Hagan pulled a large wooden tumbledown wagon. It looked straight out of the 18th century, something that was used to haul crates of chickens to market. He kept the wagon wheels well oiled. He’d be out of sight, long gone, but the smell of 3-IN-ONE Oil would linger like cologne. On the front of his

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wagon he had a tin replica of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers.

Sixty years ago, Christopher was considered the patron saint of travelers.

He’s not today. I thought saints always kept their titles.

A guy on Woodland Avenue paid Hagan for his stuff by the pound, except for the soda bottles. Hagan would take them to the corner store.

Twelve-ounce bottles were worth two cents; quart bottles were worth five cents. Hagan gave most of his income to his aunt, his guardian. No one knew what happened to his parents. My mother heard from a neighbor that Hagan's father took off when Hagan was a boy, and his mother died shortly thereafter.

Occasionally, on a hot summer day, my mother would invite Hagan in for a Coke. He wouldn’t say much. He’d sit at the kitchen table and smile.

When he was finished, he’d stutter, “Got wor-wor work to do. Tha-tha-thank you, Kathleen.” He never had trouble saying Kathleen. My mother would often give him a candy bar or a piece of fruit to take with him.

Sometimes, before he continued his rounds, my mother would send him to Keenan's Grocery Store down the street to pick up the papers. One day she gave him two dimes and told him to get the Daily News and the Bulletin. Because the Bulletin hadn’t been delivered to the store yet, Hagan returned with two copies of the Daily News. My mother just smiled. She gave him 15 cents for his efforts. If I had done that, she would’ve had me return the extra Daily News.

In February of 1971, my mother wrote to tell me Hagan had died. He was 51. I was in the Air Force then, stationed in Japan. My mother wrote that he was laid out in a suit his aunt had bought, probably the only time he had worn a suit. His funeral mass was at Saint Francis de Sales. She wrote that the church was packed with people. That made me feel good. Guys like Hagan usually go through life invisible. But Hagan was very visible and very real and very well liked. There’s no doubt he went straight to heaven, without having to sit in a terminal in Purgatory waiting for his flight.

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Fish with Me Again Kevin Zook There are trout to be caught in Kish Creek . . .

Limestone chill through valley farms, My soft-hackle wets on downstream swing, Emerging, yet no mayfly wing.

Hungry jolt to buttery leap, Rod and you pulse in my arms.

Meet me there at dawn.

Fish with me again.

There are trout to be hooked in Licking Creek . . .

Hemlock-bough rings betray secret lies, Feathered drummers ‘neath singing reels, Smokey black skillet, heavy fern-lined creels.

Parabolic Fenwick bend!

Tempting, drift your Catskill dries.

Meet me there at noon.

Fish with me again.

There are trout to be stalked in Honey Creek . . .

Sweet tumbling ribbon, flashing native white-edged jewels, Evening cloud of day-long duns: gulping, sipping, Fluttering caddis to thin film dipping.

Your line floats upstream, mine sinks down, Angling partners share mirror pools.

Meet me there at dusk.

Fish with me again.

More than fins our cold creek currents hold . . .

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Hip-boot hikes through morning meadow dew, Stories told—both caught and catcher grow, Venturing yet farther, taking all I know.

Creels void now but forever hearts full, Moments deep ‘tween me and you.

Can you meet me streamside now?

Will you fish with me . . . always?

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The Human Construct Jonathan Fredlund

A Haiku for the Artic Air Jennea Coleman-Cubero The sky is cloudy, The hearth burns a sweet-smoked smell, All while peace is here.

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Hymn to the Inner Flame Saba Mufti There is a shadow amidst our presence.

An unseen power guides through among us.

How do you tell the existence of something, If its whereabouts are unknown?

A question I once was asked, And an answer I shall venture.

When I look around, I am aware of the inevitable.

A mother’s love is like no other, And yet I can already tell it is there.

Heed my words and stare into the river, You will see a reflection of what was created by love.

When ocean meets moon, There is a certain luster in the sky.

When two streams meet to form a river, There is harmony.

The sun may never meet the moon, Except during a rare event we call an eclipse.

You can be born anew, Much like a cherry blossom tree.

That once was a tree with green leaves, And transformed into a pink beauty.

When those greens were lost in Autumn, And called for regrowth in Spring.

If you look deep down in your heart, You can find your hidden potential.

Giving up is not an answer, Memories and love help us live on.

The key to your inner music box, Is what determines your success.

If you never cease to believe, Even the seemingly impossible can become possible.

If such a power exists to guide us, Then reaching a true end can be achievable.

If you look to the light and sense a spark inside, You will find a flame of hope from within.

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Topaz Blues Meggie Farber Fly! Fly! Come on! Fly! Fly! Fly! Come on! Fly! The small feathered animal sat in my hand Eyes like Topaz, big and bright Black and white feathers Black and white feathers Graceful glistening wings Only owlet left in the nest He takes off He takes off My little boy takes off He began to fly on his own

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My Cave Sister Doloretta Dawid There is a cave within my heart wherein only two may enter Where I am I and You are You Where despite the chill outside there is present a warmth within It is within this cave of love that I am free to be just me and you my Lord who share this place quietly molds and creates my being Your presence in this cave of love enables me to grow and share your love for all in life I meet.

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Bryn Athyn Cathedral Connor Crafton-Tempel

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The Crucifix Sister Doloretta Dawid As I sit staring at the crucifix

What do I see?

Jesus hanging on a cross You, Jesus dying on a tree What else do I see?

You, Jesus broken, bruised You, Jesus filled with pain Why? to set me free To set me free?

Is that why you died for me?

As I sit staring at the crucifix What is it Jesus you want to share? your body scourged?

your thorn-crowned head?

your hands and feet?

Stretched and nailed?

What are you saying to me Lord?

Your body broken and bruised

Your body scourged

Your thorn-crowned head

Tour pierced hands and feet Yet more I hear you say

Come, come closer child

to my cross

There is no need to have remorse

For life’s past failures Love is why I died Love for you especially I love you still

Come, come closer child

and lean on me

Then surely you will be free!

I thank you Jesus for loving me A little more clearly now I see

Why you died for me!

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The River Styx Sarah Maloy

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Today Is a Day Caitlyn Connelly Today is a day Full of biblical pain But it may be the only day to play However it is such a drain Today is a day Surrounded by loved ones Who sit by you and pray While the spasms burn like numerous suns Today is a day Twisting like ancient trees Pills in array Wishing life was just a breeze Today is a day You are beyond tired Wishing your body would fly away Sleep, which you have not had in days, is beyond desired Today is a day You are fighting Even through your body is in decay And then your body erupts into lightning Today is a day Every hard swallow makes it a chore to eat You want to run away However you can not retreat Today is a day The miscommunications of your brain In massive disarray Causing the greatest pain Today is a day You are fighting the spasms immensely But they will not stay at bay Twisting and spasming intensely

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Today is a day You are alive Like a beautiful bouquet You have a choice to survive Today is a day To dream and hope About a different day And to stop sliding down the slippery slope of mope Today is a day To find better treatments and perhaps a more comfortable allure That day is why it is worth while to stay And this torture may only temporary to endure Today is a day To explore, accept and advance For this suffering to finally be thrown away To have a chance

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Praying Colin McKeon

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I Will Try Colin McKeon

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Child Post Egomaniac David Van Dewater You’re a Father, A warrior, A protector, You’re a leader.

You are our Father, You choose to lead this Child, You choose to protect this Child, Yet you choose to hurt this Child.

What was fun to you, Hurt me.

What was nothing to you, Was everything to me.

Your Child endured the pain, Your Child endured the heart ache, Your Child endured the confusion, Your Child knew nothing else.

Pain, confusion, emotional distraught You brought this onto your Child, You thought you showed them how the world truly is, But you just showed them how cold you were.

This Child, Looked to you for guidance, Looked to you for help.

This Child could not understand.

Father, Without you I am lost.

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Elfreth’s Alley Amanda Gurecki

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July Gabrielle Maloy

I

thought I would be scared when the shot was fired. I expected to be paralyzed, frozen with fear and unable to think, let alone move. From images in movies and in media, I had pieced together the experience I’d have should I ever be shot at: fear, a bit of shock, desperation to survive, shaking in my hands and a quivering voice. There would be some staggering and stammering, I’d try to run for my life, but my legs would wobble and would want to give out from beneath me. I might be so fortunate as to avoid the first bullet, but within a minute, the gunmen would make their mark, and my eyes would gloss over with my heartbreaking fall onto the pavement.

All these years later, I now realize that this dream was vastly inaccurate.

I was not afraid or paralyzed. My knees did not buckle and my legs did not give way. I didn’t even try to run; I wasn’t scared. In fact, I was almost sentimental at the sound of the first bullet leaving the chamber, because somewhere in my mind I was vaguely reminded of those grandiose fireworks displays that illuminated the summer sky of the town I grew up in. Every July fourth, there was a huge celebration for Independence Day, and every July fourth, my father would take me to see the fireworks. Raised as a person with many siblings, there were few times in my life that I had an experience with my father that was uniquely my own, not watered down by the presence of my sisters or mother, and yet every year our time spent together remained unchanging. We’d hike up this large hill behind the firehouse and sit in silence, watching the night sky be filled with man-made stars, wonders of beauty that one can never truly put into words. That night was ours and ours alone, and the sounds and sights and smells of that time were ones that only I could reflect on all these years later. Why would I fear such a fond memory?

Even in that pivotal moment, it was warm and dark out, and from that gun that glinted in moonlight, shook in the hands of someone who was much more scared than me, I expected to see an explosion of color and light, a patriotic picture of nostalgia and innocence. So I wasn’t afraid when I heard the gunshot, and I wasn’t afraid of being the one on the receiving end of a bullet, because, while I was being killed, I was somewhere far away, with my father, staring at a sky full of stars.

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Sunset in Cape May Christy Hearn

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Simply Being Caitlyn Connelly Like every human, I am susceptible to becoming trapped in my own head and worrying incessantly.

I have been through a lot and would like to believe it has made me stronger, but some days I am just tired.

My spinal fusion saved my life, but at times I questioned whether all of the pain was worth it.

My feeding tube allows me to not be hungry and also to sustain my weight, but I also have had a number of issues with that.

Some people who were in my life are no longer in it.

I worry who will help me in the future and how that will all work.

I have to strive to remember I cannot change my past or my future. I only can live for now.

Everyday might not be a good day, but there is something good in every day.

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Coffee Cup Amanda Gurecki

T

he flimsy paper coffee cup, grasped tightly between two weather-worn hands, was empty. Once it had held the wakeful, warming drink loved by many, but now it was outstretched to every passerby in hopes that someone would take pity on the holder. Life hadn’t always been like this. A long time ago, the hands holding the cup were on the other side of the sidewalk, dropping a few dollars, here and there, into cups held aloft.

In happier days, a cup of coffee was a simple thing, a quick pick-meup after a long morning. Now though, it was a lifeline, a way to feel human again. But that was before the war. The war had changed everything. The holder of the coffee cup went to war whole, and came home changed, broken, unrecognizable. Looking in the mirror was like looking at a stranger, and being with family felt like being a million miles away. Where warm hugs had been exchanged, fearful distance now grew. A human went to war and came back a soldier; a broken soldier prone to violence.

The doctors said it wasn’t the soldier’s fault. They talked of PTSD and TBI, but that didn’t make a difference. The damage was done. The soldier’s family was afraid, scared of the outbursts. They didn’t understand. They thought that pills and needles could fix the soldier, give them back the human who had left. But it couldn’t. All the pills and all the needles in the world could never bring back a person who didn’t exist anymore. War did that to a person. War changed every fiber of their being.

Over the months, the distance grew between the soldier and the soldier’s family. One day the soldier left, not wanting to face another silent dinner table or another day of being treated as a stranger in their own house.

Life on the streets was hard, but somehow not as hard as living with children who were being taught to fear the soldier, or a spouse who wouldn’t look at the soldier anymore. And so, the soldier now sat on the sidewalk, bundled up in a coat two sizes too large, grasping a flimsy paper coffee cup between two weather-worn hands.

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Useful Molly McAtee Trees are so useful, We use them all day!

We use them for housing, We use them for play!

We use them to build, We use them to read!

We use them to sit, We use them with greed!

We use them all day, Beyond one’s belief.

But when we use them all, Whose air will we breathe?

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Stairway to the Sun Tyler Mulholland-Gain

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Collateral Damage Kira Stallworth Hot tears rolling down my face, broken cries do have a taste, hurt stings within my brain, there is nothing left to gain.

I must refrain, I must refrain, I pray one day, I’ll stop losing this game.

I try to get you out of my brain, but I can’t put out your stain, you brought me to the dark side, & I cannot get off this ride.

I blew your high, you blew my mind, lead me on this ride, no sweet divine.

I must refrain, I must refrain, I pray one day, I’ll stop losing this game.

I can’t look at your face, to my feelings disgraced, the will to restart, is unappreciated art.

Shot by your gun, a battle unfairly won, love isn’t fun, run baby run…

But I was too late, unwilling to accept fate, my broken bones to your weak bandage, I am collateral damage.

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I must refrain, I must refrain, I pray & I pray, but I lost this game.

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Dancers of Light and Fire Lawrence Goldberg

56

Jake Ewald-Slaughter Beach, Dog Amber Schiffner

57

Eternity Kira Stallworth The philosophy of time, is no belief of mine, once you feel eternity, it’s a tale as old as time.

It’s deeper than definition, it exceeds comprehension, it’s the connection of your being, & a spiritual erection.

You will not see it coming, it cannot be planned, one day you’ll turn around, & see God’s plan.

I have been blessed by God, He has revealed to me eternity, He touched me in seconds, & now I can see my journeys.

The strength of an ocean wave, crashing onto the sand, one too many times, & now I see the promised land.

There is strength & curiosity, in every wave that reaches shore, once you accept the challenge, you’ll be begging for so much more.

The sky will burn blue, and enhance your mind & soul, you will find yourself running, because you always chase goals.

The warmth of the sea, the soothing of your heart, the peace fulfilling your spirit, the beauty of the start.

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I hear songs of the beach, played by nature’s guitar, even the gentlest melody, can soften the hardest rockstar.

I feel the love song, but never speak of Michelangelo, the people never come, but they will always go.

They break possession of the flow, they’d rather be on their phones, then at the end of the day, they wonder why they’re alone.

So much beauty in a minute, so much hope in a glance, so easy to miss, but we were given the chance.

Step back to realize, take the time to ponder, take a minute to breathe, & watch the heart grow fonder.

Time will pass on, but so will we, but what does remain, breaks time’s philosophy.

Welcome to eternity, let me introduce you to time, captured by small moments, which I get to call mine.

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Fall Folliage Rowena Millan

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Flower Blues Meggie Farber Rose, Rose Rose, Rose The smell of of honey, nice and sweet The feeling of water runs down my fingers Orange, red Orange, red The color of my hair Pinned up, all out of the way Becoming free Becoming free Dashing out into the river I’ve thankfully run away

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Private Party of One Sarah Kleinbrahm At 7 I learned that when a boy pushes you down at the playground, it’s because he likes you, so when I saw my father lift his hand at my mother I thought, he must really like her At 12 I learned that “sticks and stones may break your bones but words could never hurt you” but it was those same words, that were said to never hurt me, that bounced around in my body and broke things in me far worse than my bones At 14 I learned what parties were, except these weren’t the kind of parties that kids my age were attending, but some ended up there anyway At 15 depression joined the party that anxiety was already attending and I drank so much in hopes to drown it out, except that’s the thing about depression, it’s a fish you never wanted, that swims through every vein in your body At 17 I learned that happiness could not be found at the bottom of a bottle, you found other things there like what you thought would be good time but ended up being regret, for the bottom of the bottle wasn’t the only bottom you found yourself at that night At 19 the monsters were no longer hidden in the darkness of my room but on the city streets and they weren’t scary they were handsome with eyes that told a tale and a smile that delivers hope to you on a silver platter At 20 I learned that pain pills don’t numb the pain of a heartache like they do a headache and that my bathroom floor, much like your heart, is a few degrees shy of freezing and so I lay in hopes the coldness will be enough to numb my aching chest At 21 I was lost, lost in a mind that I wished wasn’t my own, I was tired but not the kind of tiredness that sleep could fix. I was losing a battle i didn’t have to fight on my own. I realized help, much like the air we breathe, is all around me only sometimes I forgot how to breathe. But not anymore I’m now 22 and I’m still performing this balancing act of emotions, but I’ve learned to speak up and ask for help, that sometimes not being okay, is okay and for those who realized long before I have, that I was not okay and have reached out and helped, this one is for you, thank you.

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Tail Janice Xu

63

The Tale of Jonathan Jeager and Ryley Conner Jeremy Selkow

I

t was a cold winter day when Jonathan Jeager was walking to the Mercy airship station with his heavy duster protecting him from the cold winter chill. His job as security chief at the Barxdale Walker construction firm had finally gotten to him. One too many workers gotten drunk and was challenged to take one for a joy ride; whatever damage they caused came down to Jonathan and his crew for not keeping everyone in line. His boss finally noticed and suggested he take a vacation, maybe toUnion City or just a trip up to the capitol to enjoy the historical sites. Apparently, they added new automaton tour guides that did a good job, really made the tour interesting, or if they malfunctioned just got you lost.When he reached Mercy station, it was magnificent. The stone columns in the ticket and waiting area depicted a scene from the Great War. The soldiers charging the Dornian city of Chronograde, the battle in the streets and on the ceiling a fresco of a soldier supporting his friend with one arm and holding his rifle up with a big smile on his face as the marched out of the city with a large United Empires flag billowing in the wind.

“That’s not how I remember it,” Jonathan thought to himself. He let out a deep sigh and went over to the counter to look for a good place to vacation. When he looked out a window next to the counter, he could see the ships docked there and all the people coming and going. There were at least a dozen ships, some just civilian transports for vacationers and travelers, others merchant ships loaded with cargo for unknown countries. Finally, there were three vessels that were clearly military. The dirigibles’ undersides were armor- plated to protect them from anti air guns, and they had all kinds of weapons coming out from their sides that clearly could level a city or take down an enemy ship brigade. The station was crawling with people, mechanized servants, and ticket takers. You could really tell the wealth of these aristocratic types by their mechanized servants. The newest ones had spring-powered systems while, the older models still used small smokestacks on their backs or shoulders depending on theirdesign. He even witnessed some soldiers marching onto one of the lifts to take them to the dirigibles.

He could see their commander, a grizzled old solider with a saber on his left hip, what clearly was a heavy Gatling pistol on his right, and enough scars on his face to write a book. The Great War ended a few years ago; Now, it was time to help rebuild and make sure nothing went wrong.

As Jonathan looked at the places he could go, he decided on going to The Protectorate of Iron. This was a forge city, but it did really well with tourists because people loved to gawk at the towering factories. It was once considered a nuisance until the governor decided to make a city-sponsored tour route that turned out to be pretty popular. As he bought his ticket and walked to his ship, he saw a beautiful woman board the airship to the

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Protectorate a few moments before he did. She was wearing a heavy duster, a light purple shirt, and black trousers. Aside from that, he couldn’t see her face, but he did see her blazing red hair from underneath her leather tricorn hat. At first, Jonathan didn’t pay much mind to her other than a passing glance, but then he entered onto the ship and began to search for his row to sit. He tripped on some luggage someone left in the aisle, but instead of feeling the smack of the floor, he felt like he landed on a thick steel bar that knocked the wind out of him.

“You OK, lad?” It was a woman’s voice with a Hibernian accent. When he got his vision back, he saw what stopped him from hitting the floor. Her arm, it was clockwork; he could see the small gears and nerve pipes that allowed her to control and move the arm like it was real. It was clearly highquality not like the chop shop jobs he saw some of the people at the firm have, or even the government-issued ones some of his old war buddies got for their service. This one was copper, buffed to a shine with a small silver inlay in the shape of a wolf on the back of her hand. “Yeah, thanks, that would have been painful and embarrassing,” he chuckled and looked up. It was her, the red-haired woman in the tricorn hat. His eyes widened, and in a combination of shock and stomach pain he said, “Do you mind if I sit here?” pointing at the empty seat next to her.

“Help yourself, at least I’ll have someone to chat with,” she replied, and with that, he sat down in the chair with a groan. “Are ya ok? I hope I just stopped your fall and didn’t accidently give ya a gut punch,” she said in a combination of amusement and concern. “No, I’m fine,” Jonathan replied.

I’ve had worse on the job. You’d be amazed how many fist fights break out at my firm.”

“Ha! No kidding, ya work in security? Which, public or private?”

“I’ve been working with Braxdale Walker firm for the last few years. In fact, the reason I’m here is because the stress finally got to me and I’m going on vacation to The Protectorate of Iron. Oh, I never got your name.”

“The name’s Ryley Conner, but most folks call me Ray for short.” As they talked, the ship began its flight, and as it did, they swapped stories and interests for the first hour and a half of the trip.

“So, the bear gets me good with its claws and I’m layin’ there bleedin’, but before the damn thing could finish me off, me dad shows up and blasts the thing square in the head with all three barrels of his shotgun,” Ray was telling Jonathan. “Ends up carryin’ me back to the house and then drivin’ me to the hospital where they had to lop off me arm ‘cause there wasn’t much left to save. So that’s the story of how I lost me arm, what abo-” Suddenly, a loud explosion rocked the ship. Five giant hokes shot through the cabin, and expanded to latch onto the wall. There were screams of fear and pain as everyone tried to right themselves.

“What the hell was that!” Jonathan yelled as he tried to regain his hearing.

“Damned if I know,” Ray said, shaking off the dust and a pair of pants that fell out of a suitcase onto her head. “Thank the Founder this wasn’t 65

an intercontinental flight, if we were that high the sudden decompression would’ve shot us out of the ship” she continued as she picked Jonathan up and placed him back in the seat.

Then they heard it, a man yelling at the top of his lungs: “PIRATES!” They looked through a viewing port but at first all they saw was clouds.

Then, they saw a strange shape in the distance. It came closer and they recognized it as some sort of airship. It clearly wasn’t made by any nation, it was too slapdash. The ship had exhaust ports in the rear belching black sooty smoke, and it seemed more like a small town was smashed together with an armory and some heavy rope bridges. The part that terrified the passengers the most was the emblem on the balloon that kept the ship aloft.

It was a deep-red canvas with a pitch-black serpent skeleton with a bloody dagger plunged into its midsection. “The Bloody Serpents... oh no,” they both whispered.

These pirates were well known throughout most of the continent for their savagery. They were also mercenaries for unscrupulous people with enough money, desperation, or plain madness to hire them. Every member had at least a ten-thousand-dollar reward on their head, and the captain was worth a full one million. Soon the grappling hooks began to pull the two ships closer and bound them together. Then, five pirates with guns and knives drawn came on board. One took the microphone from the ship’s intercom and bellowed, “We lookin’ for Ryley Conner. Give her up and we’ll leave the rest of you with all your appendages.”

“You lookin’ for Ray Conner, she’s right here ya bastards!” With that, she got up, and in one fluid motion drew a pistol from her pocket and shot the bellowing pirate square in the chest. The other pirates didn’t stay in shock for long. After it registered that people were fighting back, they ducked behind a drink cart and started firing in the general direction from where the shot came. Not one to shy away from a fight, Jonathan pulled out his pistol from the holster in his jacket. It was a Rowdy’s Lucky 7 shot revolver with an extra barrel underneath with a shotgun slug loaded.

He began firing at the drink cart that the pirates were hiding behind, but he wasn’t the best marksman; it didn’t help that the other passengers’ fight or flight instinct kicked in. They, too, started drawing their own weapons and firing at the pirates on the passenger ship, as well as the pirates on their own ship. Clear shots were almost impossible. The rest of the pirates on the other ship heard the ruckus and decided to join the fray. They fired pistols and rifles, and some even ran across the hook ropes to try to subdue the civilians. They couldn’t afford to destroy the passenger ship because their target was on it. They had to keep the big guns on hold.

“Why the hell are these guys after you?” Jonathan yelled to try to be heard over the sound of gunfire.

“Damned if I know, for now just cover me. I have something I packed that may just save our hides.”

With that, she began to grab for a large bag that was stuffed in a bin over their former seats. One of the pirates decided to be bold and tried to 66

rush Ray while she tried to untangle her bag from the others.

“Oh no you don’t!!” Jonathan yelled, his body full of adrenaline. He leaped out and blasted the poor assailant with the shotgun slug underneath his pistol. With him dispatched, he turned to see that Ray had managed to get her bag.She unzipped it and began pulling out pieces of what Jonathan couldn’t understand.

“What is that thing?” he asked. He had never seen anything like it. It looked like an elephant gun, but it had some lights on the back of the barrel, and the stock had a long thick cable leading to a strange looking battery in the bag.

“Oh, this is something I’ve been working on for the past three years. I didn’t know if I’d get to test it in a real situation.”

She used her mechanized hand to smash through the viewing port where the pirate ship was and began to aim the gun using the wall to balance it.

“How is that thing going to take down a whole ship?” asked Jonathan.

“Just let me worry about that for now. How ‘bout ya get those grappling hooks loose so when they go down, we won’t.”

Jonathan nodded, went to the task at hand, and began removing one of the large grappling hooks the pirates had used to keep the ships together.

He realized this may take too much time doing it on his own, so he tried to yell over the fighting.

“If any of you folks want to reach your destination, start cutting those hooks loose. The crazy girl in the tricorn hat has an idea.” At first, only one or two people looked over to see who was yelling. Then, they saw Ray balancing the huge gun on a window and got the gist of what she was trying to do. They spread the word, and the passengers that were armed gave covering fire to the others who went to remove the hooks.

It took what felt like an eternity, but the hooks were cut loose. An old gentleman in a grey suit with a cane gun gave Jonathan a thumbs up; he took that as a sign they were clear.

“Ray whatever you’re gonna do, do it now,” Jonathan said urgently.

She replied, “Almost fully charged, just have to aim for their balloon.”

As she aimed, Jonathan noticed she shut her right eye to aim, but then her left eye unfurled like a blooming flower to reveal several small lenses constantly adjusting into and out of focus with a red dot in the center. He was about to ask how she came across a clockwork eye, but before he could form the first word, she fired.

The light was blinding, even though it only lasted for a moment, but the sound reverberated off of everything. It was the loudest sound he ever heard in his life, and the place reeked of ozone or chlorine. The physical effect was devastating, to say the least. The pirate’s main balloon exploded like a New Year’s fireworks display. The passengers could hear the screams as the pirates fell to the earth below. The few pirates that managed to get on board surrendered quickly-at least most of them. After binding the arms and legs of those who surrendered, the flight resumed, although at a slower 67

speed. The aisles were in taters and clothes were strewn everywhere. The bodies of the civilians were placed in the cargo hold of the craft with as much reverence as the passengers and the remaining crew could muster, given the circumstances. Some people even tried to patch the holes with some of the discarded chairs.

Jonathan sat down on an overturned drink cart to try to glean what information he could from the pirate crew still left alive.

“Alright scumbags, let’s get down to brass tacks,” he said menacingly.

“Who hired you, and why are you looking for Ryley Conner?”

The largest of them looked at the other five and then at Jonathan, saying, “Go rot." Jonathan decided not to play the insult game and drew his pistol, reloaded it, switched it to the shotgun barrel, and pointed it squarely at the offending pirate.He said in the most disturbingly calm voice he could muster, “Last chance. Who hired you, and why are you looking for Ryley Conner?”

The pirate’s face turned pale as Jonathan cocked the hammer. “OK, OK. I’ll tell you,” he said. “We got hired by someone named Eliza Silverheart.

She said to capture someone named Ryley Conner before she could get to The Protectorate of Iron to present her invention at the Grand Science Salon.”

“That lunatic! I knew she could be underhanded, but this is just disgusting.” Jonathan turned to see Ray walking up behind him.

“You know someone named Eliza?” he asked.

“You’re damn right. We used to be roommates at The Academy of Inventers. She used to be pretty gifted, but I don’t know what happened. She started stealing other people’s work and it only got worse. Last I heard of her, she was in Redstone Prison.”

“Guess she’s out and looking to catch up for old times’ sake,” Jonathan said with a grim smile.

He turned back to the pirates who had one last thing to say. “Look, a word of warning. We aren’t the only ones she hired. We were to try to get you from the air. The White Crows were going to try to capture you if we failed.”

“The White Crows and the Bloody Serpents, this woman really has it out for you, Jonathan said. Hearing this, Ray let out a sigh, and then she perked up. She turned to Jonathan with a smile.

“Listen, I need to get to the Grand Science Salon with my entry, and I know ya said ya wanted a vacation, but I have a proposition for ya.The salon doesn’t start for another two weeks, and I could use a bodyguard. How ‘bout I hire ya to watch my back until then? If I win, I can pay ya a handsome amount of money for your help. Plus, I enjoyed talkin’ with ya, and wouldn’t mind the company. So how ‘bout it?”

Jonathan thought it over. On the one hand, he could refuse and just go on his vacation, relax, enjoy the tours, and maybe take in a show or two.

On the other hand, he liked this woman. She was incredibly intelligent and there was a fire in her eye that made Jonathan think of a blazing emerald.

Upon closer inspection, she had a very lovely complexion, light skinned, some freckles and a smile that Jonathan didn’t look too much at for fear that 68

he would start blushing. Besides, not just anyone got invited to the Grand Science Salon without earning it.

“Alright Miss Conner, you have a deal. I guess it will be better than just walking around listening to an automaton drone on about some factory.”

“Fantastic,” she replied. “This’ll be an interesting journey. I can feel it in my bones.”

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Autumn Chore Thomas Lombardi One chill November day I chanced to see From my window the systematic stripping Of what was once a tree.

Tall, bare, gray, so solemn and majestic, As in a spell, it waited for the cold to pass To live again in spring.

But there were other plans.

And one-by-one the branches were hewn away, Until the cutter's saw had lost its reach.

Then a ladder was hoisted high To do what had been done below.

A rope was tied to guide its fall: A zip, a crack, and then the final crash!

In growing shadows and fading sunlight That wasn't all.

Though now a crooked towering spike-Determination would prevail To terminate what was once a tree.

The rip of saw and hack of hatchet, So near the roots the soil shook.

A pause, a bang, and then another pause (a time of unexpected resistance) And then at last the final break-And it was finished.

Upon the ground two twisted trunks of wood reclined, While in the earth a stump alone remained.

The leaves scratched and flipped and tumbled Across the ground: twigs, branches, And then the rigid trunks were carried off, While thump of tool again began to clear Away the last remaining evidence Of what was once a tree.

Then all was gone.

And as the dark cold shadows lengthened, And as the sun began to wane, I thought of winter and then of spring, An empty spot not only in that place But in my heart.

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From the distant reaches of the earth.

Even Sherlock Holmes, of Baker Street, Haunts the place: by the blazing fire, Painted images, for sale, under preview lights, Become a fictional glow, like everything in the inn.

In another room the quiet chatter, the rolling eyes Define the sunny travelers in their chairs.

Outside the mist settles down upon the moor, Upon the streams and crevices of the park, And through the fog a sound, muffled first, Pierces the stillness -- a hungry hound howls.

Not Francis Thompson's heavenly beast, But Doyle's -- half fiction and half lived.

Born, not of love, but of rejection and loss.

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Serenity Molly McAtee

I

realized I have never taken the time to spend a moment to lie down and look at the stars. How soothing it sounds to spread myself on the Earth and let my body rest: to feel the night surround me and let the breeze gently sing away the consuming stress. I wonder, would it feel limitless to stretch my limbs along the endless land beneath them? Could moonlight wash away the heaviness of my mind with its delicate glow and comfort? Is it possible for the darkness to clear my lungs with its own crisp, cooling breath? I can feel my bones begin to ease at the thought. The aches of age and anxiety slowing down. Yet, as I dream of this, the walls containing me remind me of the impossibilities of such temptations. The hope of a day without life confining me is suddenly stunted by the burdens traveling from my mind to my chest. Guilt begins to burrow inside of me until it embeds itself into my entire being, for how sinful it was to wish for silence. Such is greed in indulging myself in a solitary moment.

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Composure

Molly McAtee

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Roots Sarah Montgomery

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High Noon Larry Hilton III

I

can feel it in the distance.

The penance stare of the sun glaring at me, and the gentle brush of wind across my face.

Silence stretches across the plain, as my enemy and I step towards each other.

As our eyes connected, I could see the killer inside, lying in wait for the moment to strike.

A cool, calm demeanor mixed with the fire of hatred resonates as we reach for our guns.

A feeling of fluttering anxiety shakes my hand, and loosens my stance as I wonder who’ll draw first.

In this hour of eternal silence, I’ve come to the inescapable realization of my death.

If my enemy draws first, my life is taken from this world.

If I draw first, my life will only be spared for a moment, for everything comes back to us in equal measure.

A life for a life is the most absolute law in this world.

The devil’s hour comes when the clock strikes twelve, and the bells ring.

Once that bell rings, a blast of thunder shall sound.

That’s when you know, death comes not for one, but two.

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Unconditional Love Christy Hearn

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A Love Bite Colin McKeon

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Winter Flower Rachel Sweezy It started as a tiny seed Buried in the corner of my mind Feeding solely on sadness, fear, and insecurities It blossomed in darkness with the promise of beauty It sucked up my pain, tucked it deep inside It flourished on my silent suffering My flower shoved its roots deeper to my core Twisting deeper each passing day It consumed my brain and squeezed between my bones Its roots quickly knotted around my stomach Tight and rigid-- my flower wasn't very pretty anymore The pain came in waves I trusted my flower to keep sucking it up, burying it away from the forefront of my mind Thick, gnarled, tangled vines filled me to the brim Constricting branches curled around my vocal chords It drank up my tears and swallowed my frustrations My ugly flower engulfed every inch of me It climbed up my spine and propped me upright It crushed my heart and suffocated my lungs No longer was it the flower I thought it was Its appetite became relentlessly colossal It killed anything that tried to bloom Now it has paralyzed my legs and crippled my arms Its roots weigh on my shoulders and stiffen my joints Branches sink in like teeth I don't like this plant very much anymore I would like to host new blossoms that don’t whisper empty promises My invader settled in the cold, dark, and dry parts of me But it doesn’t see the imminent beams of spring glowing beneath

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Pink & Green Amber Schiffner

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Measly Leaves and a Box of Matches Gabrielle Maloy

C

igarettes won’t kill you. Every commercial assures that they will, swears up and down by the latest research and the diagnosis of a shiny new doctor, fresh out of medical school, but you know better than that. You’ve lived your whole life smoking as many sticks a day as you can get your hands on, and have never, not once, suffered an ounce at the hands of some measly leaves and a box of matches. Ah, but someone such as yourself has regrettably never been able to get your hands on too many of those in the first place. You know better than government-sponsored advertisements or young medical school grads; that you’ve always lived your life as the cement jungle’s equivalent of a tumbleweed, drifting aimlessly from place to place, never seen interfering in the matters of things that don’t spark your interest. These days, the only thing that seems to spark is the end of your cigarette, and how you wish your imagination could blaze as brilliantly as that tobacco. A lack of interest is actually what’s brought you to this alleyway on the far side of town. You say “far” because this side isn’t near, but one wouldn’t know that if they’ve never been near, far, or anywhere in between. Then again, the only things this half of the city is close to is you and the dead end you’re sitting in - so what exactly is it far from? The only proximity you can measure is your own, and you know that you are on the far side of the kind of life you had hoped to live. You now drift from dead end to dead end, writing loose thoughts on scraps of paper and bumming cigarettes off of kind-looking strangers. That’s why cigarettes won’t kill you: you can’t get your hands on enough of them to do the trick. You’ve become accustomed to begging every passerby for a freebie. They’re always inclined to say no, but sigh, quietly, guiltily, taking pity on the pile of bones that just crawled out of the gutter. Then they can leave. Unlike you, they can leave the street corner you occupy coincidentally at the same time they happen to take their smoke break each day. They can go back to their jobs and nod their head to the manager in the back as an apology for taking so long. They can work for hours at a time and earn far less money than they deserve so that they can buy more cigarettes and spend more time outside taking their daily smoke break. They can work so hard for so long for something so important that they’ll just end up giving it to you out of pity. But before they do, you’ll thank them kindly and meander back down the alleyway you pass time in each afternoon. You’ll strike one of your matches and take a long drag of your newest gift, smoke billowing around and floating past you in a heavy cloud, past the clothes lines and street signs, past the windows and roof tops, higher, higher, and higher, until it’s all gone.

You envy it, in a way - even without direction, it seems to be enjoying itself.

And you think to yourself that you know much better than some ad campaign or medical professional that something like that could never be bad for you: it’s not the cigarettes’ fault that you’re dying.

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Dancers of Light and Fire 3 Lawrence Goldberg

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Bryn Athyn Cathedral Amanda Gurecki

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The Phoenix Larry Hilton III The world weighs down on me, from my shoulders to my thighs.

How can I find the strength to rise?

My teacher looks down on me, sitting on her throne with her crown, Taking pleasure in my torment, she drops the hammer down.

I’m superseded by my peers, as part of her tale.

All of them are women, and I stand the only male.

I’m beaten and battered as my success is deterred.

As nothing but a prospect, it’s my word against hers.

Whether it’s because of my sex, or the color of my skin, It’s appalling to know that being different is a sin.

As the torture of my soul denies me release, I feel at times there is no justice or peace.

If I am to find the liberty I desperately seek, I need to stop being a victim, showing that I am weak.

Although the world is on my shoulders, and the vipers are at my back, These memories will pass and fade to black.

No more suffering, no more cries.

Through the fire and the flames, I will rise.

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Summer Sunset Cailin McGuire

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Contributors Jim Acton, a graduate of Eastern College, LaSalle University, and Immaculata University, is an adjunct instructor of Public Speaking and English Composition. He teaches at Holy Family University, Montgomery County Community College and Florida Southwestern State College. In 2003, Jim retired from Verizon, formerly Bell Atlantic, where he worked in Public Relations. Prior to that he served in the Air Force and worked for NSA. Ashley Beam is a recent graduate from Holy Family in the class of 2018.

She started doing art about a year ago and finds it to be one of her favorite hobbies.

Jennea Coleman-Cubero has been writing ever since she was a child.

It was not just for school assignments, but for fun. The passion would grow, especially when she was in middle school. For years, she would try to perfect her craft in hopes of being better. Hopefully, with this composition, she will be reaching her calling to be a talented author.

Caitlyn Connelly is a senior studying Communications at Holy Family University. She loves reading and writing, and hopes to make a difference in the world around her. Caitlyn founded the student group IDEA, Interdisciplinary Disability Education and Acceptance, on campus to bridge the gap between students of all abilities based on her own experiences with cerebral palsy and dystonia.

Connor Crafton-Tempel is a student in the nursing program at HFU who enjoys Gothic architecture, occasionally mispronouncing words, and making dad jokes.

Sister Doloretta Dawid, Professor Emerita of Holy Family University and formerly a professor of French and Italian, enjoys writing poetry as a hobby. She writes about family, nature and the sacred/spiritual.

Jonathan Fredlund is a Photographer, editor, and musician from the Juniata Park section of Philadelphia.

Lawrence Goldberg is a Fall 2015 HFU graduate with an MA in Criminal Justice. This is his fifth time participating in Folio. He was formerly on the Folio staff in his final year as a student. This is his third year submitting photographs to Folio.

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Contributors Amanda Gurecki is a senior Criminal Justice/Psychology double major who hopes to work in federal law enforcement after graduation. When she isn’t studying or working, she enjoys watching Netflix, listening to music, reading, writing, or spending time exploring new-to-her places with her boyfriend/partner-in-crime, Connor. She wishes all the best to Folio in the years to come, and thanks HFU for helping her become the person she is today.

Christy Hearn is a senior at Holy Family University.

Larry Hilton III is from Levittown, Pennsylvania and currently attends Holy Family University as a Radiologic Science major. Although he is not in a major related to English, Literature, or Art, Hilton has always kept an artistic, creative drive to express himself in imaginative ways people are unable to do. Hilton also has a talent for music and writing, and is highly regarded by both his peers and instructors to be one of the most unique individuals by far, as well as acknowledged for his exceedingly vivid imagination of the world around him.

Warren Hope is an adjunct instructor in English and a tutor in the CAE at Holy Family. He recently edited an anthology entitled A Movement of Minds: Nine American Poets of the Late Nineteenth Century that is published by Greenwich Exchange of London, England.

Dr. Mary Carroll Johansen is a professor of American History at Holy Family University, and is lucky enough to live along the Jersey Shore, where she is a member of St. Catharine Parish.

Sarah Kleinbrahm is a senior from Holy Family University. She is going for her Bachelor's of the Arts in the study of biology. Sarah went to Philadelphia Academy High School. She enjoys reading all different genres of books. Her favorite genre of books is fiction. Finally, she enjoys hanging out with friends.

Dr. Thomas Lombardi holds a PhD from Temple University, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. His poetry has appeared in journals, magazines, and anthologies, and a book of his verse, Undiscovered Country, was printed in 1981. Professor Lombardi has also published articles on literature, pedagogy, and religion. His latest book is entitled Wallace Stevens and the Pennsylvania Keystone: The Influence of Origins on His Life and Poetry which was published by Susquehanna University Press. Along with his late wife, Victoria, an accomplished writer and poet in her own right, they both 86

Contributors were the main figures behind the inception of Folio and were its moderators for many years.

Molly McAtee is a Junior majoring in English at Holy Family University.

She hopes you enjoy her work!

Cailin McGuire is a Senior Psychology major at Holy Family University.

Her submitted photo was taken during Labor Day Weekend 2017, in Forked River, NJ. Rowena S. Millan is a Benefits Review Nurse for the TRICARE Overseas Program at International SOS. In her free time, she enjoys traveling, hiking, camping, and exploring nature with her family.

Sarah Montgomery is a junior Neuroscience major. She is the student body president for the Student Government Association, and she is an RA on campus. She enjoys creating art and music in her downtime.

Saba Mufti is a Senior biology/pre-med major at Holy Family University.

Tyler Mulholland-Gain writes all of the time, and he is hoping it is good at least some of the time.

Jeremy Selkow has always been a lover of science fiction especially the sub-genre known as steampunk. He always thought the idea of air-ships steam powered robots and other technological marvels irresistible.

Kira Stallworth is currently a sophomore at Holy Family University, and she is an English-secondary education major. Kira plans to become a high school English teacher at the conclusion of her academic studies. She also plans to become a creative writer and well-known author to fulfill her creative passion.

Rachel Sweezy is a senior nursing student at Holy Family. Drawing is her preferred method of art, but writing down some experiences with mental illness is something she enjoys. Nature is often the subject of her work. While school keeps her busy, she finds time to use art and writing as an outlet.

David Van Dewater is a junior English and Secondary Education major at Holy Family. He enjoys reading, writing, recording the podcast “Struggle City” with his friends, and long walks on the beach.

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Contributors Dr. David Whelan, Ph.D, is an Associate Professor of Criminal Justice at Holy Family University. As an undergraduate minoring in English, Dr. Whelan found that expressing feelings through words was something he found to be peaceful, and helpful through stressing times. He found plenty of material in his law enforcement, athletic, and life experiences.

Kevin Zook is an educational psychologist and avid fly fisherman. When he is not standing knee-deep in a trout stream, hunting for grouse with his dog, Maddie, or rooting for the Pittsburgh Pirates, he serves as the Dean of the School of Education at Holy Family University.

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