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THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Editorial Staff Tiffany Masters Danielle Karwaski Paige O'Hara Zachary R. Traver Mikayla M. Lewis

Kelly Gordon Sephora VanOrden Alex Rizzuto Cassandra C. Caputo Christina Sinibaldi

Editor-in-Chief

Art Director

Macaulay Glynn

Madeline Ferrara

Faculty Advisors Amanda J. Bradley

Raymond Hammond

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Table of Contents We Can Burn by Samantha Nourse.................................................................. 8 Untitled by Mikayla M. Lewis............................................................................ 9 A City Under the Rain by Sephora VanOrden............................................... 10 In a State by Kimberly Boland......................................................................... 13 Lost Cause by Nyasia Smith.............................................................................. 17 Stubborn Love by Bindi Liebowitz................................................................... 18 Ode To JÃ¤germeister by Zachary R. Traver......................................................20 An Ode to my Poinsettia by Benjamin Hawes................................................ 23 Tick-Tock, Counting Down the Clock by Haley Salak................................. 24 Cleanse by Alex Rizzuto.................................................................................... 25 9/11 by Zachary R. Traver................................................................................. 26 Beach Politics by Benjamin Hawes.................................................................. 29 Ode to my Victoria's Secret Bra by Megan Karhnak..................................... 30 Bloodstain on Paper by Kelly Gordon............................................................ 33 Silence by Mickey Kellam................................................................................. 34 Here is What I Know About You: by Macaulay Glynn................................. 35 Anxiety by Tiffany Masters.............................................................................. 36

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Table of Contents Untitled by Mikayla M. Lewis.......................................................................... 37 The Gogglins by Danielle Karwaski................................................................. 38 LiCO by Kimberly Boland............................................................................. 41 Photosympathis by Peter Horger...................................................................... 42 Betwixt and Between by Alex Rizzuto............................................................. 44 An Ode to Maxwell and Marlboro by Sephora VanOrden........................... 46 Garbology by Keyla L. Casildo......................................................................... 49 A Suitcase by Zachary R. Traver....................................................................... 50 Delaware River by Sephora VanOrden............................................................ 53 An Ode to Editors by Benjamin Hawes........................................................... 54 Taking Out the Trash by Alex Rizzuto............................................................. 55 Pardon Me While I Burst by Mickey Kellam...................................................56 An Ode to the Beatles by Mikayla M. Lewis....................................................57 Between the Sun and Moon by Bindi Liebowitz.............................................58 Untitled by Tamara M. Cadora..........................................................................59 Things We Forget by Macaulay Glynn...............................................................60

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

We Can Burn By: Samantha Nourse The trees are on fire, hallowed be thy name. My eyes will never tire, they ignite the flame. I hung you on a wire and placed you in my brain. Now I think itâ€™s dire to let you out again and we can burn.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Untitled By: Mikayla M. Lewis

The little pick that had strummed a thousand songs sat in my hand as I thought about my brother. It was not an ostentatious pick, one of the shiny electric blue ones with a brand name that screamed of rock ‘n' roll, but rather a pale and deep rose color with a matte finish. The white name that flowed along the gentle rounded curve was passive in nature without begging for anyone’s attention. It read: NICK. My grandmother, who was the nicest little old lady that you could imagine (the kind who always had soft towels and too many leftovers), had found it in some forgotten little music store in some forgotten little town and picked it out for my brother because it had his name on it. The songs he played with it were sweeter than wine and more sad than a puppy with too-big eyes, but they were more beautiful than white sand in a sunset. This particular guitar pick had the ability to imbue in any listener its loneliness. The kind of content loneliness one would feel spending

an autumn afternoon in the woods without a companion. The guitar pick in my hand was warm from my body heat. As I thought about my brother, I realized that the only thing better than being alone is being lonely with someone else, sharing the loneliness in a way that doesn’t sting but feels like a soft note strummed on a guitar with the loneliest pick in the world.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

A City Under the Rain By: Sephora VanOrden The sun had set down below the tops of the skyscrapers that made up up the dirty city. In the glowing orbâ€™s wake, an army of storm clouds had moved their way across the night sky. Opening their arms, they let a wave of rain come down upon the cityâ€™s occupants. Drops hit every surface, every car top, cement ground, and unsuspecting head. Selene walked out of a Rite Aid and into this sad, rainy night. Her leather high heeled boots clicked on the stone sidewalks as she strolled down the roads, trying to keep dry by wrapping her tawny brown waistcoat around her tightly. Bright neon lights glistened as she passed them, their reflections shimmering on the growing puddles she stepped in. Her apartment would no doubt be warm compared to this cold water that soaked her. Warm, but empty of any life but hers. Tonight would have been a nice evening to have a male companion. One who would hold an umbrella over her head to shield her from the rain, and possibly hold her hand, keeping it warm as they made their journey back to her home. She smiled at that thought, jumping

over a large puddle to escape wet shoes. Then that male company could also stay the night, making love, and keeping her bed warm throughout the early hours of the morning. Yes, that would have been wonderful. Making a left turn, she was now on the outskirts of the city, the block which her apartment resided on. Lamp posts had woken up and now lit the way for her. She would go inside, set her wet clothes up to dry, make her meal for one person, and then sit. Sit by the window that showed a view of the city and watch as the gray cloud above christened the man-made buildings. As the drops fell in her gaze, she would day dream about the future, and hope that one day she would have someone to come home to.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Photo by: Harmony R. Blum

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Photo by: Macaulay Glynn

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

In a State By: Kimberly Boland You don’t need to get there at any certain time, but the adrenaline you’ve been running on the last few months still courses through your veins and makes you feel panicked. As always, what’s new? What did you think? That you’re going to be able to out-drive your problems? It’s nonsensical, yet the call you feel deep in your soul, through every molecule of your existence, that impulse to hit the road as soon as possible is stronger than most of the calls you’ve ever felt in your life—and something’s been calling you to venture forth, to leave, to go, for as long as you can remember. This isn’t the first time you’ve felt this—just the first time you’re going to act on it. There’s no way to know if your car’s going to even be able to make the journey. It’s twenty years old, and the furthest distance it’s ever been driven at once was about twenty miles. But that was the previous owner’s over caution; you’re the one behind the wheel now—you’re the one in charge. So, you’ll just have to drive it and see.

You were nice and over cautious the first few months you’ve owned it, too, but time has changed you. The circumstances recently have already changed you. (How could they not?) Well-intentioned people keep asking you, when you tell them where you’re going next week, “will it snow?” (“Does it matter?” Is not a reply that’s helping you establish any cred in the sanity department here.) You know how to drive in any weather. It wouldn’t be your first blizzard, nor your last. That you will guarantee. Your loved ones are concerned about this odd plan of yours—you’ve never driven this far, and all alone at that—but they trust you that you’re doing this for reasons that you’ve thought through. The reputation you have fooled everyone (including yourself) into believing is the real you is working, clearly. That self-concept you project of someone in control, methodical, gripping the wheel tightly, in a metaphorical sense, is starting to become your reality.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Fake it till you make it, right? But inside you’re spinning out of control and if you could just prove to yourself that you are on the right path, headed in the right direction, in a literal sense, it might be the one thing that will calm you down. You know you just need to drive as far as you can, and as long as it wasn’t already a blizzard outside, you would be ready to take off the first day of break, as soon as you are done with your midterms. A friend up north said you can crash at his place. It’s good enough. The destination doesn’t really matter, anyway. The kindness, however, is appreciated. There is no destination you can think of that feels important, that feels good enough, but hopefully it won’t matter. It’s the getting there part that you’re here for, after all. (A year from now, you’ll look back on this, and you won’t even recognize yourself, but isn’t that a reccurring theme with you?) It’s the middle of March, but it might as well still be the dead of winter. The temperature during the night has been creeping into the negative digits for weeks; the days aren’t any warmer. It’s so cold outside your fingers turn red every time you go outside, so you plan to wear a scarf and gloves while you drive, huddled into your leather coat, bundled up like when your mother lovingly packed you into ten layers of ski coats before letting you out into the wild of a freshly powdered January in

your backyard, growing up. You feel about as small as you did back then, small, and free, so unknowing of what is to come that the stress spirals straight around back to a sense of calm and most importantly, safety. This is the most effective therapy, at fifty bucks a tank, and five something for the multicolored, age-inappropriate, knit gloves, you’ve ever found in this life. You can keep your booze and support groups, you scoff to yourself. Just give me an interstate, my trusty nineties sedan, and my keys. (You’re never going to leave that decade behind, you know that now, and so it feels fitting the radio is playing nothing but “the best of ” an era you can’t believe was twenty years ago, while you’re going down I-95, thinking about the blizzard of some January you turned six or four or five.) The heat in your car works, thankfully, but it’s not enough to guard against the wind that still manages to creep into your car. Besides, you like to drive with the windows down, even in the winter. You’re a crazy person on a crazy mission to fulfill a crazy calling – will anyone care if they see you flying down some desolate highway with your windows down in ten-degree weather? No one is even going to notice you in the first place. (That’s the best part.) That’s a lot of the reason you think might be the logic behind why you felt this calling. You need some space. This

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

will be one of the most intense personal missions you have undertaken in your young life. You will be completely responsible for your own safety the entire time. You have your cell phone, and you can always turn around and come home, but you’ll be your own pilot and navigator. There’s no one to take your place if you get tired and need a rest – you’ll have to factor that into your travel time, to rest on your own. You leave in the morning. The first two hours feel like the longest. It doesn’t hit you that you won’t have anyone to talk to during this journey until you stop for lunch and send out a few texts to say you’re on your way. You’re independent, sure, all those personality tests keep telling you that, but you’re also a social, talkative person – it feels weird to be cut off from others as you concentrate on the road. You’re not alone in your glass and metal box, not really. Everyone you love is a text message away nowadays, and there are many other cars full of many other people speeding past you as you speed past others. You start talking to yourself a few hours in, on purpose. Singing along with the radio kept you awake for a bit, but the heater in your car is starting to lull you into a comfortable state, so you put the windows back down and pretend you can actually converse with the ghosts in your head, all the people and the pain you’ve been carrying

around the last few months. Not everyone you love will return your text messages, but that won’t stop you from role-playing that they’re there, in the car with you, and they have to finally listen to everything you have to say. You feel absolutely ridiculous, and you only do it for a few minutes, and it makes you finally accept that there’s some people you might never stop missing, but you can’t bring them with you like this. You have to let go. You don’t know how, but you must. At some point, you accept two things - you don’t want to waste your energy on screaming at people who can’t see what you’re saying in any other tone, in any other medium, and secondly, you really don’t make a convincing crazy person. You let these things go, let them fly out the window, hit the pavement and bounce backwards, away from you, leaving sparks that can’t burn you, that don’t last, that roll away, to be lost forever. Your friend wants to know why you’re not there yet, when you hit hour six of almost nonstop driving and decide to take a long break. Sending back a message that says, “I don’t know, I think I’m trying harder to find myself than to find you,” will certainly make you look like you’ve lost it, so you just tell him you’ll be on your way. You drive on. A ride that should’ve taken you a

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

few hours ends up taking almost twelve. You take a selfie at the first pit stop you find when you hit the last state border you needed to cross. It’s the most beautiful photo of yourself you’ve ever seen. You look confident. You don’t look haunted at all. “New life goal - always look this proud of myself," you type - there, that’s a nice caption. You get behind the wheel again, after putting on another coat – it’s even colder up in this region, and you try to out-chase the last vestiges of the parts of your mind that argued with your heart and said you couldn’t do this. You proved yourself wrong. You’ve always been your favorite person to prove wrong. With the windows down, you scream into the night. You’ve rarely felt this victorious. You get to your friend’s apartment near midnight. He’s not how you remember him from your past. You seem to trouble him, too. There’s photographic proof that a few hours ago you weren’t the person you are now. Growth in your soul will do that to you. He invites you in, and his life and his ghosts repel you. He tells you about the callings he hears in his heart that he ignores in favor of logic, and you tell him how you (though it was never what anyone expected) started doing the exact opposite. In the middle of the night, after he’s fallen asleep, you get your keys, your gloves, and start driving. You might just go

home. You might go the opposite direction. It doesn’t matter. It’s the drive you need. Just you and the open road. Isn’t there a saying about the journey being the part that matters?

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Lost Cause

By: Nyasia Smith

You cast us off No. You dropped us off Again. The first time you dropped us off Not with our jewels and fine clothing But with our dead babies and things broken Empty cries and flesh broken Life was there, yet humanity was choking They laughed at our pain and they drank to our suffering While my grandmother's great-grandmother had to silence her son's vomiting Troubling. Had to travel in ones feces But hold up I’ll slow down because Keystone y’all not hearing me The second time you dropped us off I knew that it was permanent Shot my brother but they won’t own it Self-defense is what they cloned it Left him bleeding in the street as if they stoned him America… Home of the brave But never forget this was first home to the slaves And I’m only standing here because of the path that they paved Trayvon I remember you Mike Brown I remember you Eric Garner don’t be ashamed for I have asthma too So I lift my hands to the sky and I yell “DON’T SHOOT” And yes I said yell because I will never I will never I will never remain mute.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Stubborn Love By: Bindi Liebowitz Tall, athletic No specific nationality, really Just generally big eyes And pretty teeth Well-kept hair And rugged beards Some tattoos and a nice full strong body Thatâ€™s the package. And itâ€™s come with multiple different skin colors, Tones of voice Names, But they all played the same game They all said the right things to get to sacred places They all spoke gently with sweet words that filled my heart faster than my ears And then they all left They all went back to the she who would keep them comfortable. No questions asked. No boundaries pushed. No talks about hopes or dreams, Career paths and hopeful accomplishments. She is always safe. Always quiet. But me? I roar even with my lips sealed. My foot will tap My legs will shake

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

My eyes will burn holes through your face with their gaze. I care. And I’m never afraid to show it, To demand that you notice my feelings' existence. But that’s not what they wanted, They want cooperative and tolerant Not challenging and inspiring, Because inspiration only makes room for change and who has time for that? I am the mirror they all look in that tells them they can do better than they have And the truth is just too scary for some I am a pusher Of love, affection, attention I’ll push it on you Push it out of you and onto me And in conclusion push you away I am in constant battles between what my heart wants; for me For you, for us And what you’ll never let your heart allow I am stubbornly in love with the unlovable.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Ode to Jägermeister By: Zachary R. Traver That first sip, Jäger and Red Bull, like no other, a pull. Who’d of thought black licorice-flavored gasoline could refresh like a jolt? Fire in my bones, lead in my head. Ice-cold blood, Jäger is vampire in a bottle—invincible, exclusive, venomous. Dr. Jäger, child of Meister and Pepper, healer of none, slides across the counter effortlessly, “Embrace…” Bitch Slap—what happens when you mix Welch’s Grapes and Jägermeister. So versatile, Jägerade. Better dig in. Electrolytes, light shit up!

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Photo by: Macaulay Glynn

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Illustration by: Haley Salak

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

An Ode to My Poinsettia By: Benjamin Hawes Poinsettia, my seemingly eternal Christmas flower, you never die. Not that I try, but from where do you derive your miraculous power? I’ve left you under the haughty July sun too long, remember? Oh, how most of your leaves crinkled to an ashy gray, and then they fell. Dear me, you had a sunburn. You’ve had frostbite too. I left you out at night in the cold, like an unwanted salesmen. But it was a mistake! I didn’t know there would be frost that night. And besides, you can’t rely on weather forecasters anyway. In the darkness Jack Frost sent you his best wishes, in an icy clasp. I remember another time you were thirsty, so I gave you a drink. But it was vinegar! Oh, Poinsettia! It was an honest mistake! You didn’t seem to mind though, not a leaf was broken. You are indeed my Christmas token. For five years now, you have graced me with your beauty. And I do believe, that like the Baby of Bethlehem, you are the resurrection and the life.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Tick-Tock, Counting Down the Clock By: Haley Salak Hour by hour, minute by minute Counting down the clock, I race the secondhand with each tick, tick. I’m rushing through life When did it become a race? I try to slow down My feet walk, but my mind will only run. Racing thoughts spin out of control Doubt slithers into the chaos “The pace is too fast, you will never last," My conscience whispers shrewdly. My fingertips shake and I want to scream Scream at life to slow down Because I want to relish in every second. I want to feel the cool breeze For it to sting my face and water my eyes. I want to see the autumn colors Take the time to wonder why leaves' colors change. I want to hear the lonely cricket To feel what he feels as he plays his tune. I want to taste the sweat on my lip As I run through tall grass before haying season. I want to breathe in winter’s crisp air All just to know that I am still alive. But how can I say I am alive, As life simply rushes right on by. Then is it not true, that I am not yet living?

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Cleanse By: Alex Rizzutto

My fingers twist on dirty skin Soiled by pocked bumps of flesh You haven't showered in "possibly hours" I say it's been ages at best Your skin once soft, now turned to stone I grate at its ugly surface— Once a beautiful finesse Betrayed by grisly portraits

How do I hold these picket fence lines And see into bitter darkness? How do you walk with no whisk of the limb And hold onto all that's empty? Tricky, tricky, dirty face In your shades of gray and dust How should I disobey thee now? Turn you into rust? For when perverted eyes meet mine They fail to look abandoned You haven't got the wit to hide Nor the skill to vanish Black face, won't you come to me, So I can wipe you back to gold? But as my hands go hard to work I cannot cleanse your soul

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

By: Zachary R. Traver I sat there in the corner, thinking about what I had done. I mean, at least that’s what Mrs. Kelleth had sent me here to do, but I didn’t care. I don’t know why teachers got so frustrated when you talked in class. I mean, I was whispering. It’s not like I was interrupting the class or anything. I turned in my chair that faced the wall to see the rest of the class. The room was really bright, something I always enjoyed about her class. It had these great big windows that lined the left wall and the front wall. I can’t even begin to explain why on such a beautiful day, this early in the morning, someone could be crying, but there was Mrs. Bell, sobbing away. Now, when I say Mrs. Bell, you might think, well she sounds like this really nice lady, but she wasn’t. She was like this ancient, cranky, old bird of a woman that drove me insane. But, I honestly didn’t think she had it in her to cry. I couldn’t imagine why she could be crying. The next thing I know, Mrs. Kelleth was walking over toward me. I figured she was going to yell at me, and tell me to face the wall, but she didn’t.

9/11

She calmly told me to rejoin the class, and then told the class that we were going to watch the news. I hated the news. It was always so sad. This person went bankrupt, whatever that meant, something with money my mom said; how they didn’t have any. That person’s house burnt down. What could possibly be so important on the news that we would have to watch it, I mean really. Then Mrs. Bell left the room, and Mrs. Kelleth stood in the doorway talking. She looked weird. Like she was feeling this emotion I’d never seen before, but at the same time, she looked afraid. One of the janitors wheeled in a TV, a small, boxy, crappy TV, and Mrs. Kelleth turned it on and flipped to the news. The lights went out, and instantly my jaw dropped. I couldn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing. Mrs. Kelleth didn’t even step backwards before she began to cry. She turned and told us that a plane had crashed into one of the towers in New York City. Some of the kids were really quiet. Nobody talked, nobody even whispered. We all just watched. The lady on the news was jabbering

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

on about something, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. My eyes were frozen on the picture in the screen. There were these two huge skyscrapers that I’d seen before, and one of them had this big black smoking hole in it. I had a picture at home by my bed of those two towers. My mom told me that my dad worked there. I got a really bad feeling when I saw that big cloud of smoke. Mrs. Bell reentered the room and stood holding Mrs. Kelleth’s hand. We all watched for what felt like a while in silence. Everyone was shocked, even the other kids that I don’t really think understood at all what was happening. They didn’t get that those people were hurt in there. We were all watching when we saw another plane fly into the other tower. It just disappeared into the building and blew up. Mrs. Bell screamed. She was bawling, mumbling something about her son was in there, but my ears were ringing and I couldn’t understand. Another teacher, Mr. Argil, an old man who worked in the office sometimes came into the room and grabbed Mrs. Bell really tight and pulled her from the room. We could hear her screaming in the hallway. I had chills. I felt tears streaming down my face. My sight got real blurry and I had to wipe my eyes to see the screen. My dad was in there. I knew he worked in that one. I don’t know what got into me, but

my legs were up and moving toward the TV. I put my face to the screen and cried. I yelled for my dad, but he didn’t answer. Someone picked me up and carried me from the room. My mom was there and she took me. She carried me out to the car, but all I could see was the tower in the screen. The burning tower and all I knew was that my dad was in there. When my mom carried me inside our house, every TV was on, and there was only one tower. There was a lot of smoke where the other one was. My mom sat me on the couch. She ran for the phone. I knew she was trying not to cry, too. I could see it. I decided I needed to be strong for my mom, but I was still crying. She went into her room so I couldn’t hear her. But I could anyways. She was screaming at someone on the phone. I heard her yelling my dad’s name. I was so scared. I just wanted my dad to walk through the front door. I wished he was with my mom so she would stop crying. I didn’t like it when she cried. It meant something was wrong. That something bad happened. After a while, the screaming stopped. I went into my mom’s room and she was lying on her bed. Everything was still blurry. The bed was covered with tissues, but I climbed on anyways. She lifted the covers, and I crawled in by her. Her face was all red. My mom’s happy face

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

was sad. She just looked at me. Just stared into my eyes. I started crying again and so did she. We both laid there in tears until I fell asleep. That night I dreamt of my dad coming home and having breakfast in the morning with my mom and me. But I had a feeling it wasnâ€™t going to happen.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Beach Politics By: Benjamin Hawes

Elections

I noticed the surfer, with the suit and tie rode a popular wave to shore but left the surfboard in the sea when the tide went out.

II.

Speeches

And like a flock of tone-defiant vociferous seagulls, shrieking, politicians think youâ€™ll only feed them if they make your ears bleed.

III.

Integrity

Some politicos are lifeguards. And for them a day at the beach, is just another day.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Ode to my Victoria's Secret Bra By: Megan Karhnak Oh, Victoriaâ€™s Secret Bra, your pink shade brings out the paleness of my smooth skin. Small flower sequins illuminate your beauty, drawing wandering eyes to the most unmissed part of the female anatomy. Your soft, memory foam inserts provide a sense of security. Comfort best describes you. You boost my confidence whenever I clip you on, youâ€™ve got my back, and my front, all day. You are what is closest to my heart. You secure it from daily struggles.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Photo by: John Sabia

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Photo by: Haley Salak

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Bloodstain on Paper By: Kelly Gordon When I wrote this poem I wiped a bloodstain on the paper. It was slightly past nine, and I needed to write so badly. Yet, I had no ideas, so as I sat and thoughtâ€Ś I spotted a small sliver of skin on my finger. It hung from around my cuticle. Again? I thought. Must I keep bothering with these small, unimportant, yet irritating issues? So, as I tore the small, tiny sliver of skin off, I felt a small sting. Ow! I hate it when that happens. The tiniest drop of blood started to become redder and redder. Having no tissue or bandage with me in hand, I decided to smear it on a clear piece of paper in an unused notebook. I did this a few times until I made the shape of an open square. You can say I put my sweat and blood into this poem.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Silence By: Mickey Kellam

Sometimes, like when we choose not to speak, nothing speaks so dastardly as the quiver of a passing thought. The silence overwhelms words with what, in a word, may otherwise be an unexplainable unperceivable silent agony. Other times though, I donâ€™t mind the silence, because nothing sings so soundly as the glance of an understanding. The silence understates what, in a poem, I understand to be the passing smile of a broken leaf.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Here Is What I Know about You: By: Macaulay Glynn You see love like a room with many windows. You want to live brightly. I open the book you sent and imagine it is a window. Can you see me, waving?

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Anxiety By: Tiffany Masters

Always nervous Always paranoid Consistently wondering what’s next What could possibly come next? I live in constant fear that I will never be enough I will never overcome this Is my heart still beating right? Am I breathing too heavy? Should I have put on makeup this morning? How do these people see me? Am I cool enough to hang out with these people? Do they even like me, or am I just the one they let tag along? Do they talk about me behind my back? Do they really hate everything about me, just like I do? Am I too high-strung? Do I laugh too loud? I think I should just not speak and fade out of the crowd I sit in silence as these questions and more overpower my thoughts Everyone around me is smiling Do they even realize I’m here? Captivated by my own fears I can’t help but think I don’t belong here Always worrying Always anxious

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Untitled By: Mikayla M. Lewis

I was wondering if the sky really was blue today And God told me that it was. “Go out and ride your bike,” was what he said. Gee, don't mind if I do. I was wondering if it was alright to pick up bugs But God said they were dirty. “That's not what I meant,” I told him But he said he already knew that. Like the way you can't pick flowers Or the way it's bad to stick your digits in the cage, I wanted to know if millipedes And salamanders And snakes And chipmunks Should be left alone. “Those aren't all bugs,” God announced Without any further explanation. I was wondering if God thought I shouldn't walk barefoot Because sometimes people tell me not to. He just said, “Not in the snow.” Gosh, that was just what I wanted to hear. Thanks, man.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

By: Danielle Karwaski It happens on nights when the stars cluttering up the sky don’t dare to appear, when total silence fills the dark night and not a whisper of wind or chirp of a cricket is heard. Then and only then is the time the Gogglins appear, my dear reader. I caution you, reader, to take ear to this tale and learn to beware of this time as it draws near. On these nights and only on these nights, odd little creatures standing about one foot tall with shaggy cobalt blue hair, dull grey skin, and sparkling silver eyes, but humanoids none the less, appear. They are clad in rugged clothes made of hard beetle shells embellished with ladybug spots fashioned together with spider web silk. Deeply rooted in the soil of the underground is where they live in order for the light to never reach their eyes. In the burrows of the underground, they live like moles. The Gogglins have no choice but to make this their home since their eyes are sensitive to light. They always have to wear tinted goggles to protect them, thus their name: Gogglins. From tongue stiffening dehydration, they come out from the underground on every dark night of the new moon. Out they emerge at this dark time of the month in order to seek

The Gogglins the liquid they desperately crave to quench their thirst. They are willing to go through any obstacle and defeat any creature in their way including their own kind in order to obtain their need. First, they gather around puddles, streams, ponds, rivers, but many are not so lucky to be near such places living in the concrete jungle. Those unlucky Gogglins living in these areas have no choice but to break into the homes of unsuspecting human beings, and they are not afraid of breaking windows. However, they appreciate those few humans who have a doggie door in which they can easily slip through to avoid this messy trouble. Oh, dear reader, do you believe I am making this up? Well, I certainly am not; this is entirely true. On one night of the new moon, only merely a year ago, the Gogglins rose in their thirsty rage through the streets of my very city and right into my home. I sat comfortable in my pajamas sipping hot chocolate on a cool night relaxing after a long day of work when suddenly I heard a high pitch “waaa” sound from outside. I tilted my head towards the ruckus happening right behind me outside the window and pondered the most likely possibility: that the stray

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

was a cat trying to eat the scraps from the trash again. Again, I heard the screechy “waaa” cry from outside, only this time it was closer. Slowly, I crept on my tip toes to the window to peek out the corner to see what was outside. As I looked out the window, I saw the creature staring back at me through its tinted eyewear with an unsettling smirk plastered across its face. Bam! It smashed its fist against the glass scattering pieces all over the floor. I flashed my hand before my eyes to avoid any blindness and saw the creature jump into my home and make a dash for the kitchen. Fearing death, I ran to the bedroom where I knew another window was available to make an escape. As I locked the door to avoid an attack, an abundance of noise came from the kitchen as the Gogglin ransacked my fridge for bottled liquids and tousled through my cupboard to find a pot to collect water out of the sink. I looked outside, and saw many more of these creatures breaking into my neighbors’ houses and running wildly down the street. The Gogglins stormed the city in a sneaky fashion not to be noticed as they secretly packed the streets ready to strike. All of us citizens were left with nothing else to do but sit in our homes, wait, hope, and pray that no Gogglin would enter our home. I knew there would be no safe place to go, so

I grabbed my phone and called the police to report the break-ins of all of these creatures. I listened as the water gushed out of the faucet of my kitchen sink while I dialed 911. “Hello, 911 what is your emergency?” “I have an emergency, a wild animal just broke into my house and is currently ransacking my kitchen taking every liquid I have stored away.” I blurted out trying to comprehend what was going on myself and realizing how insane I must sound. “There are tons of them all down my street causing havoc.” “Where is your location?” “398 Second Street.” “Alright, we will send the force out to your location.” “The force,” I muttered, pondering if they would come to take me away to the nuthouse after that call. “Yes. That’s it.” I assumed the operator meant the police force. “Yes, that’s what is needed, right?” the operator asked. “Right…” I replied, taking in a few deep breaths worrying what was going to happen. “They’re on their way.” the operator told me as the line went dead due to the chaos happening in my house. I heard smashing against metal and then the sound of full out gushing of water one would normally only hear while sitting by a raging river.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

It seemed that hours tolled by as I listened to the madness unfold in my kitchen. From the window, I watched the terrorization that appeared in the street as fire hydrants were cracked open and spouted water to the sky, and water from overflowed sinks and tubs gushed out of windows and doorways and drifted off into the streets. It was then I saw a group of waterlogged Hummers with an enlarged decal on each side stating “Gogglin Elimination Force” coasting up the street. In unison, the force stopped and exited out in waterproof combat gear carrying exotic maroon weapons shaped like triangles about ten inches tall. With one whack from the glowing lime green projectile that shot out of the weapon, the Gogglins vanished one-by-one. In a matter a minutes, the issue was solved, and I walked out of my house in amazement as the force hastily cleaned up the mess. “Thank you for your call; you have saved many. This happens every new moon. We would love to stay and explain, but we are needed elsewhere immediately," one force member told me as they dashed back into their Hummer. I stood awestruck as the force sped away down the road. What just happened and how could I explain this? I decided it was best to tell this tale only in anonymous writing in fear of being criticized. So you see, dear reader, please note that this story is indeed true and

remember that this can happen anywhere on nights when the stars cluttering up the sky don’t dare to appear, when total silence fills the dark night and not a whisper of wind or chirp of a cricket is heard. Because, as you now know, dear reader, then and only then is the time the Gogglins appear and you must be prepared for what is in store.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Li2CO3 By: Kimberly Boland your sweater is red, your eyes are blue, it’s so nice being here, alive, with you. i never could explain how the colors went away now they're back! for so long it was gray. i can’t describe the euphoria i'm sorry if i seem in a hysteria but i promise for once, i'm not; i'm somber i never thought this was something i could conquer i found a yellow marker, and i know it's hard to see, i wrote you a letter with it; i'm sorry if it's hard to read i forgot about the colors; the safety, the warmth your hair is blonde—let’s pretend it’s yellow, too. the sun is yellow; the salt is yellow, too it's so nice, being back, being here, with you.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Photosympathis By: Peter Horger

Inhale, Exhale. Trees moan in the dark being weighed down with lint, dormant, deep within their pockets, hungry for a spark. Inhale, Exhale. To be lit would mean dispersal of lifelong emotions that almost seem to have never broken the minor-second interval. Inhale, Exhale. Ligneous sheets of thoughts buried inside the casing of an artificial brain with no space to budge, bothered and distraught. Inhale, Exhale. Dotage enacts only to leave everything within; no release of pressure which leads to leaves and bark becoming naive. Inhale, Exhale.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2014

When will the wind ever realize the realistic realness of reality, for which willows weep wanderlustingly undefined. Inhale, Exhale. Days, maybe will come to open the eyes of history to see the future which possesses the origin of where this all comes from. Exhale, Inhale. Reverse just everything For the sake of our roots to grow up in skies opening opportunities for breathless birds to sing.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Betwixt and Between By: Alex Rizzuto We are sliced thin by the arc of the moon Exploding stars in the knick of time Vital to the illumination that immediately follows eventide— It's monumental significance becoming evident only decades after the impact We are dancing past Saturn, connected by rings, the center betwixt and between- arguably so We mimic each other in synchronicity—but never in conformity and dance around a common core holding hands— The Game: Ring Around the Rosy—The Catch: only one of us is destined to fall Like opposite poles that move in a seesaw motion Desperate to keep each other erect— But failing to do so— The one side's strength outmatches the other— Brought to truth by the shocking detachment A pendulum mind meets a stationary sandbag To and fro the pendulum moves—arranging indecisive extremes While the sandbag remains stagnant The trembling of a single digit—a whimsical finger- A single unconscious motive—a predestined trajectory: Thats all it will take for the downhill snowball to increase its momentum, progressively building upon its layers— The final cue signals for the singing metronome to stop its irregular pattern— For the final valve to cut off its supply The oxygen ceases to pervade the brain The stars align—perplexing constellations

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Remnants of significance- faded and obliterated by the very lack of understanding One pole touches the ground and then the other—in a back and forth seesaw altercation The pendulum's aim proves precise—putting an end to its eerie pacing Saturn's rings split directly through the common core Ring Around the Rosy—a fatal application

Illustration by: Cassie Purcell

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

An Ode to Maxwell and Marlboro By: Sephora VanOrden

Sugar and creamer fill you first I mix in the brewed liquid next The tawny color of your hue fills me with glee I take the first sip slowly Bitter taste with an underlining sweetness fills my mouth I sigh as I feel you move down my body in a warm trail A cigarette accompanies your presence in my other hand I take a long drag off it and another sip of you after Reveling in your dances of caffeine and nicotine I finish the cup and cigarette Prepared for the day

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Photo by: Harmony R. Blum

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Photo by: Haley Salak

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Garbology By: Keyla L. Casildo Ripped up index cards from messing up while I tried to write something on them to memorize later on, but was too lazy to white out. Hair pins that no longer can be used because one of the ball tips are missing. Some Q-tips barely used but very helpful when taking off mascara from my eyelids. Tags from that thrift store, people won’t believe how much I paid for this fabulous sweater. But, that’s neither here nor there. There are always two bottles of water there because I have to stay hydrated right? No, because I go to the gym to get this BODY right! Duh! Empty fruit cups from when I didn’t have time to finish my lunch, as usual. Science major problems. Did I mention I just finished my hair treatment? I was actually sad to see it go.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

A Suitcase

By: Zachary R. Traver

Pulling into the designated parking area for Employees Only in his immaculate black 2010 BMW 328i xDrive, Abraham glimpsed a single open parking spot, like it was meant for him. He made it into the space just moments before another car came into the lot. With a sigh of relief he stepped out of his car satisfied, and retrieved his suitcase and a clean white rag from the back seat. Circling his black beauty several times, he made sure to rub out any marks or spatters of mud until his BMW shone pristine in the lot amongst the other exquisite BMWs. Once contented, he placed the now dirtied towel in the trunk, doing his best to avoid leaving fingerprints. What might they think of him if there was even a mark on his car? Surely they would not even give him a second glance. Sauntering away, checking his Burberry London sterling mohair suit over as well to ensure its perfection, having it dry cleaned this time should make all the difference, shouldn’t it? Stopping, he bent down to inspect his walnut calf colored Allen Edmonds’ oxfords, licked his thumb, and smeared

out a smudge on the toe. Ready. Abraham entered a section of the building labeled for The Law Offices of Berry and Hugh. When he came through the door he stopped, taking a moment to compose himself and strode as confidently as possible to the main desk. He reached the desk and rested his suitcase beside him on the floor. Standing before the secretary, he patiently waited for her to acknowledge him. Beginning to sweat, he was wondering if she knew he didn’t work there, and was therefore pleased as punch to ignore him. She continued to ignore him for what felt like several minutes or an eternity to him. He couldn’t take it any more. “Ummmm, excuse me?” he blurted. Idiot! Ummmm? No confident human being says ummmm! How stupid could I be? I couldn’t possibly sound more nervous and asinine! “How can I help you?” she said, not even looking up from whatever paperwork she was filling out. “I have a job interview, I brought my port…” “Do you have an appointment?” she

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

interrupted. Shit! What a freaking idiot! Of course you would need to schedule an appointment! Idiot! “No, I don’t, but Patricia Berry should be expecting me. It’s urgent,” he bluffed, actually surprising himself with how well it sounded. “No appointment, no interview. You’ll have to come back another time when you have scheduled an appointment,” she said flatly. Every mention of the word appointment was like someone taking a key to the side of his precious BMW. “Look lady, I’m desperate, I need a job more than you know, so unless you let me see Patricia Berry… I’ll…I’ll…” Abraham said angrily. What could he do to this lady? Nothing. He was a joke to her. Like he was to the rest of the world. “Look kid, even if I could get you in to see her, it couldn’t be today. She isn’t here. She is off dealing with a case in New York City and won’t be back until next week. So you will have to try another day,” she finished. He felt like an annoying fly being waved off dismissively, just an insect. Kid! That’s how seriously she took me. I’m no kid! I have a college degree! What difference did it make then? I’m screwed anyway. Defeated, he turned and walked out the front door into the lot. He stood frozen in the parking lot eyes following the line of expensive cars and resting finally on his 328i. By the end of the week it would no longer belong to him, unless he could prove he had a job.

Without one, the bank wouldn’t even think twice about taking it off his hands, and then he’d really be screwed. He could feel his world crumbling. He’d have to return the suit tomorrow, and he won’t have the money to rent it. How could he walk into a place like that in a shirt and khakis? He couldn’t, he wouldn’t. Abraham hopped into “his” BMW and drove the twentyseven minutes it took to get home in miserable self-loathing. He pulled into the driveway to “his” trailer, which was certainly next to go. Once inside, he slammed the door, and fell to the cheap carpet floor, where he slept for an indistinguishable amount of time. When he awoke it was still light out and the phone was ringing incessantly. He raced toward the phone and pressed it to his ear. “Hello?” Abraham asked tiredly. “Hello, is Abraham Wattluk there?” the voice asked. “Speaking… May I ask who is calling?” he instantly considered hanging up, acutely aware that it could be the bank inquiring about his BMW. He resisted the urge but only for this gut feeling he had. “This is Larry Hugh speaking. I’m calling from The Law Offices of Berry and Hugh. You left your briefcase by the main desk and I happened to stumble upon it. I hope you don’t mind but I opened it to see whom it belonged to,” he paused. “I came across your portfolio in the process and found it quite impressive. The secretary said you

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

were quite adamant about speaking with Patricia Berry, but I was wondering if you would consider working for me? What do you say?” he finished. Abraham nearly dropped the phone. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What luck! I didn’t even notice I’d left my case there…what luck! He didn’t even know what to say. “Hello, Mr. Wattluk? You there?” he asked again. “What do you say? I could use a hand?” “Of course sir!” he blurted enthusiastically. He was shaking so hard he thought he was seizing up. “I could start right away.” “Glad to hear it. When will I be seeing you?” Larry Hugh wondered, sounding mutually joyous. “Be there in fifteen!” Abraham hung up the phone and sprinted for the door.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Delaware River By: Sephora VanOrden

Water rushes past a pull off, where a herd of cars and boats sit. Water rushes over grime and slime, coating the rocks beneath the surface. Water rushes past a gaggle of teenagers, some flirting, swimming, enjoying the summer. Water rushes and runs over an outcropping of large boulders, creating a deadly end for an unsuspecting kayaker. Water rushes calmly down its path, always flowing to its undetermined destination. Water rushes over toes and ankles, cooling those who choose to float on its surface in rubber tubes. Water rushes the fish that live in it, pushing them down its currents if they stay still too long. Water rushes past a campsite, its owners waiting for that perfect weekend to use it. Water rushes and changes the landscape, rising above and lowering below the islands it runs around. Water rushes and excites, giving some the idea that they can rush with it.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

An Ode to Editors By: Benjamin Hawes

Through your work you give people advice. They either hate it or love it. If they love it, theyâ€™re like a leech on a fresh victim with your praise. However if they hate it, they toss your words to the four winds. And they never listen for an echo. You spend hours correcting. Diligent time thatâ€™s spent with the ticking of the clock, and the clicking of a pen. Your job, your reality, is to briefly fantasize in our writing. To look for errors in our thoughts and passions. Instead of writing your own creations, you help us with ours. Like parents who give up their time and energy, so that their child may be taken to the park. But children need an ever watchful eye. Our writing is like an oak that grows in a field. When your winds shriek and lightning cracks in the air, rattling us to the core, our writing becomes stronger. We writers send down deeper roots, the storm makes us stronger. Thanks to you, editors.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Taking Out the Trash By: Alex Rizutto

Massive balls of fuchsia hardly resembling tissues Crumpled, torn, and scattered remnants of notes lacking proper diction—tone irrelevant Broken pencils, gnawed by beaver-like teeth Nervous hands clenching pens Plastic floating, like missing pieces to the puzzle of the words she couldn't find Down, down, down to the bottom Reminiscent of a sunken vessel, each piece a passenger aboard an ill-fated ship Floating, wafting, ceaselessly downward to the depths where the razor sharp edge meets the surface of a delicate orange The last supper, Smothered in plasma Masked in sweetness— The first responder's last efforts added to the mass

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

“Pardon me while I burst […]” – Incubus

By: Mickey Kellam

Dowse me in your wicked flame and I shall rise a we(e)(a)k stronger with paperclip-marked skin and an ashen complexion too subtle, even, for poets’ eyes and, in this condition, I will tell you how I failed to let go of you, of me and of everything that— Let go of me and, in this condition, I will show you what a rising phoenix looks like—and how to properly burn and then rise and burn and then rise and— Let go of me and burn.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

An Ode to the Beatles By: Mikayla Lewis Everyone from everywhere, from all across the universe, in fact, is coming together, right now, all united by the same thing: the Beatles. That's “Beatles,” not “beetles,” no ladybugs here. Why don't you join us? Mr. Kite and Mr. Mustard will be there, entertained by Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, as well as Rocky Raccoon and Julia and the blackbird. To begin, Lovely Rita will yell, “Hey, Jude!” (that's the signal) and then we will all work it out while my guitar gently weeps. I'll want to hold you hand, as a heads-up, but if you don't want to, we can drive my car to the strawberry fields instead. Once there, we'll talk to Lucy and her diamonds and the fool on the hill. Once we've all had too much wine, I'll reveal my biggest secret: I am the walrus. If you get too drunk, I'll carry your weight and I won't let you down. I'll carry you to the yellow submarine where we will start the revolution, reaching from Abbey Road to the octopus's garden under the sea. The revolution will finish with an attack upon Lady Madonna's stronghold on Penny Lane. We will get in through her bathroom window and steal back Maxwell's silver hammer because she never gives us her money. When the sun king has set and night settles upon us, we will conclude the hard day's night with Sexy Sadie by twisting and shouting one last time. We've all been united by the Beatles, and though many of you will leave, I'll stay here in the Norwegian wood until the sun comes to end this long, cold, lonely winter. You can take the long and winding road back, but I'll be here, eight days a week, until I'm sixty-four.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Between the Sun and Moon By: Bindi Liebowitz What if your true love is one that mustn’t exist? Just isn’t meant for experience, only hopes and fantasies. What if I am the moon and you the sun? With a light so bright it causes me pain to be near your rays of love? How will our love ever survive? What if we will only ever know one another’s touch in passing? A brush past at sunset. A quick kiss good morning when you rise and I fall But we will never know the power between the two of us in a lingering embrace. Our love is tainted. Quick and in secret. What if reality is too fragile for a love this bold? What if we are forbidden to let our love co-exist amongst the times we represent? Can my love hide in your light? Can yours shine in my darkness? Scientifically, when referring to the sun and moon, one’s being is based on the others, However, it is the mere parallel existence of the two that holds purpose and never a collision of the two realities. What if our love is the secret that lies between the two?

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Untitled The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

By: Tamara M. Cadora

Vanity lies upon the surface, Costumed in silks and satins, Stripped of luxuriousness; she is raw.

Illustration by: Cassie Purcell

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Things We Forget By: Macaulay Glynn

Coffee grounds and a can of tuna, a chewed up queen of hearts, twelve empty beer bottles rattling and clanging when you pull on the plastic bag. Lydia is living simply and simply living. She dreams about eyepatches and wants to be reincarnated as a haunted bookstore. She imagines her friends seeking solace in the dark corners of the young-adult fiction. The garbage bag sits by the door. When she comes home itâ€™s still there, like the one dirty spoon that never gets clean no matter how many times she runs the dishwasher, she thinks with great melodrama, the only constants in my life. She clings to the idea of the bookstore, daydreaming about shelves that creak when someone is quiet too long, shifting paperback weight, trying gently to remind her customers theyâ€™re not alone.

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2015

Illustration by: Haley Salak