The Plume Magazine Spring 2017

Started in the 1980s by the late Keystone College professors Susan R. Ide and Karen Blomain, The Plume is a student-run publication that seeks to showcase the literary and artistic works of the College community.

Copyright Š 2017 Keystone College Cover photos by Deanna Feinstein Cover design by Kimberly Boland, Victoria M. Eremo, and Raymond P. Hammond Logo design by Alexsandra Pomeroy Printing by Ed Nowakowski

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Editorial Staff Kimberly Boland Victoria M. Eremo Benjamin Hawes

Shea E. Hodder Jamie Johnson Alexandra Grace Rizzuto

Editor-in-Chief

Art Director

Kimberly Boland

Sephora VanOrden

Assistant Editor-in-Chief

PR Manager

Victoria M. Eremo

Kristy E. Keller

Faculty Advisors Amanda J. Bradley

Raymond P. Hammond

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Table of Contents A Picture of Better Days by Kailey L. Richie................................................... 8 When I die let it be said by Carlyle Hicks ....................................................... 8 Tragic by Anonymous ........................................................................................ 9 March 1st by Mitchell Winters .......................................................................... 9 The Road to Hell by Kimberly Boland ............................................................ 10 Blown-out Candles by Kristy E. Keller ........................................................... 11 The Trailer by Jessica A. Rzeszewski ................................................................13 Growing Older by Siara M. Valentine............................................................. 14

Gravedigger by Darren J. Weber ................................................................... 14 I Watched It Leave by Karlee S. Patton ........................................................... 15 A Sweet, Dark Paradise by Andrew S. Trotter ............................................... 16 The Girl with the Black Widow Tattoo by Jenn Ocana ............................... 20 He dragged himself by Victoria M. Eremo ................................................... 21 Bang Bang by Jacqueline A. Jadick .................................................................. 24 Tinted Wedding White by Jacqueline A. Jadick ............................................ 25 College by Alexandra Grace Rizzuto .............................................................. 26 A Letter to My Instructor by Dominic Wayman ........................................... 27 I Was Caught Unaware by Benjamin Hawes................................................. 28 I watched her, by Victoria M. Eremo ............................................................. 29

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Table of Contents Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep by Darren J. Weber ....................................... 30 Grace Under Pressure by Byron M. Pritchett ................................................ 31 Do Nothing, Say Nothing, Be Nothing by Mariana Corrêa Costa ............. 34 Take My Breath Away by Benjamin Hawes.................................................... 38 5’3” Creation by Alexandra Grace Rizzuto .................................................... 39 My Love Is None Other Than a Myth by Jenn Ocana .................................. 40 Naomi and I by Jamie Johnson ........................................................................ 42 The Long-awaited Answer by Tiffany L. Dewitt ............................................ 43 The Bird Man by Jessica A. Rzeszewski .......................................................... 44 One Poet’s Madness by Nyasia A. Smith. ....................................................... 46 Home by Melanie Rosato.................................................................................. 47 Ugly Duckling by Sephora VanOrden ............................................................ 48

Be the Worst You Can Be by Karlee S. Patton .............................................48 I Will Not Break Their Spirit by Shea E. Hodder........................................... 49 Relationship with Rain by Sephora VanOrden.............................................. 50 Ode to My Little Black Dress by Bridget Benko ............................................ 52 Hands of Loneliness by Bridget Benko ........................................................... 53 Between You, Me, and a Blank Canvas by Nyasia A. Smith ........................ 54 Copy Line Proof by Kimberly Boland ............................................................ 55

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

A Picture of Better Days

by Kailey L. Richie

The age of twenty-four is too young to go— I’ll always remember when we first met.

You complemented my T-shirt; later, you told me that you complemented me to be funny because the girl who liked you was trying to impress you with hers.

That makes me laugh every time I think about you impersonating her tugging at her T-shirt, hoping you’d notice.

I’ll remember sitting in the McDonald's parking lot, blasting one of our favorite bands, Against Me!, and screaming the lyrics.

I can hear your contagious laughter in the back of my mind.

I can see that huge smile lighting up every room you walked into, but now I’ll always remember that last time I saw you.

It was your funeral and you were wearing a gentle purple shirt and a small smile on your face.

Remembering you like that isn’t easy, but that’s not what I’ll think about when you come to mind.

I’ll remember every time we spent together before this, before you were gone and I’ll smile.

by Carlyle Hicks

When I die, let it be said

That in my last moments I gazed upon the sky And burnt the stars into my mind A final time, a final gesture A final attempt to free my soul Before the last journey Moment of silence and then laugh

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Tragic

by Anonymous Do I deserve this?

I die slowly every day.

A life without love.

March 1st

by Mitchell Winters It's been two days since I last talked to her. Her care and comfort are much needed. I call her every hour. She won't respond to texts. She stopped calling. I wish she would pick up. If she picks up the phone, I'll tell her that we can do what she wants for a change. Maybe we can eat out at her favorite restaurant. I ate there today for lunch, alone; I know it might sound crazy, but I thought about her the entire time. I ordered what she normally gets.

A part of me is missing without her. I am not the type who handles change well; she knows that about me. I am feeling a million different things right now; not one of them is what I consider to be okay. I wish she'd just pick up the phone.

Why couldn't she just tell me that things weren't feeling right? She knew all along. I must have been oblivious. I didn't listen to her closely enough. Why didn't I listen? If I had known she was feeling that way I would have been kinder.

I would've taken her out more. I would've called more.

Maybe she knew I was going to act this way—or maybe she didn't. Nothing makes sense without her. I wish I could accept a life without her in it, but I'm having a real hard time with this. Tomorrow's her birthday, and I don't have the heart to return my gift for her. It's probably silly for me to hold onto it, but I know she would've liked it.

I only bought flowers for her about three times, I think. I know she likes any type of flower. I'll just try to get her all the flowers I can get. She would love that.

I'm sure of it.

I still love her very much. Her leaving me, especially without notice, is the hardest thing I've ever had to experience. But, anyways, I suppose it's time for bed. I have a long day ahead of me. Hopefully, I'll be more optimistic tomorrow.

I'm going to call her phone one last time tonight. Hearing her voice, even for just a quick five seconds, comforts me. I finally decided to leave a message: Good night, mom. Rest well tonight. Rest well forever. I love you.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

The Road to Hell

by Kimberly Boland DAUGHTER stands in front of her car’s headlights. The car faces her. The motor is off; the headlights are on. She holds a set of car keys in her hand.

I did it. We haven’t…spoken in a while, so I don’t know if you know I got my license. I got your car, too—or the closest I could find. I at least inherited your taste in cars. You were so damned specific that I had to drive something old, something metal and boxy, so I promise I’ll drive it until it rusts out.

Anyway, thought I might as well tell you I did it, since this was something I know you looked forward to seeing me do.

DAUGHTER stares straight into the headlights.

I think about that. The few, few times I think about you. About your ideal adult-me. You used to even draw pictures of her. Jesus. A clone of her mother, but smart enough to be nothing like her father.

As you can see, that failed.

DAUGHTER lights up a cigarette with absolutely no consciousness; this is years of muscle memory at work. It’s not a relaxing smoke. It’s angry, violent: representative of the smoke her rage makes her breathe, like a dragon in a lair.

I wonder about you—about why you. Why have you as a father? And why me, for that matter. Why was I your daughter?

The car’s warning bell sounds: you forgot to turn off the lights, you forgot to turn off the lights~ Was I ever even a person to you? Or just some concept? Something to keep you occupied while you waited to die? So, a toy, then? Teach Barbie How to Drive!

You promised you’d teach me to drive, before your end. You promised a lot of things, and you missed out on every single one. I get it, though. I really do. We have the same blood. The same selfishness.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

DAUGHTER drops her cigarette on the ground. She grinds it into the ground, out of her mind’s existence. The car keys clang in her other hand. It’s easier to hate than love, but harder to maintain.

I hope you’re rotting in hell, you fucking bastard.

The only thing about that that sucks, though, is that means I’ll have to join you there someday, too.

DAUGHTER storms away, her father’s single-mindedness for oblivion in every step.

The sound of the car door slamming is heard, and then the sound of the motor being turned over, which is equal parts long, and grueling, and loud.

Blown-out Candles

by Kristy E. Keller I don’t remember this moment.

It’s funny how a picture can say a million words, yet this one speaks silence.

I don’t recall how old I was on your birthday…maybe three?

Our faces are plastered with young, naive smiles.

Your expression mimics the bareness of hospital walls.

We were excited to have the chance to visit you, it appears.

Mom told me you knew how to blow rings of smoke, but looking now at you through matured eyes, I can see you couldn’t muster the energy anymore to even blow out your birthday candles.

You should have had self-control; you should have quit.

What kind of father spends his birthday with his little something-year-old daughters in a hospital bed?

Instead of party streamers hanging from the ceiling, you have medical tubes lining your arms and chest.

I don’t remember your birthday, your life, or your death, yet I do know too well of the pain your passing has caused my mother.

I leave this photo by my bedside to envision how a daughter might feel if she got the chance to know you.

How can somebody miss something that has always been missing?

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Concrete City by Victoria M. Eremo

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

The Trailer

by Jessica A. Rzeszewski Flowers dancing across the tattered canvas of your curtains Blocking out the sun on this hazy day You sit here unfazed as the weeds gradually eat you up And the cinder blocks you rest on crumble with time How old are you? I wonder Your coarse, lumpy cushions support my limp body Tired, content, sheltered from the cruel reality of growing up Summer days of booze and bonfires Nights of howling at the moon in our youthful bliss Will someone stumble upon you one day And see us in the scribbles on the useless fridge The stale remains of cigarettes sprinkled across the table?

Will they wonder what happened to us?

Make up stories about how we grew up and abandoned our beloved summer home Went on to live our mundane lives under the thumb of society’s code?

Will they think about us at all?

Or will the ashes and markings fade with time Just as the memory of us?

Will we remember each other?

Remember these late nights and early mornings Laughing at nothing and speaking of everything?

Will we remember how happy we were To live in such unfettered bliss?

Flowers dance behind my lids as they give their final bow Echoes of laughter and wolfish howls not far behind.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Growing Older

by Siara M. Valentine Something happens as you grow older Time stops seeming like it's unlimited It becomes something that is hard to find Every day starts becoming a routine Between work and feeding your needs There's little time to enjoy yourself You finally begin to understand why older people always claim that they need a vacation As you become older, you forget what it means to be alone All these people depend on you, and you forget how to help yourself You regret all those times as a kid when you refused to do things Those hiking trips that you went on with your parents?

They can't even walk anymore Babysitting your young family members and teaching them things about life?

They're all grown up now All those times you took for granted?

Gone

Gravedigger

by Darren J. Weber Spent a life pulling others up You never realized that ground on which you stand, the dirt turned to quicksand Standing so strong only lasts for so long Falling on dirty knees is what it all comes down to That's the price you pay when you cross that line You're trying to save the world But when was the last time someone tried saving you?

Becoming friends with the undertaker We all know who you are‌ Gravedigger

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

I Watched It Leave

by Karlee S. Patton

I could feel the presence— In the dark, like a twisted séance— The silence of waiting sickened my mind; If I opened my eyes, what would I find?

Footsteps—tapping—a whisper?

Growing mad as my head spun with All the stories I have known.

I sat quiet, frozen as a stone.

Suddenly, a flash— A silhouette, a chill— My eyes grew wide, my heart stood still.

I watched it come, I watched it leave— With your own eyes, would you believe?

Photo by Joanna E. Wallace

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

A Sweet, Dark Paradise

by Andrew S. Trotter Tucked away in the plaza where he bought a well-worn paperback novel, Jared sat and listened. The plaza was ringed with Spanish homes. Out of one of the balconies, hanging above the brick patios ringing the plaza, an electric guitar played a descending B-flat scale. Three at a time, pause, three more notes. He never started again at the bottom and worked his way up. He just played the same descending staircase of notes.

Jared wondered if he still had the novel. No time to ponder, though.

It was almost seven at night; the sun wasn’t quite down yet. Tourists milled about looking for a place to eat. He took off from the plaza, passing the wrought iron fences that separated it from the little alley of colorful row homes. He wandered past the cafés; they were well lit and classy. Some of the actual island cafés, the real deal to locals, were downtown, where he was headed. They would have smoke from cigars rolling out of the windows and open doorways. They would have low tables and mismatched chairs.

He knew he had to be careful; gangs of boys could be waiting nearby.

Tourists would go to the jewelers and other expensive shops situated on top of the rise in the middle of the district

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they called Paillo Hill. Then they would wander through vine-covered alleys, marveling at the beauty, but unaware they were downtown now. Unaware they were in gang territory.

Downtown, as Jared had seen it over a year ago, changed quite a bit. It always seemed to be moving. They were building houses with shipping crates now. The large metal containers, used to move cargo on ships, were having holes cut into them and being dragged into empty lots. They stacked them in little pyramids, three layers high. They had electricity and outhouses. Some of those containers with rough-cut windows were luxurious compared to the concrete block homes. Most of the block houses were painted with bright colors, similar to the Spanish row homes uptown: pinks, greens and yellows.

Down a slight hill, where none of the island’s many church steeples could be seen, and a place no god ever turned his eye, was the Barrows. The gangs didn’t run this area. They couldn’t. A deposed Cuban mobster had moved here, made it his place, and here it was safe, for the most part. Drug dealers lived in communal block houses. Sitting on dusty street corners, old men, grizzled by years of working in sun, sat on buckets.

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

The villa on the hill was a dusty yellow. The metal fences needed a new coat of black. There were no flowers, just a plantain tree in the middle of a roundabout driveway. Though Jared knew the owner, that was not his destination. To the left of the villa, at the bottom of the little hill, was a building of concrete blocks set into the ground. There were long, thin windows that let in light, and there was a staircase he had to duck to step down.

“Jared,” the man standing at the bottom of the steps said, “you have come.”

“I always do,” he replied. “It’s Saturday, isn’t it?”

The bouncer let him through into the dusky little den of sin. Round tables with inset ashtrays (so they couldn’t be used as weapons) and high backed chairs rimmed a ropedoff sandy clearing. A skylight above the little square lit the dusty plain of battle. Not even the sunlight streaming in from that window could light the dark places in this bar. The bar was occupied. Only regulars, and important ones at that, sat there.

Clusters of people hovered over the tables.

“Jared,” a man stepped from the bar as the young American approached, “you come to fight?”

If Sunday was God’s day, Saturday belonged to Martin Rizazzo.

“I have, Mr. Rizazzo.” Jared shook

his hand. “How is your uncle?”

“Sick, sick.”

No one had seen his uncle for a year.

Uncle Varren Rizazzo was the owner of the fine villa that overlooked the Barrows and the mobster who escaped Cuba. Many figured he was dead, but the family had not announced the death and no one dared figure it out.

“Who is my opponent today?” Jared asked.

“No one important, but you will know him.” He turned and said something to the bartender. Jared was going to ask, but didn’t get the chance.

“Prepare yourself, my boy.” He waved his hand, fanning cigar smoke. “We have many fighters today and you are first.”

In the back room, he flipped open a cabinet with a worn army barracks bag.

He changed out of his carpenter’s shorts and stained white T-shirt. He pulled on some old basketball shorts and sat down heavily on a bench. He kicked off his shoes. They always fought barefoot.

He had a pair of yellow hand wraps that were getting stretched in spots. Rusty stains dotted it. Once his hands were wrapped tight, he stepped out towards the ring. He swung his arms back and forth, stretching.

Martin raised his hand to the man standing at the bar.

“In this corner, weighing one hundred and fifty-four pounds, Jared Welms Jr., the American!”

They cheered; a few always would.

They were too drunk not to. Jared

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

climbed over the ropes into the ring.

He stretched his arms out to his sides, swinging back and forth.

“And over here, weighing one hundred and sixty-two pounds, Ramano Viro!” A taller man, a little more muscular and ugly, stepped into the ring. His hawk nose was broken, face pocked and eyes sunken. Mr. Rizzazo was right; he knew this man.

He was Martin’s killer.

“Ah, hell,” Jared swore. The hammer was coming down. He looked around.

Rizazzo’s men took up points at every corner, closing like a noose. There was no escape. He would have to fight.

A referee stepped into the ring, wearing an ugly baby-blue shirt with flamingos, unbuttoned and hanging loose. He grabbed both of their hands to feel for weights and other illegal instruments.

“Clean fight,” he grinned at Jared.

Jared swore again. He pointed towards each of the corners. He stepped back to his corner, careful not to turn his back to the crowd. The bell rang and he turned, charging into the middle of the dusty ring. Viro took a swing. He parried and jabbed.

They danced around, blocking and punching. He weaved to the side, landing a sharp punch to Viro’s head. Jared could hit and was a killer pound-for-pound puncher. But how had he gotten here? He had tried playing his cards right. No gambling debt, no favors owed. He tried hard

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never to get in deep with the mobsters.

What he did do was fight. Maybe he beaten the wrong guy.

A blow caught Jared in the abdomen and knocked the wind from him. He doubled over and felt a fist pass across his face. The referee had been in on this. There was definitely a metal plate in Viro’s wraps. He tried squaring his jaw to make the blows easier to take.

He quickly realized he had another problem. The next blow wasn’t a punch; it was a push. He stumbled backwards.

Fingers brushed his shoulders. He half-turned and saw some of Martin’s thugs reaching across the rope for him.

Yes, now he knew for sure. They were after him.

He dipped to the side and landed a few blows before Viro recovered and went back to brawling. Jared knew he had to push his luck. He took steps forward, pushing his opponent back into the center of the ring. Dust was being kicked up by the movements, and the sun was streaming down through the floating grains. Particles stuck to his sweaty face. His eyes watered and he was down on his luck.

Sensing weakness, Viro stepped through with a wicked right-handed swing. Jared moved to the side. It felt slow, like he could see every movement.

It was a frame-by-frame punch as he slipped to his right and lit into him with a mighty upper cut. He tilted and tossed his hips into it. The force of it connected under Viro’s soft chin and picked the

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

other man up off the ground. His opponent immediately went slack. His knees buckled and he became a pile of dejected flesh. The crowd cheered; Jared’s mind raced.

The thugs moved in over the ropes.

The first guy lumbered over Jared; he dipped low and took a handful of sand. He moved quick, striking snakelike. He tossed the sand into the thug’s eyes. He wailed and Jared slipped past, with no time to grab his stuff from the back room. He sprinted through the crowd. They all knew what was going on now. The bigger men chased after, but were slower; Jared figured he could outrun them.

He hurdled over the bar, kicking a few drinks over. A humidor of

cigars crashed to the ground. He bolted through the back door into the store room. He pulled over a few crates of alcohol and put them in the way. It wouldn’t hold those big men long.

There was a slam on the door. His barricade was already failing. He took off for the other shadowy doorway. He put his shoulder down and slammed into the door. Sunlight burst in. He leapt over a pile of glass bottles, taking off down the street.

Jared laughed. He knew exactly what he had done now. He ran barefoot off into the streets of the Barrows, hands still wrapped. He wondered where he would go next. He couldn’t run forever; it was an island, after all.

“Paradise,” he laughed aloud again.

Skeyeline by Mariana Corrêa Costa

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

The Girl with the Black Widow Tattoo

by Jenn Ocana

Her drawers are stocked with black fabric that she uses to hide the dry red streaks from the night before. Not to show an opposition in color, but perhaps to warn potential predators of her toxicity. Like the devious arachnid, the girl with the black widow tattoo is nothing short of reclusive, only using her chemical warfare when she feels threatened. The ink is simply an impression of the venom’s presence; however, those who see the broken dream catcher believe that the evil caught in the webbing has been released, pulling the girl away from the winding path to the one that’s jagged and rough. But, despite being able to inflict a nasty bite, she genuinely isn’t that aggressive. She prefers to be left alone. So, don’t be afraid to approach her.

Believe me when I say that she is overwhelmingly more afraid of you.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

He dragged himself through the house’s neglected French doors

by Victoria M. Eremo and stained the white oak floors an elegant cherry red with the blood seeping from slices etched into his wrists.

He threw the glass from his mother’s broken Jack Daniel’s whiskey bottle, at the pebble-gray-wall in the parlor, with the unspoken rage that nested inside his mind, And the cries he sang embellished his solitary home with a lingering melody.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Burn Your Bras by Melanie Rosato

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Pride & Defiance by Melanie Rosato

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Bang Bang

by Jacqueline A. Jadick Disheartened, dazed and confused, What is the world coming to?

Freedom is something we fought for for years, But is the price of freedom so steep?

Is the price really worth it as we look back in grief?

Bang bang, the world is red, The red that seeps into our souls.

Each new footstep after is never the same as before; Each new footstep is a bit more wary than the last.

Heroes are born each day, it is true, But a criminal is praised: what is the victim to do?

Disheartened, dazed and confused, What is the world coming to?

Bang bang, the world is red, Sobs are wracking a nation coming together, yet so far divided.

Paranoid glances, cries for help, Called crazy or ignored, blamed or scolded.

It's gotten so easy to look past the wrong; It's gotten so easy to get away with the bad.

Bang bang, the world is red, Another life has been lost tonight.

The red seeps into our minds, The thousands and millions who are part of the domino effect.

Mentally, physically, emotionally distraught, Peace of mind is a thing that will never be caught.

Senseless, senseless, senseless acts, Violence, violence everywhere in a sea of hypocrites.

They all want change; they all want a voice.

They all want to blissfully ignore.

Bang bang, the world is red, Justice is coming, The lives aren't gone in vain.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Sunshine and beauty is all they have left, But don't you worry, darling, your life was not in vain.

Bang bang, the world is red, Lessons learned are a vengeance act, And the mind is a powerful thing.

Bang bang, the world salutes, The world won't be red for long.

Tinted Wedding White

by Jacqueline A. Jadick She used to be a saint, but now she's tinted wedding white.

Blank canvas never tarnished by a filthy muse.

Beautiful soul believed in everything.

Found the good deep down but maybe that was a flaw.

The word no seemed to be against her moral law.

Trust is like a tightrope and looks can be deceiving.

Don't you recall the devil was once an angel?

Society is cruel and disguises are clever.

Taking things to heart just became too familiar.

She was backed into a corner by those she thought were pure.

Too bad she forgot they never remember the million times she helped.

Like feathers in the wind, off she'll fly.

She'll come back in a way none of them will recognize.

She won't be the one who's trampled on now, Thanks to the boy who took it too far.

Gone is the clean slate, now a mess of scribbles here in its place.

She was a dreamer before her castle crumbled, And now that good is a swirling black hole.

Society is cruel and disguises are clever.

But it won't fool the one on the outside.

The dark side called and the threshold was crossed.

Don't you recall the devil was once an angel?

She used to be a saint, but now she's tinted wedding white.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

College

by Alexandra Grace Rizzuto I can't quite quench my thirst for 'Cause there's no experience in knowledge repetition of definitions written At least that's what I thought before down on paper I made it to college— If this is what education is, then the Memorize this, regurgitate that, opportunity I'll waiver Forget the importance of what you’re learning For years and years I went Just remember straight facts undiagnosed No signs of needing medication This wasn't in the syllabus Now I'm taking prescription pills just Nor was it stated in the course to keep me calm and patient, objectives To quiet the anxiety throughout the And every effort to change the day as my heart is constantly racing, system And to stay focused like a robot, but Is quickly shoved under a pile of the side effects have me dripping papers and rejected— sweat onto the pages…

Years go by and my cumulative knowledge doesn't seem to change My parents say they’re awfully proud of me for achieving such an outstanding GPA But what they don't realize is that education is cheap Expensive in dollar amount maybe, but the quality is weak

I should not be this stressed at twenty— I've watched every effort of mine go to waste It’s like expecting to smoke the purest marijuana Only to realize it's been laced— Or like taking that first hit And sensing it was never the high you chased Now I'm not saying that every If only I could be like this Word professor fails to do their job document I just feel like the heavy course load Then I could simply be makes me want to break down and Erased sob—

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

A Letter to My Instructor

by Dominic Wayman Doctor, Though the title by which I am compelled to address you bares the scarring of years of your own mental toiling and tenacity, you mustn’t hold this notion as evidence of your likeness to the tyrant god-kings of long fallen civilizations. Infallibility suited them not. Educate; do not dictate.

Your conformity to a system, however effective, amidst other unbeknownstto-me compulsions, and my yearning for mental stimulation and growth have brought us to a mentor/mentee relationship. I would be remiss not to remind you that in no way am I a blank canvas awaiting your heavy-handed brush strokes. By virtue of my being here, it is surmisable that I come from somewhere and, more importantly, am bound for somewhere. I look to your experiences to aid in cultivating preparedness for my future endeavors.

Guide; do not command. —Student (human)

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

I Was Caught Unaware

by Benjamin Hawes

One morning, I was thinking and hiking in the forest.

I was so consumed with my cares that I did not notice the doe standing there.

With a snort and sneeze, she bolted away, white tail waving in the air.

I was caught unaware.

The encounter reminded me of hidden nature, owls roosting in church steeples and coyotes with pups who den in the city park.

Hidden nature remains unseen when we are caught unaware.

I was caught unaware by her, seeing her recently on a date in the city park.

An endearing woman, whom I wish I had wised-p to sooner.

I did not read the cues and took too long, so she now engages with other men.

I see it now; it’s like she’s bolted away.

I saw it in time, the fire ant colony at home in my yard.

My bare foot, just inches above it, frozen still.

I had rushed outside to get the fresh mail, with zeal, I ran to get bills and birthday cards.

Yet, I foresaw a million hellish bites because I am now aware.

One evening, I was again in the forest.

A crisp, clear air hung like curtains in the woods with a slight breeze that whispered through the trees.

And on the wind, I heard a stick crack; in my periphery, I saw the flick of an ear.

Now, before she perceived me, I saw the deer.

Because I am now aware.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

I watched her,

by Victoria M. Eremo

a robin, with dagger-like eyes, rusted copper feathers, a canopy over her chest, and an erect, yellow beak sharp enough to slice through the bones binding my limbs together.

I watched him take a broom with jagged bristles and knock over the robin’s cabin, her safety.

And she let out her wings— she soared.

I watched her; she let out a piercing scream, like the sound of your fingernails dragging down thick, splintered wood until they crack and shed themselves off the tips of your fingers.

I watched her as she watched her children ooze out of her petite cabin, onto the uneasy gravel.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

by Darren J. Weber It's been a while since I've talked to God. I guess I don't really know what to say to him/"Him." "Hey, old man, how's the weather up there?"

Maybe I don't know if he wants to hear from me.

I don't like the sound of my own voice.

I mean, do you want to hear from someone who only hits you up once in a blue moon and usually just to ask for a favor?

Come on now.

"Well, God loves you. He's always there."

Yeah, cool, but that just doesn't seem fair, you know?

And what/who is God, anyway?

It seems like many people think it is money.

If you've got a little of the green stuff lining your wallet, you've basically got a little bit of Jesus, too.

I never bought into that‌hah, get it?

All bad puns aside, let's get down to the brass tacks and I'll throw in my two cents.

Oops. There I go again.

There's many gods out there, so it is written, but they all seem to cherish the same stuff.

When it all comes down to it, you've got love, faith, kindness, peace, equality, and justice.

So, in essence, I guess "God" is that twinkle in a lover's eyes, the hand that helps you up instead of smacking you in the face.

Let's face it, we could all use a good slap.

When things flow together and balance each other out, you've got a little slice of heaven, my friend.

He is there no matter what you believe, but there's no grumpy, old dude in the sky.

Maybe he's you and me.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Grace Under Pressure

by Byron M. Pritchett Some people just don’t care They don’t want to listen to what I have to say They don't want me to do what I want, just what they want Grace Under Pressure My Father sits High and looks Low I am in a world where things can’t get done Where I am struggling to get my life together When everything is falling apart I am Grace Under Pressure There are times when I just can't win They say that the battle is already won by the Lord But why am I still Grace Under Pressure People still want to put me in a box while pulling me In different directions I don’t know what to do or where to go No friends, no family to be in my corner I can’t do this right now I can’t be Grace Under Pressure

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Photos by Haley Salak

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Art by Karlee S. Patton

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Do Nothing, Say Nothing, Be Nothing

by Mariana Corrêa Costa I sat on the raggedy, brown leather couch of the small, gray studio apartment, mindlessly waiting for Carlos to knock on the thin, wooden door with the ten boxes of Chinese food that I always ordered on Friday nights. Carlos wasn’t actually the delivery boy’s name; I never asked him what his name was.

I always created names for people that I would always see superficially, which were most of the people in my life.

I heard a soft knock on the door.

As soon as I flung the door open, Carlos, the short, skinny Asian boy with pitch-black hair and a bright smile that never seemed to leave his face, greeted me.

“Good evening, Mista! Here is your food,” he told me, handing me two bags filled with boxes of Chinese food. I gave him the money, including a big tip. His eyes always opened wide whenever I gave him the tip. “Thanks, Mista! Thanks so much!”

I closed the door and made my way back to the couch. I ate piles and piles of spring rolls, chicken fried rice, and steamed dumplings. Then, it was time to eat the mountainous

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amounts of fortune cookies that were shoved in the bags. The heat from the food made the plastic around the cookies sweaty. I opened one. As I tore it in half, I plopped one half in my mouth and read the fortune aloud: to avoid criticism, do nothing, say nothing, be nothing. I laughed at the small piece of paper and plopped the other half of the cookie in my mouth. *** I was a freshman at Novi High School, Michigan. It was the middle of my first semester, and I remember getting out of the bus and making my way home. My stomach hurt, my heart rushed, I could barely breathe, and my brain was all over the place.

My parents already fought so much that month of October; I didn’t want to hear their yelling again tonight.

The house had been decently quiet the entire week, which was a new record for the month. A part of me wanted to hide the stapled sheets of paper with a blood-red C written on it, but I knew if my father found out about it before I told him, the yelling would be even worse.

I walked through the backyard of our two-floor white and blue home.

The winds of autumn made the trees

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

in the front yard dance, and their leaves floated in the sky. The grass was still bright green and freshly mowed. I opened the dark blue, wooden door, twisting the hefty, golden doorknob. A gust of warmth struck me as I walked in. My mother was frantically trying to cook, and my father sat on the brown leather couch as he intently watched TV. The TV was the only thing in the house that he would listen to without yelling at it; my mother was the one thing he would yell at the most.

I walked into the kitchen and asked my mother if she could come to the TV room, so I could talk to them. She dropped the silver spatula that she held in her small, pale hands.

“Edward! You scared me! I’m on my way!” she yelled.

I flinched and walked into the TV room, put down my backpack and sat on the velvet, green armchair.

I nodded at my father when he deviated his attention from the TV for a split second and he nodded back at me. I rummaged through the papers in my backpack, trying to find the AP Physics test with the red letter on it.

“Can’t a man watch TV in peace?

I work year-round, and I can’t even hear the fucking TV with your loudass papers," he told me, squinting his eyes, with his thick, black eyebrows pointed down. The wrinkles on his forehead showed how disappointed

he was to have a son like me, and my stomach became even heavier.

My mother finally walked into the TV room, wiped her hands on the blue, polka-dotted apron wrapped around her small waist.

“Okay, you have to be quick! I have to check the food soon," she warned me, sitting down next to my father. Her dark brown hair was up in a tangled bun; she had flour on the tip of her perky nose and her black eye makeup, that was supposed to surround her bright green eyes, was concentrated in the inner corner of her eyes. One of her dark brown eyebrows was raised as she rushed me to start talking.

My father turned off the TV. “Talk!” he said. His mouth was always bent in an upside down smile. His tanned complexion made my mother seem translucent. Whenever he was at home, my father would always wear sweatpants and a T-shirt; his thick, black hair, that was always sleeked back with abundant amounts of gel whenever he was working, was now a controlled mess. My father looked like an angry statue all the time; he always walked around like he was the king of the world, and anyone that disagreed with any of his ideals would hear it.

Hell, the entire world would hear it, because anytime someone disagreed with him, he would yell insults at them as loudly as his lungs allowed him.

I cleared my throat and reached for the stapled sheets of paper.

“Mom, D-Dad.” It was hard to

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

swallow.

“Here,. I couldn’t say anything; I just threw the test at them. I closed my eyes and covered my ears, waiting for my father’s yelling to pierce through my ears.

The two of them looked at the papers and their faces went from confused to furious. My father’s words were muffled, but I could still hear him clearly.

“You got a C? A fucking C!" A vein on his neck pulsated violently and his face was tinted red. “A fucking C, Melissa! This little shit got a C on his Physics test!” He turned to me. “You! Go to your fucking room and I don’t want to see you today at all! You are the most useless human being I have ever met; leave!”

I turned around and ran up the stairs into my room. I didn’t leave my room the entire weekend. My stomach growled but I didn’t eat.

Neither my father nor my mother checked up on me.

Aunt Mae called me on Sunday night, as she usually did. Her soft and melodic voice calmed my nerves and I told her everything that happened. My hands were shaking and it was hard to swallow. Before I knew it, tears were streaming down my cheeks. Aunt Mae reassured me that everything would be okay from the other side of the phone. I finally left my room when I had to go to school on Monday morning.

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*** My cellphone rang and Aunt Mae’s face showed up on the screen. Her bright, blue eyes and sunny smile calmed me. I muted the TV and stretched my legs on the brown leather couch.

“Hello,” I said, without excitement.

“Eddie! How are you, hon?” Aunt Mae’s melodic voice had a hint of raspiness from her old age. “How’s work going?” she asked me, knowing I would never answer the first question.

“Okay. It’s a pain, though. I’m just in a sea of tourists that clearly know nothing about the city and waste their money at Olive Garden!”

Aunt Mae was able to make me talk about my frustrations.

“Oh, I’m sorry, hon!” She told me with a sincere sadness in her voice.

“Did you eat today?” She asked me, as she always did.

When I was a kid, she only called me on Sunday nights, but as I grew up, more issues surfaced. She started calling me more and more often. Now, she calls me every single day at the exact same time, ten p.m.

Aunt Mae asked more questions about my well-being and I answered with objective yes's or no's. I knew it was the only way to get her to stop telling me how great of a person I was or how I had so much potential.

“Aunt Mae, I need to go to bed right now. I have to go to work tomorrow,” I lied to her. Luckily, tomorrow would

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

be my day to lay on the couch and do absolutely nothing. She told me she loved me—words that never came out of my parents’ mouth, and I hung up.

I walked to the double-paned window next to my desk and opened it, letting the polluted air of New York City fill my lungs. Loud sirens could be heard in the distance, and it looked like a subway train had just stopped and let out an ocean of people that invaded the street.

I moved to New York as soon as I finished high school. I didn’t need my parents yelling at me anymore.

I rushed to a place that I could be invisible. I longed for a place where I didn’t have to bond with people or tell them about how fucked up my family was.

When I was a sophomore in high school, and I was barely made the honor roll, my father found himself a new way to pass the time. Her name was Angela: I only found out about her when I was twenty-three.

My father actually introduced her to me as a business partner. Angela was a tall, tanned, curvy woman, with long, red, curly hair. The day I met her, she wore a blazer that was clearly two sizes too small; a tight, white tank top underneath accentuated her implants and her small waist; and dark jeans. As soon as I saw her and my father told me that she was his business partner, I

realized that was only a cover-up and she was definitely not dressed for what she claimed she was.

I also knew that I wasn’t the most interesting human being. After the one C in Physics, it all went downhill.

By the end of senior year, my father paid the school principal to let me graduate. I knew that I wouldn’t amount to much. I knew that if I lived somewhere where I didn’t make much of a difference, I wouldn’t destroy anything. Actually, complete destruction would be the easy way out.

I didn’t destroy things, I simply broke them and was never able to fix them.

My mother knew about my father’s affair all along, and now I realize why sometimes I would find her rubbing her hands under her misty eyes and telling me to go to my room. Every single thing that I had ever done in my life had been criticized by my family, even things that I had no control over.

The fortune cookie was right: do nothing, say nothing, be nothing. I said to myself in the dark living room. If you never try, you will never fail. That was the way I lived my life ever since and that is the way I will live it until I die.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Take My Breath Away

by Benjamin Hawes It is like when the wind gets knocked powerfully as the ocean, out of you and you try to catch day in and day out. your breath.

She thought of herself like a candle on You wait for the air to whoosh back the water, guiding me, a lost soul. into your lungs, but for how She wanted to go running through long can you hold the searing, rivers with me, and I did, too. constricting pain within But I couldn’t convert, I couldn’t your chest? get baptized.

I learned that baptism was As our love breaks, she’s given the her condition. expression take my breath away SNAP CRACK a new meaning.

I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t dance, and the tide was gone.

It is like we’re contra-dancing, but I fall breaking my ankle.

I loved her but not her way of thinking.

SNAP CRACK Bittersweet as the sea is how I feel now.

I can’t stand up and I can’t dance anymore.

It’s sweet to believe that tides do return, though on other shores.

It is like how the ocean tide comes in That ankles heal and I can learn to and out every day, greeting the dance a new jig. shore with a sea-bliss kiss.

That the wind gets knocked back in, But then one day the tide goes out and I catch my breath. and never comes back.

I pray that I find someone else who I That’s how it’s been lately, but it can build my life with, wasn’t always like this. someone else who will She took my breath away with her take my breath away. beauty, inside and out.

And I pray that she will find We danced, lived, and loved as someone else, too.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

5’3” Creation

by Alexandra Grace Rizzuto

I've thought a lot about the way the side of your face looks when you’re staring out the window And I think that's why I hate you— Because you carry yourself so well, even when I can't Because the side of your face is flawless, even when the light exposes what normally isn't seen due to the shade Because not a stitch of your fibers was made out of haste Practically every inch of you was crafted with the delicate hand of an hour That's the entirety of the time allotted for my merely 5'3" creation Yet, just one inch of you was made in this time-frame— You were made to shine like the skyline of a city Drenched in street lights with Lovers dancing beneath your radiant smile And what about me? you ask I was built for the coal mines Drenched in sweat and pain, working for the black stuff The same stuff that poisons our lungs each time that we breathe The only thing that's different between me and the coal that gets dug up by the miner Is that my half-life is a lot shorter than that of the coal And I'm burning my time much quicker than I'm capable of comprehending So, bring me down to the water’s edge We can look at our reflections and compare their radiance I'd love to see your face when you realize the perfection in which you've been crafted When you see the very pores that deem my creation as wicked Tell me then that the side of my face does not make you sick with hatred, tell me then that it does not disturb you But still I'll find myself staring again at the side of your face With the words I cannot hate you, I think I love you

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

My Love Is None Other Than a Myth

by Jenn Ocana He sits across from me In the dark saloon Sipping his whiskey mixed with water.

We exchange a few laughs Engaged in our conversation.

I think he is real, Because I can see him.

I can run my hands through His ebony mane and when Our lips touch, I can taste The smoky warm flavors Of the earth.

I was sure that I loved him.

But, in my confusion, There are no butterflies.

Only the feeling of the alcohol Turning in my stomach And my body growing tense.

Is it just me?

I continue to take shots Between each kiss.

As if the depressant would Somehow show me that he is Simply just a creation of my brain.

But, when I look back up, He’s still there.

So this must be real.

He must be real.

I’m starting to realize that This forced physical intimacy

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Has become nothing more than An artificial component of my personality.

Contrived in hopes that the feelings Would eventually become real, But, they never do.

And even though I would Like to think otherwise, Perhaps these feelings Never actually existed.

I excuse myself, Leaving no time to be touched.

Am I broken?

Searching my mind with questions I don’t seem to have any answers to.

There must be something I’m missing, Something about this affection Doesn’t astound me, It just makes me uncomfortable And I don’t know why.

My rule book to love Must be lacking a chapter or two Because the idea of sensual proximity Sounds quite enchanting; But…only inside a thought bubble.

I mean there must be more to love Than simply running on lust.

Don’t you wish to be content With simply their presence?

To lose yourself exploring their mind or Fall in love with the voice

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

That gives them their character.

Is my love authentic If I lacked your common desire?

Or should I find some way to prove it?

I fell in love with his mind.

A stream of words that Can pull me in like a current, Is more magical than any kiss Could ever be.

I would rather wrap my tongue Tightly around an idea And share it with those whom I love.

Like a ribbon on a Christmas present.

For the human mind is powerful And can form beauty Never expressed before.

So I will never expect him to kiss me, Because honestly…there is no need.

Love will always taste better in a lyric Than it does on my tongue.

It’s amazing how something So inorganic can have Such a savory flavor.

I suppose that makes my love For others strictly platonic.

Which would make me— No. That can’t be.

People say that’s impossible, That it’s…just a myth.

But what if they’re wrong?

And if this is really me…

Then where do I belong?

Art by Melanie Rosato

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Naomi and I

by Jamie Johnson A name is just a name It doesn’t stand for the way her hair shines in the light Or how her eyes glisten in her gaze Her hands lightly caress my face when we are alone Naomi, I say with a sigh Best friends don’t look at each other like that I can’t be in love with her I don’t know what love is I seem to have fallen in love with Naomi I blame the anticipation of seeing her I am overjoyed each time popular memories play back in my brain Such as kissing her for the first time A kiss can tell a lot and I need a repeat I don’t know when or how this happened Or if it was something gradual over time, but it happened I have fallen for her, like she has hopefully fallen for me Oh my, I think it may be true I am both happy and sad and I wonder how that could be Naomi is comfortable she is so warm, enticing The smell of her is familiar I warm up to it, even though I’m only wearing her thin clothes But I fear this: our end is near

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because of my departure, even though it's months away.

We are so unfinished, to the point that I truly believe I am alone.

Now I understand why people hide their feelings: why ruin something great?

Sometimes people build a future in which they have no plans to take part.

I remember now how I felt I remember how much she made my heart race, and the shivers I got every time she looked at me Every touch an electric wave of energy coursing through my veins I can’t let her go, even if it’s too complicated; I can’t just give up this high, for I’ve only ever felt it with her I don’t want to throw this away so why the hesitation?

Come on, show me you care with those big, blue eyes Show me what I’ve shown you Wrap yourself around me and take me My face is raw I have been crying for hours for I am without her for the first time I can’t handle this emptiness A hole that will never be filled again my complete was half made by her No relief, no moving on, no forgetting I will be forever haunted by her memory It’s over, we’re fin.

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

The Long-awaited Answer

by Tiffany L. Dewitt You once asked me why I loved you as much as I did. You asked me why I even loved you in the first place. You wanted to know what about you made me fall so deeply in love with you so quickly. It was in that moment, as I watched your soft lips begging for answers, that I realize the response you were patiently awaiting. It was the little things that added up. The small pieces that put your puzzle together. It was your laugh that was so damn contagious. It was your name and how anyone could say it and I would feel like an entire butterfly zoo opened its doors into my stomach. It was those late-night talks where one a.m. came far too quickly. It was the jokes I would remember weeks later and burst out laughing to the point of tears. It was the chills that rushed down my spine when you spoke. None of the things that I've fallen so deeply in love with were big. It was the pieces that made up the puzzle. And while I sat there making sense of it all, I looked up and my emerald orbs met your big, brown doe eyes and I discovered the number one reason for my love. I had not only fallen for the small details but also how hours felt like minutes with you. I'd fallen for every single breath you took and how every second I spent with you left me begging for more. But when you repeated your question again, all I could say was, “Because you're perfect and because you're mine.�

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

The Bird Man

by Jessica A. Rzeszewski Every day, at twelve o'clock, on the dot, you can find him at the old lace factory. He sits on the dilapidated stoop, breaking bread with the birds as if he’s some kind of avian priest. No one knows where he gets the bread from; most probably assume it’s from the dumpster down the street.

No matter how hot or cold it is, he’s always bundled in his enormous trench coat. Its mustard color is freckled with white fecal matter and singed echoes of cigarettes.

Depending on the weather, passers-by sometimes get a whiff of his rotten stench. Little do they know, he soaks it in garbage every morning, hoping for a breezy day.

He’s quite the conundrum, this Bird Man. Hair scraggly and the color of a muddy puddle, he’s not as old as one would think. You can see it in the smooth lines of his face underneath the patterns of smudged dirt. You can see it in the lack of veins and ripples in his thin neck and bony hands. You can see it especially in his smile, the one only given after a donation: for some change, you get a close-lipped thank-you grin and for a few bucks, you get to see his pearly whites and dimpled cheek. Occasionally, he’ll even let out a giggle! But he only

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reserves that for his parishioners when they decide to crowd around him, cooing and fanning their praises.

Every day, the Bird Man can be found here, but no one knows where he comes from. He only sticks around for an hour, maybe longer if it’s a Sunday or a holiday. He never begs, just sets his little coffee canister on the step below and waits patiently. Even though many will walk by, ignoring him as if he’s just a part of the scenery, there’s almost equally as many who will pause and share some of their fortune. They usually walk away before he can give his thank-you smile; based on the pleased spring in their step, acknowledgment wasn’t needed. His smile lasts longer for those people.

Once his time at the factory is up and all the bread is gone, he shakes off his companions and gathers up his bounty. Briefly glancing in the container, he tucks it into the opening of his coat; no one ever pays attention to the glimpse of clothing underneath.

Most of the pigeons fly away, but a few will strut around, bowing to their God as he makes his way down the road.

It’s surprising how people don’t try to follow him to see where he goes when he’s not at his stoop. There’s been a curious eye here and there over the years, of course, but they always seem to lose track of him once they get into

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

the bustle of downtown. They never dwell on the mystery of the Bird Man, who he is, or where he goes— he’s just another homeless guy, trying to keep himself fed and warm.

Life goes on; adults go to work, kids go to school, Bird Man goes to his stoop, and pigeons seek out food.

And every night, a young mother and her child receive a coffee canister from the teenage boy living in the apartment building across the street.

No words are spoken, just the wink of a dimple and the coo of a pigeon echoing in the distance.

Photo by Alyssa D. Jacobs

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

One Poet's Madness

by Nyasia A. Smith The innocence of a blank piece of paper tortures my soul Bench-pressed against the weight of the world I stare eagerly into tomorrow Long talks of Erie beginnings While smoke devours the moment and I can’t remember a thing Days pass by in slow motion Lost somewhere between arguments and assignments Comfortable in places that provide confinement Old homes remedied with piss-poor patch jobs swallow me And I draw inspiration from the walls Chipped paint crumbled like ice chips beneath my boot As drugs and company start to sound like symphonies Designed in the mind of a creative bastard Misunderstood and unseen And it Becomes beautiful

Photo by Samantha G. Cielski

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Home

by Melanie Rosato

A dwelling that sees all— perceives all— accepts all, the raggedy worn knick-knacks, aged floral patterns, and organization of habits.

In you I am immersed, in the plush knots of an afghan, blue hues caress me, like fog at five a.m.

Like the familiar placidity after Christmas dinner, with the scent of coffee lingering around my flushed cheeks and nose.

Fingers thoughtlessly mingle in my hair, lowering to graze my brow, your lips part— speaking what we already knew.

This is just to say— home is you.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Ugly Duckling

by Sephora VanOrden I'm an ugly thing, I guess.

Hair like ruffled feathers, A nose like a large beak, A gangly thing, like a young fowl.

I see the others around me and sigh Wishing I was beautiful like them.

They make fun of me, Making me wish I could change my looks.

I could change my outside, it's true.

But I'm afraid if I change my outside to look like them, Would my beautiful inside turn ugly like theirs, too?

Be the Worst You Can Be

by Karlee S. Patton

If beautiful is all they can see, be the worst you can be.

“Cross your legs, cross your Ts, and dot your Is.” Who cares if I shaved, if I zippered my fly?

“Sit like a lady, brush your hair— be soft, be caring, be gentle, be fair.”

I say, be bold, be brash.

Dance on the table, dress like you’re "trash."

“Get your shit together, get your life on track.”

Chew with your mouth open, don’t forget to talk back.

Make sure to be the worst you can be, if beautiful is all they can see.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

I Will Not Break Their Spirit

by Shea E. Hodder They've changed things My courage falters as they stare I take a deep breath and start my first day Soon, I have seventeen new best friends As Halloween approaches They want to know how to say the things that they are I watch the awe on their faces as I try to answer all their questions I feel bad for the ones that I miss Their little brains are full of so much They are fresh and new Uncorrupted I will not break their spirit

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Relationship with Rain

by Sephora VanOrden Rain is a friend of mine It drips, dribbles, and drops Running down roofs, flowing into gutters It streams down my face and soaks my hair Patters on surfaces in a continuous beat It cleanses dirty things, sometimes even a person's mind Washing away bad thoughts with its calming atmosphere It's the catalyst for things to grow, nature's own water tap Giving life to barren fields and trees When someone says they hate rainy days I throw my head back and laugh Because they don't know rain like I do They don't have a relationship with rain as I do

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Photo by Joanna E. Wallace

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Ode to My Little Black Dress

by Bridget Benko

On dull Monday mornings laid flat on a hanger, Tucked away amongst other things.

But on bright starry Saturday nights, Strewn over my body full of life.

Black lace lay over a silky satin, A thousand little flowers all strung together, A neckline deep and a hemline short To get all the looks, Only caring about the bad looks From men, distant in the night.

Paired with black stilettos, Four inches, clicking, Scraping, on a dance floor.

The strutting and swinging of hips, Swaying the little black dress, Back and forth in a perfect rhythm.

Now, rigid hands on curved hips, The hands of a man, a real man, Twirling and swaying to the melody.

His hands, the soul to that perfect rhythm, Guiding and leading.

After a night of being twirled around, From the freedom and fun of a Saturday night, Back to the reality of Monday, That little black dress lay flat on a hanger, Lifeless, as I reach for my Monday morning pantsuit.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Hands of Loneliness

by Bridget Benko

The city is so busy. Cars, bumper to bumper, one right behind the other. Drivers laying on their horns as if they are eagerly awaiting to arrive at the next red light.

Cars of dull colors: black, white, and silver, with the occasional yellow taxi in between. The heavy droplets of rain won’t stop these city goers, as their windshield wipers swipe at an over-dramatic speed forcefully pushing the rain away, as if it carries some kind of disease. But the rain continues to fall, drop after drop.

Stepping out of my apartment, my pink rain boots splash in a puddle causing a ripple in the water. The smell of rain in the city is heavy, not pure. It carries the smell of poverty and the city’s trash. The people on the streets pass by with their heads down, starring, as if they are hoping to find crystal clear answers in the dirty, cloudy, rain puddles of the city. Nope, no answers there. I know, because if I stare hard enough into one of those puddles, I can see us standing on Cherry Street and him rushing into that faded yellow taxi, leaving me lonely. Still wondering why I look for him, I put my hood up on my pink raincoat. As I walk along the street, I wonder what we must look like to the bird’s eye view. Maybe a bunch of sad, damp souls wondering the streets of New York, trying to escape the wet hands of loneliness. As I search for it, hoping to find it in the form of a faded yellow taxi cab.

Photo by Alyssa D. Jacobs

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Between You, Me, and a Blank Canvas

by Nyasia A. Smith I feel you beneath me Smooth and patient Anxious and wondering How I will dress the rest of my brief Occupancy I find myself nervous, almost

Praying for your approval Your freshness is overwhelming and I Continue with caution White and pure I cannot go on

805 by Victoria M. Eremo

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Copy Line Proof

by Kimberly Boland My favorite superpower is editing. I can destroy anything. Line twelve, paragraph two, delete line. Nothing is permanent, everything can be altered.

I’m afraid of things that remind me of what I’ve erased; the wrong color hair is enough to set me off. I’m sorry, I’m afraid I didn’t hear what you were saying. Delete last sentence of paragraph three. It won’t hurt to give up on your challenges. It won’t hurt if you just do it. Change bold to italicized. You don’t need the comma after that word. Fragments of me are all I have left. I carry them here in my purse. I carry your heart with me, still, even though you’ve been gone for years; it’s staining the leather and it was hard to find and dig out of the bottom of my purse with my blunt nails. Italicize the title to remain consistent. My suggestion is to rework this passage like how we discussed on the phone. No, I won’t rewrite it for you.

Editing is my favorite superpower. I can fix anything. I can help you get this to the level you dreamed it would be, and every time I watch it all come together, I feel the same will happen someday with my own dreams, too.

Stanza four, line five should be an em dash instead of a hyphen. Put a period after your ellipses if they end the sentence. Change that to an em dash. The word you’re looking for is teal: the car is teal, the dress is teal, the book, the ribbon, the memory. Delete the comma after “what” and add a comma after “the.” Give me something to edit, please, let me get nestled in between lines and letters. My talents have purpose, my actions have good intent. Add an em dash here. Right here. Where I’m pointing. I circled it. Thank you for trusting me. Thank you for listening to me. Now that you’re going to take this piece of your soul laid bare out into the world, I want to wish you the best of luck with its reception: I thought it was lovely and powerful and…no, wait, I missed it: you need another em dash.

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