The Plume Magazine Spring 2014

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

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The literary magazine of Keystone College

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Editorial Staff Meredith Colohan Danielle Karwaski Allen J. Sutton

Joe Hamersly Christina Sinibaldi

Editor-in-Chief

Art Director

Macaulay Glynn

Alexsandra Pomeroy

Faculty Advisors Shelby Fisk

Amanda J. Bradley Dave Porter

Copyright (c) 2014 Keystone College Cover photo “Patina” by Burcu Avsar Cover design by Allen Sutton Logo design by Alexsandra Pomeroy Printing by Ed Nowakowski

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THE PLUME

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

100 Words: Shadow ............................................................................................ 8

March Hill ......................................................................................................... 34

Dandy ................................................................................................................... 9

Victim................................................................................................................. 36

A Guitar Pick ..................................................................................................... 10

The Invention of the Century.......................................................................... 38

Mercy ................................................................................................................. 13

Eating Grapes in Church .................................................................................. 41

Depression........................................................................................................... 15

Changing Hands................................................................................................. 42

Kick Habit............................................................................................................ 16

Fountains............................................................................................................. 44

Exit 194 ................................................................................................................18

Star Stuff .............................................................................................................. 46

Dusty Crater........................................................................................................ 20

Elevator................................................................................................................ 49

Mum’s Fog .......................................................................................................... 23

Things I Know To Be True................................................................................ 52

Lady Luck ........................................................................................................... 25

Brown Eyed Beauty............................................................................................ 54

I Am a Well.......................................................................................................... 26

The Remote......................................................................................................... 56

Substance............................................................................................................. 28

Ginger Snaps....................................................................................................... 59

Villain................................................................................................................... 29

Beautifully Damaged.......................................................................................... 61

IV......................................................................................................................... 30

Villain................................................................................................................... 63

Again (Panic Attack) ........................................................................................ 33

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THE PLUME

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

100 Words: Shadow

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

By: Erin Collins

T

welve nervous strangers sit around a conference table; the sipping of bitter coffee is the only sound in the room. These strangers have only one thing in common: They hold a man’s life in their hands. The evidence is laying in front of them, and a decision must be made. If they decide his guilt, he will be put to death. “Beyond the shadow of a doubt,” is the only rule. How can anyone be that certain? Once it’s decided there is no turning back, they were selected to play God, and, for that, they must answer to him later.

Illustration by: Jorge Ariza

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Dandy By: Christina Sinibaldi

A

nother crinkled magazine clipping landed in Sam’s small, black wire wastebasket. The crumpled piece bounced on the overflowing pile, teetered before settling. Sam had been at it throughout the day, ripping, crumpling, throwing away.

The pages of his scrapbook didn’t stand a chance; their numbers were dwindling. They were budding up in the bin like a plant that only blooms at night or a newly forming planet.

The exosphere was made of balled up bits like the latest addition: wrinkled images of women clipped from magazines. Women with circled bits and pieces. Hair. Bust. Butt. Waist.

Under this was a base of women from fashion magazines. Sam had circled certain articles of clothing and outfits he liked on the women. From his desk he threw another piece, lodging this one deep in the layer of advertisements for hair removal and advice columns on proper makeup application. Buried deep beneath these was a torn up letter, little pieces of “SO-” next to last year’s top models. “N, WE NE” next to fall’s best lipstick shade.

“ED TO TALK,” near the feminine styles for short hair. “LOVE DAD” was next to the ruined sock Sam had to slip on when his roommate walked in on him trying nail polish on his toes. “WHENEVER YOU’RE READY,” was next to the notice from Sam’s coach, telling him he was cut from the team if he didn’t cut the shit.

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THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

A Guitar Pick By: Nathan Frappier

O

n any given day it’s just a gray small piece of plastic. Triangular in shape, it has rounded points giving it three continuous smooth edges, sloping into one another. Cut from a very thin sheet of plastic, small dashes extrude minutely from both the flat faces, giving one end a slight slip resistant texture. Absolutely motionless and quiet, lacking any inherent beauty, almost pointless to exist.

Placed gingerly between her thumb and pointer finger, too fast to watch, I close my eyes to just listen and feel, as the pick starts to dance across the vibrating strings of my bland guitar. Faster and smoother, the pick continues its dance, finding the perfect strings to touch at the precise time teasing all my senses with its beautiful myth, like a dancer on stage showing her story with her feet and body.

A small giggle erupts from her, drawing me back from the trance the melody has soothed me into. My eyes flash open to see the blush on her face, as she has seen a glimpse of sheer delight, illuminated on my own. In the instant the pick quickly stops the

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majestic story mid strum, brought on by the nervous laugh and obviously silly look of pure enjoyment that had elapsed over my face. Quickly I smile even wider, as I softly beg for the gentle melody of the pick to once again sing directly to my heart, warming my mood and brightening my day.

Just a dull, ugly, gray, pick one might say, but in the hands of a talented angel, that pick comes to life. As the pick comes to life it brings music, joy, laughter and song straight to the hearts of all those that listen. Then again maybe it’s just a pick, like a rusty old wrench, useless until placed into my angel’s skilled hands, as she plays the tunes that come straight from her soul.

Photo by: Macaulay Glynn

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THE PLUME

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Mercy By: Christina Sinibaldi

I.

I

Photo by: Harmony Blum

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was crying before I went inside, on the sidewalk. I stopped walking when everyone turned around to look at me, and I looked up into the sun, as if it could give me some advice. In the early 1970s, coronal mass ejections killed four people. When the sun has pent up energy, it stabilizes itself by releasing a solar flare that contains enough radiation and magnetic particles to overcharge electronic devices and make them explode. I imagine her talking on a cellphone when the sun burps. I like the way her hair turned red in the sun. From black to copper coated, resting around her head like a solar wind. Her voice was a supernova; I haven’t heard her in months.

On the ride over, I had to squeeze my hands to not cry. I only fought for so long before it caught up with me. At least in the backseat I had been able to hide it. But on the sidewalk I could only wait for everyone to stop looking; they would never try

to hug me or comfort me; we weren’t made for that; we’d rather ignore uncomfortable things. We kept the line moving after they told me it didn’t look good to walk into a hospital while crying.

II.

If the sun went out, humans would have about a week to live. Things would get so uncomfortable, though, that most of us would be ready by the end. She was in and out of the hospital for most of the time we knew each other. I would visit and bring pictures of her pets. I couldn’t bring her any food because the hospital wanted to monitor everything. So, we’d talk about what kind of cookies we wanted to make and I’d try to keep it together while she talked about brewing buckets of iced tea to drink on the porch in the summer.

Once, we were sitting on the porch drinking all the bitter, lemoned tea we could handle. The sun was

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THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

strong and the heat felt nice. She was wearing a big floppy hat and bug-eyed sunglasses. She fanned herself with her hands and asked if I was hungry. I said always. She went inside with one of the glass pitchers. I was watching condensation drip from my mug when I heard the glass break.

I’d never seen a person passed out. Her hand was outstretched as if she’d tried to put the pitcher on the counter before she fell. I was almost certain she was dead. When she stirred, getting up, she made sure that I was okay as if it’d been me laying face down in a pile of glass.

She didn’t go in the sun much after that.

Pneumonia put her in the hospital most often. But she survived cancer, a collapsed lung, a bypass. So, when the doctor called and told us she probably wouldn’t make it through the night I called him a liar.

was comatose or if she just had not woken up. Small, mouth opened, chest heaving as oxygen was pumped into her nose. I wanted to grab them all by the shoulders and shake. The sun is going out and you are watching Jeopardy like it’s any old weekday! But I played along.

Tonight’s categories are Ice Age, Arctic Freeze, Solar Flare, Supernovae, and The Death of Stars. I’ll take Fuck This for $400, Alex. I squeezed my hands until I couldn’t feel them.

As we were leaving, they had the nerve to tell me that I should talk to her because she could still hear me. But I just put my lips to her shiny forehead and listened to her breath come and go.

When I did try to open my mouth to say goodbye, my voice shook out and I couldn’t squeeze my hands hard enough.

I walked in front of everyone as we left.

Like a wounded animal choosing its instincts to flee. Hunched and closed off, my hands gripped in my pockets kept me from running out into the pink orange light of the dusk.

III. If the sun goes out, the oceans If the sun went out, the temperature of don’t freeze for a few hundred years. the Earth would drop to zero degrees and then to one hundred degrees by a week. The surface of the oceans would freeze over but this would insulate the water and keep the oceans from fully freezing for a few hundred years.

Everyone sat in the hospital room facing the television. The volume was high enough to match the persistent beeps of her machinery. I sat in the corner across from her, watching how everyone stood near but wouldn’t look directly at her. I can’t remember if she

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THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Depression By: Joe Hamersly

I’m the invisible man I’m the ugly duckling I’m that kid who dresses up like Aquaman when the rest of my friends dress like the Justice League No, it really feels like this It feels like I got hit by a car on a back road of some lesser known town and the driver kept on driving My body’s lying in some sagebrush beyond the guardrail, twitching My breathing is becoming shallow, broken, and it’s fading quicker than I’d like I’ve got crimson blood pouring out my nose and my head throbs like the beating of hearts that would never beat for me My bones are wrapped around one another as if their comfort would bring any to my splintered soul Headlights, taillights They’re all just lights that will never set my pathetic frame aglow So, I lie in sorrow that I never stood up in the crowd My tongue tastes the bloodied mess of dislodged teeth that fumble in my mouth I realize that I never had a voice I couldn’t tell God to leave me alone Illustration by: Julio Pertuz

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THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Kick Habit Christina Sinibaldi

I

once watched a movie where a girl wrote “unless you want to” under a “no smoking” sign. I remember part of me appreciated the nonchalant defiance, but another part wanted to write it differently. As I sit curled up and wide-eyed in the waiting room chair I don’t want to argue with the “no smoking” sign, even though it’s staring me down from its perch on the pockmarked wall. I don’t want to scoff at its angry eyes, painted with crossed-out images of what could help me right now. I would plea with it, tell it to change its policy to “no smoking…unless you need to.” Right now, I need to; I need something that will take my brain for a walk while my body waits here for any news.

I felt too overwhelmed to mock the sign, deface it, sarcasm it into submission. The color of the “no smoking” flag are the colors of a cigarette. Clearly, the sign is comfortable enough to mock me. I could try to reason with it. I’d say, “No Smoking Sign, don’t you see? My intentions hold no disrespect. But, c’mon, honey, anxiety’s a funny thing

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(smoking signs like a little sweet talk right?). Do you like movies, Sign?

–Can I call you ‘Sign’? Let’s say you like movies. And on those days when you come home from working your 43rd through 56th hour at a business that gives out gold stars, and little else, for hard work. And all day, you made it through because you knew when you came home that a new adventure in the land of cinema was waiting for you. You follow me, Sign? Okay, and then you kick off your shoes, warm up the T.V., make yourself a hot beverage, when you notice, as you make your way to the couch to get off your feet for the first time in over thirteen hours, there’s a note stuck to the door: ‘Couldn’t reach you at work, We’re going to the hospital, He fucked up real bad this time, EMTs said they’d be surprised if he made it,’ or something like that, maybe a bit more eloquent. So, you get to noticing that your roommates aren’t home; there’s a bloody smudge by the baseboard, close to the stain of the old one. And you can’t even call anyone because your phone bill went unpaid in favor of feeding yourself.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Are you still with me, Sign? I know you’re upset now with this story, but stay with me. Because that’s what you told him last time, over and over, stay with me, as you tried to recollect all the CPR training you learned in highschool. You lose track remembering what his ribs sounded like as you pumped his chest, what they felt like. You’re at the hospital. They smile at you from the desk and you hope it’s not because they recognize you.

You give them his name; they direct you to a waiting room and tell you they’re doing the best they can. You believe them because you have to. So, you take a seat but your brain, it just wants to keep running, running, and you have to find a way to slow it down before it fries itself. You’ve already left lines in your palms before chewing your fingernails to stumps; you’ve already chewed holes in your lips and the side of your mouth; you’ve already tried the recommended distraction exercises. So, you go to your fall back and look in the corners of the room for a T.V. only to find it with a sign hanging from it that says ‘Sorry, no movies’.”

point. I realize my internal turmoil has manifested in external behavior. I can tell by the guy across the room; he moved to that seat a little bit ago; he’s as far away as he can get from me; he peers at me over the edge of his magazine, often. I can get a grip on myself.

Better do it quick. It’d be a little easier if I could just have a cigarette.

I don’t think the “no smoking” sign would understand. It tells me it would be more offended if the sign had said “All your favorite movies suck.” But that just means ol’ Nosmoke is never going to see my

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THE PLUME

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Exit 194 By: Joe Hamersly

I Exit here and go back to the place where nothing makes you smile II Exit here and go back to the place where the one thing that has changed in the past few years is a nice coffee shop just slightly, by flavors in their drinks that reflect the seasons

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

III Exit here because strength is growing weaker with each second being lost in constant fear of the fact that when you go out there in the great unknown everything is so new and all is not as it was back in yesterday IV Exit here and don’t keep driving on because what you want is the exit that is just twelve more down

Illustration by: Jorge Ariza

Illustration by: Jorge Ariza

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THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

“G

Dusty Crater

et me out of here!” I heard my sergeant yell loudly from the “A” driver’s seat somewhere below as I stood in the turret. I felt the M.W.R.A.P. jerk forward abruptly. I re-adjusted my mounted M-240, took aim, and let rip a few short bursts of fire where the RPG had been launched. My sergeant yelled again, “Get me the fuck out of here!” I could feel the wheels churn as they pivoted in the front of the armored vehicle.

Dust started pouring into the air as our driver slammed excitedly on the gas in an attempt to free us from our current position. I quickly pulled the cloth of my facemask up over my mouth and nose to protect my breathing. I continued to scan for any sign of movement, through the steadily thickening air, as it filled drastically with powder like dust. I could taste the sulfur in the air and still we had not moved.

“What the fuck are you doing, marine?” yelled my sergeant again. “Get the fuck out of the way.” I could feel hasty movements and bumps against my legs, and, with a quick glance, saw the two were switching seats in rapid succession. Now with my sergeant

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THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

By: Nathan Frappier

behind the wheel I hoped we could get out from this ditch. “RPG” I yelled, and instantly I felt two hands, one from each man reach up to help steady me in case of impact. They held me firm as the rocket propelled itself over the hood of our truck. I quickly traced the smoke back to the window of the mud hut where I caught a glimpse of a tattered shirt sliding out of the window with weapon in hand ducking out of sight.

I squeezed the trigger and let loose a tornado of lead pummeling all around the window.

Our M.W.R.A.P. growled angrily as my sergeant revved the engine. The tires started to shift in the loose sand, attempting to bite into ground enough to push its way out of the IED crater that we had missed by only seconds.

Photo by: Shelby Fisk

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THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Mum’s Fog By: Robert J. Perkins

We called her “Mum” our mother a fiery red haired freckle faced bundle of warm-hearted energy with bright blue eyes like the ocean on a crisp, clear day when you can see forever and life seems endless Mum liked the ocean, particularly on foggy days, oddly enough looking back, the thicker the better I took a picture of her once when I was in college black and white her outline barely visible standing at the edge of the sand facing out to sea the fog seeming to absorb her Photo by: Shelby Fisk

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Before the end, and long, long, long before we ever even thought about an end Mum began to fade

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THE PLUME

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Lady Luck

First her smile, so playful On a sparkling face so full of life Then her hair, once bright and beautiful Dulled like an old quilt in an attic trunk Her eyes signaled the final stage Fading from blue to grey, distant, vacant, gone Perhaps Mum knew long before the rest of us, about the fog

By: Kaitlyn Schott

Lady Luck comes in

bouts and spurts

of gracing me with

gold and sledge-hammered

confidences.

You don’t believe in luck,

but maybe that’s why,

like a bar-side bitter

drink, we are on the rocks.

Let’s order another.

It’ll go down

smooth and brutal.

Roll the damning

dice again.

Maybe our numbers

will come up.

Illustration by: Julio Pertuz

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

I Am a Well By: Erin Collins

Who am I? I spent much time asking this question while searching for something to represent myself and came up with a few options. I could be a honey bee, something that will sacrifice itself for the sake of its hive. I could be a mallard, a majestic creature who hides its struggles underneath the surface of the water. I could be the levies in New Orleans, strong cement and concrete that finally broke after years of neglect and mistreatment. All of these choices accurately represent a different side of myself, but none of them represent the full package. After some more digging and introspection, it hit me, I am a well.

A well is a long, dark tunnel built deep into the ground, forged with blood and tears, which provides access to the water necessary to survive. However, just like myself, that is not a wells only use; wells can be used in many different ways, and represent many different things. A well is: practical, useful, dangerous, deep, mysterious, and healing. Just like a well, all of these qualities can also be found in me and that is why I am a

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well.

A well provides the water necessary for survival. People can lower their buckets into the well and take as much water as they like, until there’s nothing left to take. The water in the well represents my ideas, words, work, patience, and kindness.

My friends and family know they can lower their buckets and take as much of my water as they need. They no longer ask for permission for what they take, and for some reason assumes that my water will last forever. The sad truth is that it will not last forever; in fact it’s almost all gone. They won’t realize how rude, wasteful, and inconsiderate they have been until they are dying of thirst. Once it hits them that there is nothing left, they could dig for more, but in the end all they will find is a drop here and there; because just like a well, when I’m done I’m done.

As I said earlier, a well is a long, dark tunnel that goes deep into the earth. The tunnel of the well symbolizes many things about

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

me; most importantly, it represents my mind and my spirit. As sad and depressing as that may sound, it is an accurate description. Just as the darkness of the tunnel prevents anyone from seeing what’s hiding at the bottom, the darkness inside of me prevents anyone from discovering what is hiding inside of me. The darkness shields my emotions, dreams, and secrets; it allows them to stay hidden at the bottom of my well, safely locked away to keep them from being stolen or revealed. Unless you climbed down the tunnel to take a closer look, you would never guess what’s inside.

Just like my thoughts and feelings, the only way to discover them is by getting inside my head.

I’m not sure if this made sense to you, I don’t know if you can relate to this or if you think I’m crazy.

What I do know is that as people, we are very complex and no metaphor will ever truly capture our essence. Try as we might, we all have parts to us that we would change if we could, we all have sides to us that no one will ever understand, and we are all doing the best we can to keep on keepin’ on. So I might be a honey bee, or a mallard, or the levies, or even a well; but at the end of the day, I will always be Erin, whether anyone understands me or not.

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THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Substance

By: Christina Sinibaldi

Get me out of here. I can’t believe I signed myself up for this shit. Okay, take a breath. I’m sweating like a priest trying to answer existential questions.

Jeez, I bet my heart looks like a hummingbird. I try to swab up the sweat on my face using the informational brochure. Remember the breathing, inoutinoutinout, now through the nose.

Goddamn, this room smells like some franchise eatery ball pit full of dirtysocked children. And these chairs, are they made for a brand of human beings that haven’t evolved yet? My ass feels like it’s kissing straight concrete. Hey, relax, there are children present. A room full of children ages twenty-six to fifty-three. Now, I’m not feeling superior or such shit. I’m a kid, too. Fell off my bicycle, hell, I broke the damn thing. My ascension to adulthood looks like I tripped down the up escalator. I gotta get seated and enjoy the automated ride, the straight and narrow.

The door opens, and I try not to be the only one who sits up a little neater. The head counselor walks in, right to the center of our chair circle.

Looking us all right-smug, he lets us have it, “Straight is the gate, and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life,” he gives a slow blink like he’s

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damn proud, “Matthew 7:14.” I almost leave; I feel like a cat that’s pissed in the wrong litter box. I don’t know if I can sit here and listen to some rehearsed college boy preach to me about how the reason I am where I am is because I lost God. Listen to me, pretty boy, with your slick hair and your chambray shirt—you’re lucky God don’t give a fuck about your fashion sense—if I were you, I’d stop pretending like I had a clue what God does. I’m betting you wouldn’t agree that God works in mysterious ways because that would make Him look a little too human. We all work in mysterious ways, pretty boy.

Not any of us in this room right now know how we let things get so bad. But I’m telling you, God and I never lost each other. I teach my daughters every night how to pray and you know what they pray for? Mommy and Daddy to get better. You see God in dollar signs and making people feel bad about their mistakes. I see God in the eyes of those little girls, and it is some powerful shit.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Villain By: Amanda J. Bradley

It was my favorite cartoon, but Scooby Doo gave me nightmares.

Did I not understand when the mummy costume came off in the end it was just a criminal underneath?

Or is that precisely what I understood? Why should it be a relief that someone would pretend to be a ghost to steal money?

Most people don’t think of themselves as bad people, a friend suggested.

This makes all the finger pointing we do in society seem peculiar.

We all have our pet laws we are willing to break: speeding and pot smoking for some, wife beating and armed robbery for others. Even the serial killer sees himself as above it all, as pure. What is evil, he might wonder.

Why do bad things happen to good people, we’ve been asking for centuries. Where does evil come from? From not seeing ourselves as bad people. I have done many things to forgive myself for.

I hope my recognition helps me tip the scales for the world.

I hope that when my mask comes off, I am not a villain.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

IV

By: Mandalyn Corse You’ll ask yourself why you let him touch you with his dirty hands because someday your body will be a temple your deity, and you are the zealot burning yourself alive and you will be your own god and all the saints too and you will see the moon in your own eyes and the spreading galaxies under your own skin And you will think of him and his broken fingers and bruised nails he was always careless, what made you believe he’d be any different with your heart?

So now you lock it up tight wrap it up in silks and hide it from the world you will find the greatest part of you was never worth giving away

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Photo by: Macaulay Glynn

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THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Again (Panic Attack) By: Kaitlyn Schott

Photo by: Macaulay Glynn

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When the panic slams A+ blood demands Beats burning to tear like weeping eyes.

Inside stomach expands. Spiral quickly, set a-spring like picking teeth.

I feel a head-case casualty. Craving skin rakes again. More comfort in the fetal.

Wrap the self in a “You don’t understand the coin toss of raptures and misery.”

I will never cause the pain transferred from me to you. Veins cry out to be freed, but I kick them down. I steel myself for the head-slapped confidence to right its way again.

So, I’ll just wait.

I feel a jumble in my shell. Worse for wear. Stretched to my breaking, fraying. I’m losing strands. It blooms a pain, so goes the grace. The breathing escalates. What can I do?

I love you and it hurts. I’m trapped from the motion. Those are never there.

Don’t seem to care until the worse. Don’t tick the time. Don’t see the signs. I want it so bad and I can’t.

When the panic slams A+ blood demands Beats burning to tear like weeping eyes.

I can’t and I won’t play to cause the pyrrhic even when it sears. I wish I knew how to help me. I wish they really cared.

I wish I wish I wish I cared.

Someone out there help me to steel this beats burning to tear like weeping eyes with me so I don’t feel so alone.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

March Hill By: Robert J. Perkins

My grandfather spoke of it often when I was a boy about getting past or over it

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

I understand now what he meant but it is too soon to be concerned as I have time yet There will come a day when the winter is long cold and foreboding and I, too, will wonder if I will see spring

His voice would trail off his eyes gazing at something distant that only he could see This must be some hill I thought for him to talk about it as he did Sometimes I wondered where it was this dreaded hill that caused such concern He is gone now as is my father and I am, reluctantly considered an elder at family gatherings

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Victim By: Mandalyn Corse

We were once a tangled knot of flesh breathing the same breath a monster of its own breed it wasn’t me you were breathing fire long before it wasn’t me who swallowed you whole You filled yourself up with whatever garbage is eating you alive whatever it is that came hissing out of you in spitting, red rage I wasn’t afraid of your hands or the marks they could make your words left gaping festering wounds every syllable, every sound came to a point, an edge sharp like a blade And you you let me bleed to death you thrived on it And boys will be boys will be boys will be boys and I will

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

pull you under like the rolling waves that tried to swallow me when I was a child they told me not to get caught in the undertow It wasn’t a scream or a howl in the night it was lower than a whisper a defining silence it was me and me alone curling into the smoke of a midnight cigarette arms wrapped tight around myself content.

Illustration by: Julio Pertuz

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

The Invention of the Century By: Danielle Karwaski

Time was running out. There was no time to wait for the next bus to come; they could not travel far on the bus anyway. Stevel and Midge were left with no choice but to continue the journey to Dr. Lace’s secret lab on foot.

It took them two weeks to get to the lab as they passed the major city they traveled to by plane till they got to the last small suburban village of log homes.

Then, they had to travel into the woods full of thorns that just wanted to entangle any trespassers till they approached their destination over the mountains covered in ice and down into the desert valley and into a hidden cave entrance were Dr. Lace lived.

The entrance of the lab was hidden in the dark corner of the cave behind the rocks used as doors. To open the door, you needed to press a little pebble nudged on the wall of the cave. Once inside the lab, they discovered a stamped mess. The stone walls were covered in grime, super glue, and other unidentified elements. Throughout the lab, there were life-like models of animals never before see on earth with some smushed against the ceiling from their enormous height. All the bookshelves were toppled over, and the once-alphabetized materials to assist in

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experiments were scattered all over the floor and tables.

For over three years, Stevel and Midge had served as apprentices for Dr. Lace, but still never met Dr. Lace and only communicated with Dr. Lace through letters left in the lab or sent to their houses. They were informed of this apprenticeship opportunity with Dr. Lace through their one peculiar professor at their university. They needed the opportunity to work with a scientist and took it as soon as they could. This apprenticeship contained one major issue; Dr. Lace did not always enjoy having apprentices around when conducting top secret experiments and often sent Stevel and Midge home for a few weeks then sent out a letter to tell them to return.

This time Dr. Lace was waiting for Stevel and Midge to assist in finalizing what Dr. Lace called the invention of the century. The project deadline to showcase the new invention at the international conference was in two days, and Dr. Lace needed a few minor adjustments and tests before showing it off.

Inside Dr. Lace’s lab, they found a letter on the table of the entrance room from Dr. Laced. As usual, it read:

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

Stevel and Midge, I am sorry but I had to leave on such short notice and hope to see you soon. I finished my project without needing help. Not to worry, I will sign off on hours that you need. Just leave the form on my desk in the den as always, and I will mail it back to you when I get back.

In the meantime, please:

· Dust the rooms

· Clean the floors

· Clear the cobwebs

· Reorganize all the materials and place them back into the cupboards, drawers, and shelves where they belong

· Clean all the materials piled in the buckets near the sink

Please do not bother with anything else. You may leave as soon as you finish this list.

Thank you for your help,

Dr. Lace

tarp, curious of the invention hidden away. Once the invention was revealed, it blazed with bright, shiny metal. It consisted of a computer scanner connected to an enormous glass cylinder.

Beside the invention was a crudely put together manual explaining how it worked in Dr. Lace’s code, which Stevel and Midge proudly knew.

“Place a picture on the scanner and find out how it will look in real life,” read the simple instructions in the manual before proceeding into the details of how the machine worked.

“Let’s try it out,” Midge suggested, as she went to the bookcase to find a picture. She scanned the shelves and found a book entitled The Fundamentals of Cryptozoology. As she overturned the pages, she found the most interesting looking creature she had ever seen and placed the page on the scanner. “Turn it on, Stevel. Let’s see how it works.”

Stevel and Midge continued on Stevel turned on the machine, with their usual chore list but could not and it began to chime as molecule help but wonder what invention Dr. by molecule the creature was formed Lace had created and why they were behind the glass, bursting out of its flat urged to travel to the lab as fast as they world in the book and into our world. could.

First, its wide, tangerine feet with elonAfter hours of mindlessly cleangated claws. Next, it’s navy body with ing the lab, they ogled the invention, enormous muscles, porcupine spikes which stood in the middle of a cleared across its back, and an expansive wingoff path in the center of the lab. It was span of polka dotted feathers. Then, its covered in a spotless white tarp. arms with gripping palms tipped with Stevel looked at the shape of the claws. Finally, its head hard as steel invention and decided to unravel the with a bold pointed beak and teeth that

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would make any shark jealous.

The creature stretched with a yawn as it surveyed its new surroundings slowly glancing at every detail of the lab.

SMASH! The creature burst through the glass and roared out a terrifying, deep, heart-wrenching noise and hurtled at full speed toward Stevel.

“Smash it! Smash the damn thing!” Stevel howled as he barely escaped the monster’s crimson claws by hiding behind the stack of filing cabinets.

Midge rapidly glanced all around the room till her eyes locked upon a wrench hanging up with all the arranged tools. She grabbed it as fast as she could and pounded the invention to bits, hoping it would eliminate the creature. They were not so lucky.

“Get the book!” Stevel bellowed in panic as he hid under a table, attempting to avoid being eaten.

Midge dashed to snatch the book by the creature’s tail and made her way to the nearest closet for some temporary safety. Trembling, she read the passage about the creature to try to discover its weakness. “Its beak!” Midge shouted. “It’s got a soft spot that makes it vulnerable! It has a nerve there that is fatal if harmed!”

“How are we going to get to that?” Stevel yelled as he tried to crawl hastily to the closet for safety.

“Distract it! I will get it!” Midge

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shouted as she ran to grab the wrench.

“How?” Stevel shrieked as he barely dodged the creature’s teeth.

“Try to get its beak stuck in the wall!” Midge yelled back.

“You want me to be bait!” Stevel barked, not agreeing with the plan.

“Just do it!” Midge screamed back, grabbing the wrench.

Stevel ran to the plaster inner-wall as the creature smashed its way through the obstacles of the lab to follow him as Midge came sprinting toward the creature’s face with the one chance she had to slay the creature.

With one whack with the wrench at its beak, the creature tumbled to the ground, shaking the entire place into silence.

Just then, Dr. Lace appeared at the doorway dressed in a full body protective suit. “OUT!” Dr. Lace’s voice echoed thought the stone covered underground.

Stevel and Midge sprinted out of the lab without a sound, never to speak or hear of Dr. Lace again.

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Eating Grapes in Church By: Macaulay Glynn

In the morning I watch my nana arrange two sets of vitamins on folded napkins before breakfast.

Soft fish oil capsules gleam like a spray of jewels.

Pop swallows each amber ellipse with orange juice.

Before church, Nana puts on loud pink lipstick and packs a tiny plastic bag full of green seedless grapes.

We leave through a doorframe etched with heights.

I cannot read the Stations of the Cross. The hymnal is no different than a phonebook.

Taut bright skin splits around my teeth.

I wait for the part I like: peace be with you peace be with you Everyone smiles. Grapes can be made to last if bitten in halves.

Their wet bellies are cool on my tongue. The priest asks something that is not the right question. The priest does not ask: if the last supper went on forever would no one have died? In the seventh station Jesus falls a second time.

Everything after that is an ending.

Illustration by: Julio Pertuz

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Changing Hands

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that feels deliberate, careful, my choice. What I leave behind now is not what I hope to get away from, but what I hope to change.

It is now my decision what to plant in the garden for spring.

By: Amanda J. Bradley

The woman who lived here before me left a garden behind: carrots and garlic and raspberry bushes in back, day lilies, daisies, hydrangea in front. She was a nurse and had four boys. This year, I am letting the gardens go.

I have no time to prune and weed and can and bake berry pies.

This move to my first house in the country after twenty-three years of city living has my mind teeming with ideas for poems, but there’s unpacking to do, planned vacations to go on with family, a semester ahead to prepare for. When I wrote poems at twenty, I had all the time I could desire. I wrote a poem about how I went to New Orleans with a friend, who stayed behind. In truth, I had only been to New Orleans with family as a child. I felt I must make up stories to write poetry because I had not lived much.

I wrote the true moments, though – the litter of kittens in a box in the alley, the two men who came flying out of a corner bar in a brawl as we drove down Bourbon Street at noon. All I could write about authentically at twenty was moving around so much— the deep need for loyalty and intimacy due to always losing people along the way in cities I left behind. There goes Pittsburgh, there goes Atlanta, there goes Dallas, there goes Omaha. There go my best friend and first love picking someone new to replace me.

These moves made me wild and desperate inside, self sufficient and tough outside. I was dangerous, a rebel destined to flail through years and years of life. This may be the first move I’ve made Illustration by: Alexsandra Pomeroy

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Fountains By: Madison Schott

Hunched backs and funny meanings cross roads that lead to nowhere.

Inside I’m running but outward I can feel it.

Creeping, sleeping day by day, lasting less and less time decays.

I’m breathing, I’m heaving knowing not of the approaching day.

Light streams through the windows and through my fingers and universes inside them create and destroy reunite and deploy.

There is a fountain beside all of us sinking in with our pennies heavy burden wishes, whispers, prayers and cries the tiles crack and break, forsake.

Crossroads that lead nowhere and inside I’m running but outward I can feel it.

Creeping, sleeping, dreaming day by day lasting less and less time decays

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all that is left.

Dream of fountains and fingers light streaming through the cracks destroying and creating revealing what is left.

What was given, what was taken and I’m hunched with the weight of these pennies and their funny meanings walking down these crossroads that lead nowhere.

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Star Stuff By: Mandalyn Corse

I pull the string that rises the silver moon and pulls the tide I was born with a thirst an insatiable appetite I had to consume and devour everything in my wake destroying villages, absorbing entire cities more, more, more but never enough none of it was ever enough to cure the aching hunger I can’t remember to feed myself and my lips are raw and bleeding but I find comfort in knowing that the iron racing through my veins that once felt heavy as lead is the same iron in the hearts of ancient stars My heart is made of stellar dust nebulae and clusters and I am infinite

Photo by: Macaulay Glynn

Illustration by: Alexsandra Pomeroy

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M

Photo by: David Elliott

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Elevator

arion was late.

It was the most pivotal moment of her life and she was late and she was angry at herself for being so careless, and late.

If she had taken the subway, she probably would have been on time, she thought. She wished she knew her way around the city better. Then, she could have taken the subway and she wouldn’t be stuck in traffic, late.

“Are you excited, Marion?” Her mother asked the night before in the most forcibly excited of tones.

“Of course, Mom. More nervous though. Actually, I’m terrified,” Marion said with a light laugh.

“Terrified?” Her mother repeated.

“Maybe terrified is exaggerating.

But yes, I’m scared. I haven’t had a lot of time to prepare.” Marion was just being honest.

“Well maybe you shouldn’t go!”

Her mother blasted. This revealed her mother’s true tone of voice, wrought with disapproval.

“Mom, that’s ridiculous. Of course I’m going. This is the biggest opportu-

By: Meredith Colohan

nity I’ve ever had to get paid to write. I have to go.”

“But you shouldn’t go ill prepared--” “Mom --” Marion tried to interject.

“And if you did not take the time to prepare and you’re terrified of going, it sounds like something you shouldn’t be doing.”

“Mom, come on. I just said terrified was an exaggeration. It’s just nerves, you know, jitters. It’s normal. I’m fine.”

“I don’t know, Marion.”

“Okay mom. Well, I’ll-” She was interrupted again.

“Marion. Just listen to me,” her mother coaxed.

“Mom, isn’t this what you want, for me to earn my own way? Then you and Dad don’t have to keep sheepishly sending your 20-something daughter money and lying to your friends, saying that you do it because I’m in grad school when I’m not.” Marion stopped herself.

Her mother sighed. Marion felt the sigh through the phone. It was heavy and cold, like a shovel heaving

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wet, dirty snow from one place to another.

“You just seem awfully worked up is all. I just want you to be happy.”

Isn’t that what all moms always say when they disapprove of their offspring’s decisions? Marion thought. It’s their one way out of saying how they really feel under the guise of wanting their daughters to “be happy.” Her mother hung up the phone.

Marion stared at her concrete surroundings outside the cab window. She pulled a mirror out of her shoulder bag to check the make-up she had slathered on her face only minutes ago in the cab.

She tried to smooth the faint wrinkles on the new suit she couldn’t afford that she bought for the interview for the magazine she thought she would never be good enough to write for.

She clutched her Styrofoam coffee cup. Her hands shook. The car jerked forward, and she felt the pop when her fingernail poked through the fragile cup.

A hot drip of liquid spilled on her lap.

“Shit!” She shouted as she dug through her briefcase for napkins.

“Watch the spill!” The driver yelled from in front of the fingerprint-littered plastic partition.

She shouldn’t have bought the coffee. Her adrenalin gushed through her veins beyond her control and the caffeine only made her nerves worse, but she wanted it. She wanted it to make her feel like it was just another day

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going to work with a cup of coffee. “$23.47!” The cabbie yelled. This was it. She was here. Everything she had worked for to prove she could be successful came down to this moment. She swiped her credit card, hoped it wouldn’t get declined, and hurried out of the cab, awkwardly stumbling on her expensive high heels. Damn it, she thought, she forgot to tip the cab driver. She turned to throw him a five, but he had already sped off.

Marion’s cell phone rang. It must be the magazine calling to see where she was. She stopped before the building’s daunting entrance to dig it out of her bag with one hand, still clutching her leaky coffee cup and napkins with the other.

Her mother was calling. Marion was instantly infuriated. How dare her mother call at a time like this. Her mother knew where Marion was supposed to be, but now Marion still wasn’t even inside the doors, and it was after her interview was even supposed to begin.

But what if something was wrong?

She ignored the call and thrust her phone back into her briefcase.

Her heels clanked loudly on the marble floor of the lobby. The brass elevator shone straight ahead. The doors were open, and the crowd inside was waiting for her. She hopped on her heels as quickly as possible, leaving a trail of drips of coffee from her punctured cup, but the elevator doors closed before she was halfway there.

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Damn it. If she wouldn’t have stopped to look at her phone, she would have made that elevator. Maybe now she had a mo ment to speak to her mother while she waited for the next ride. She reached in her bag again, blindly feeling for the phone, shifting and grasping with no luck. It had fallen into the abyss.

She started to sweat and took a swig of her coffee and discontinued the search.

A delightful ding! and another set of elevator doors opened. Marion shuffled inside and hit the door close button before anyone else could enter.

The doors sealed shut, the box enclosed her. She inhaled. Her lungs were heavy. She shut her eyes. Everything is okay, she told herself. Just take a deep breath. She tried to inhale again and choked. She tried to sip her coffee and choked. Her eyes swelled. Her vision blurred. She dropped the coffee cup and the napkins holding the leak in place.

The elevator cheerily chimed over and over with each floor, faster and faster.

Her chest was caving in. She couldn’t get air. She wanted to breathe.

Her head packed with pressure. She lost her depth perception. She felt crushed from above and stumbled from the center of the brass box to its corner. The elevator chime became a muted, unwavering and uninterrupted tone. It was the only noise she heard, white noise wailing.

The thoughts in her head were gone, and the walls were spinning, but all

the while she was standing still.

When the elevator doors finally opened, air infiltrated her lungs and light into her eyes. Marion gasped as she staggered out of the elevator.

She thought she must look a mess. If so, no one seemed to notice. Odd, no one was there to notice. The lobby was blank, grey, and empty. Hard chairs sat empty.

Coffee tables stood bare.

Marion made her way to the reception desk and leaned against the cold, hard marble. The receptionist was flipping through an issue of Life magazine. The receptionist kept flipping, one by one, unfazed by Marion’s disheveled appearance and lateness, unwavering.

“I’m Marion. Marion Brownstone.

I’m so sorry I’m so late.”

The receptionist flipped another page.

“I have a message for you,” she said without looking up. Marion breathed heavily. The receptionist ruffled through some notes and handed Marion a small, square, manila post-it note with practically illegible handwriting.

“You can have a seat until they are ready for you.”

Marion turned her back to the receptionist and opened the note.

She focused on the chaotic letters and lines until she made out the words: Glenn Brownstone. Call cell. Mom died.

Without a word, Marion turned back to the elevator and pressed the down arrow.

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Things I Know To Be True By: Madison Schott

First I will always be one step behind for no matter how many leaps I take or steps I run up, skip up the moment I catch my breath I’ve already fallen behind I know and I’ve been told there is nothing wrong with stopping and smelling the flowers taking that walk, sleeping those five minutes more but instead I recede recoil into myself twist and turn stopping this train in its tracks begging for seconds Second everything must be done too hard too sharp and too quick I love I hurt I chase I run Justification, gratification, brutalities walls are built only to crumble down and volcanoes erupt on a freshly bloomed spring.

Ashes fall down only to be kicked up again going full force ahead of the rails I twist and turn and try to breathe in my creation and destruction wondering what’s next Next periodically I’m crushed into that very ash and soot I kick up as my heart aches and veins creak my brain goes into overdrive and then slams on the brake from the whiplash I take another secret peek at that smile I forget how to speak Falling back into the ocean as it refuses to cease but I come on too hard I chase I run until the very last Last these feelings, my actions

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my words and reasons become something else I forget why I went downstairs with scissors in my hands but it must have been more important than those thousand cranes that promise one wish Just one wish and I’d spend it on you I twist and turn I chase I run I’m a mess and not any better when I’m around you I forget how to breathe brake and take another peak and I know I need to stop trying and I know why I wont because I might be a step behind those stairs I take two at a time but our brakes are all in our heads and while we are all a mess taking life too fast too hard too slow or too sharp I see no reason to stop kicking up my own ashes for I’ve been crushed a million times before and my dear if by you or if by me I can and will be crushed a million more.

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Brown Eyed Beauty By: Nyasia A. Smith

Like a rose on a summer’s day Her perfume suddenly filled the air She silently hummed to the rhythm of her walk Left.

Right.

Left.

Right.

Walking like her friends were her fans and the world was her runway I slightly searched for the smell of her perfume as it began to disperse Hoping that I could hold onto something…

Anything Brown eyed beauty.

It caught me by surprise when she called my name Her lips curved and twisted as she seductively let the “N” and the “y” fall from her lips As “asia” followed My tongue Stuck My jaw Locked My breath Lost My heart Open

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Brown eyed beauty.

Greeting me with a hug And like two kids exploring bodies for the first time I was nervous What if I squeezed too tight?

What if I didn’t hold her close enough?

But as we became chest to chest In the blink of an eye In the arms of this woman I melted My eyes met hers and in that moment we became addicts Addicted to the way our eyes childishly played tag Addicted to the secrets we could share without spilling a word Addicted to the beauty that we could only find in each other Brown eyed beauty.

Like leaves in the wind I was no longer in control of myself I took her lips onto mine Not wanting to miss the chance I could taste the bitterness of her lipstick The sweetness of her sorrow And the sourness of her desperation Combine these flavors and she becomes real She becomes the perfect girl for me She becomes the answers to all my questions But even if you combine these flavors she will always be a product of my dreams.

Brown eyed beauty.

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The Remote By: Meredith Colohan

The old man nestled into his worn, burgundy chair. He paused. He looked around. The television was in front of him. Oh yes, he remembered.

He turned to the TV dinner tray propped against the arm of the chair.

He lifted a strange object. It was long and silver and rested between gnarled, unfamiliar wrinkled fingers.

The object had letters and numbers, words and symbols. It was disjointed and multicolored. He could obviously read the words: Power, Cable, Input, Picture, Lock, Mute. Hmph, he grumbled when the apartment doorknob rattled behind him.

“Hey Dad,” James said.

“Oh! Hello son! I thought you weren’t coming over until Friday.”

“It is Friday, Dad.” The old man didn’t reply. He just realized he was holding something in his hand and reverted back to studying the foreign object.

James kicked the door shut with his foot. His arms were full with grocery bags.

“James, be careful,” spoke a trembling voice from behind the weathered chair.

“I brought you some groceries and Annette’s homemade potato salad.

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It’s the kind you like with mayo and mustard.”

“Wonderful.” He continued to stare.

“You hungry?” James asked as he made his way to the kitchen.

No response.

“Have you even eaten anything yet today?” James asked as he unloaded the groceries. He fixed his father a paper plate with a large helping of his wife’s potato salad and stuck a plastic fork straight up in the middle.

“Here,” James placed the paper plate on his father’s lap.

“No,” his father finally answered.

“I didn’t eat yet. Wasn’t hungry.”

“Well I came just in time then, didn’t I? Put down the remote. Eat! You like that potato salad.”

“The remote!” The old man exclaimed, his limpid eyes bright.

“Yea, Dad. The remote,” James took the contraption from his father and began to turn on the television.

“I was going to do it myself,” his father said.

“It’s okay, I got it. I’ll show you.

First, you push the TV button. Then Power, and then Cable and then --” “Why are there so many damn buttons? You only need one button

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to turn on the television!” His father meant to shout, but time had reduced his voice to a whisper. To compensate, he waved his arms and hands and gestured toward the television. His plate of potato salad nearly slid right off his lap.

“Dad, I tried last time, remember? I called the cable company and this is the only remote they have available now. It’s universal. Everyone gets the same one, regardless of whether or not you use all the features.”

“Ridiculous,” The old man muttered and shifted in his chair. “James, why aren’t you at work?”

“I’m retired.”

“Oh.” He took a bite of the potato salad. It was cool and the potatoes were soft and sweet from the crunch of celery. *** Almost three hours later, his father still insisted James not turn on the television with the remote with a gazillion buttons, and James had called the electronics store, searched the Internet, and was on the phone with the cable company trying to find a rudimentary remote.

James’ father sat in his chair, gazing at all the yellowed family photos that crookedly hung on the wall when the one-room apartment shook, welcoming another visitor, the youngest son, Thomas.

“Hey Dad! Hey James! I know it’s your weekend, but I thought I’d stop

over after work. How’s it going, Dad? It’s after six, why aren’t you watching the news?”

Unwavering, he said, “I won’t use that damn remote.”

“Come on. What’s the problem?”

Thomas asked with a smile.

The old man explained the buttons. He explained there are so many.

He told Thomas he didn’t know what some of the symbols meant. He could read the words, obviously, but why where there so many buttons? “I don’t need that many buttons,” he said to Thomas.

Thomas, still listening, sat down at the kitchen table across from his oldest brother on the phone.

“Yes, I understand everything is digital now, and he needs to have the box and this remote even without the cable package,” James explained, waving hello to Thomas.

“Tell them you only need one button to turn on the television!” the boys’ father called out.

“Come on,” James said into the phone. “He’s 92.”

Thomas took a banana from the fruit bowl on the table. James hung up the phone.

“The remote again, huh?” Thomas asked his brother, simultaneously chewing.

“Same problem. How do simple remotes literally become extinct? There has to be a model he could use. Maybe

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I can reconfigure the settings for him,” James said, more to himself than the others.

Thomas suddenly sprung out of his chair. “Be right back!”

“Sorry, Dad,” James said after Thomas left.

“It’s alright son.” He laughed.

“It’s just television.” He lifted a large magnifying glass from his TV dinner tray. “At least I can still read the paper,” he said, placing it in front of his face.

James chuckled.

The old man offered James a half smile, then a strange look, and shifted himself to face the wall. James watched him smile. “Don’t worry about them,” he said aloud.

Thomas returned minutes later with smirk and a small object in hand.

He squatted next to his father in the threadbare chair and ripped small pieces of black electrical tape. He lifted the remote and covered all of the buttons his father had no use for.

“Ah hah!” Their father’s clear eyes gleamed.

The brothers smiled, relieved.

They all agreed on take-out for supper. The brothers were going to pick it up.

James and Thomas were walking out when they slowed to listen to their father, who had begun to speak, but not to them.

“Did you see that, Beatrice?!” The old man said to a photo of a distin-

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Ginger-Snaps

guished woman on the wall. “James, our engineer, tried to fix the problem.

Thomas, the communicator, created a solution. Our boys will be okay.”

By: Kaitlyn Schott

My reality is different from you Mao and you Sally D. Is my evergreen as envious as yours?

Is the ground a sponge

to soak

up my existence

the same as thee?

Mr. Sunset, will you set under the sea to perceive my reality and my air can shimmer like smooth-pebble diamonds?

The sky waves and the ground sets.

I’ll walk on desk oak trees and Veronica will take the temperature of a non-existent time with a merry-go-round.

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Is Sammy writing on a white paper with red ink or

is Jim

scratching talcum

off a poppy sheet

to create drawings?

A box to ring and talk.

Protect the mind Mr. Cat. Guard like Egyptians say you can.

Drop your feet in the sky.

Ginger-snaps stand still in zero gravity.

Break a verse with a tongue because it needs to make sense to appreciate it.

That’s why we can’t enjoy life.

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Beautifully Damaged By: Katrina Hart

The hallway that leads to the bedroom is too short to get any of my thoughts straight. Panic haunts my chest, and I get the ‘life flashing before my eyes” feeling in the pit of my stomach. Tremors follow the pulse of my blood, and I can feel every beat that my heart pounds out. I can’t wrap my mind around what I have just agreed to. Is this too soon? What if I don’t know how to do it right? There are a million racing questions clouding my ability to come to my senses. Get a grip! Everyone does it; it will just come to you naturally. Breathe.

Right when I am about to pivot onto my heels and hightail it out of there for the sake of avoiding a heart attack, I hear his calming voice billow out from behind the thin door. Breathe.

My clammy hand turns the knob, and, with a slight glimpse of his face, I know that this is right. I am confident in my love for him, and this is what people in love do, right? I can’t help but to shun all of the negative thoughts and suppress the worried feelings once I’m in his presence. After all, that is one of the things I love most about him -- the person I become when I’m with him.

He helps me steady my balance as I slip my left pant leg off; I wish he

could as easily steady my thumping heart. I can feel my face heat up and am suddenly encompassed by a storm of insecurities. Yes, this is a big deal, but what am I all worked up over? This person has seen me in every possible form. Why is being naked so much different? And just like that, I let the moment, and my lover, take a hold of me.

“Late.” A word that has never had much impact in my life, just another word stored amongst the others waiting to be thought up. But now it’s staring back at me like the grill of an oncoming freight train. I try to compose a text except I can’t see my phone screen through the swelling droplets forming under my eyelids. Late. Every time I think it, I wince. How could this be? It only happened once! One beautifully orchestrated symphony of two souls and bodies gracefully intertwining; it was such an experience.

Despite the enthrallment of it all, there are two tiny lines on a stick telling me my fate. I still can’t believe it.

It’s real though -- really, really real. I try to think of how I am going to explain this to him, but my thoughts come up short. I’m having a hard time getting this through my own head let alone

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disclosing this to another person. He has to know, though, so I muster up some courage and hit “call.”

Talk about the hardest decision of your life. The words barely fell out of my mouth. It was like watching my reaction happen all over again and I couldn’t offer any condolences.

This isn’t something that can just be solved with a quick thought. I knew this phone call wasn’t going to end any better than it had started.

After weeks of going back and forth between different options, we finally settled on something that was unsettling. We were not going to become parents.

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