The Plume Magazine Spring 2016

SPRING 2016

The Plume The Keystone College Literary Magazine

Copyright Š 2016 Keystone College Cover photos by Christina Sinibaldi Cover design by Zachary R. Traver and Christina Sinibaldi Logo design by Alexsandra Pomeroy Printing by Ed Nowakowski

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Editorial Staff Kristy L. Alinoski Danielle Karwaski Zachary R. Traver Madeline Ferrara

Kimberly Boland Haley Salak Christina Sinibaldi

Editor-in-Chief

Art Director

Christina Sinibaldi

Madeline Ferrara

Assistant Editor-in-Chief Zachary R. Traver

Faculty Advisors Amanda J. Bradley

Raymond Hammond

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Table of Contents The Difference Between Day and Night by Darren J. Weber........................ 8 Like a Chaotic Sea by Benjamin Hawes........................................................... 9 Untitled by Molly Powers ................................................................................. 10 Escaping by Victoria Eremo ............................................................................ 13 Love Songs by Nyasia Smith ............................................................................ 16 An Unfamiliar Silhouette by Bree Riley ......................................................... 17 Forgotten Festival by Joanna Wallace ..............................................................20 Untitled by Maddie Lengel ............................................................................... 23 Who's First by Christina Sinibaldi .................................................................. 24 What Ali Said by Andrew S. Trotter ............................................................... 28 Punctuation by Kristy L. Alinosky .................................................................. 31 The Darkest Day by Mariana CorrĂŞa Costa ................................................... 32 Kissed by a Blade While Chasing a Dream by Darren J. Weber.................. 33 Waves by Kristy L. Alinoski ............................................................................ 34 The Butthut by Kimberly Boland ................................................................... 35 After Buying Tea Rose #351 by Christina Sinibaldi ..................................... 37 This Poem Doesn't Have a Title by Kimberly Boland ................................. 38

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Table of Contents Bleeding Truth by Bree Riley .......................................................................... 40 Broken Seashells by Haley Salak...................................................................... 42 Quiet Footsteps by Nyasia Smith .................................................................... 45 Room Six by Christina Sinibaldi ..................................................................... 46 The Chateau by Zachary R. Traver .................................................................. 50 Rogue by Gabrielle Bosshard............................................................................ 51 Wolf by Amanda J. Bradley............................................................................... 54 Dread by Zachary R. Traver.............................................................................. 56 Road Work by Haley Salak................................................................................ 58

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

The Difference Between Day and Night By: Darren J. Weber She looked into his eyes and met his challenge with a look that said, "Who the hell do you think you are?"

She did not speak the words. Instead, a different sentence formed on her lips and was expelled from her mouth.

"You don't know me," she remarked.

A smirk formed on his face.

"Says the moon to the sun," he responded.

She was perplexed by his statement.

She hated to admit that he did that to her quite often; perplexed her, complicated her, intrigued and captivated her.

She took a step back.

"What does that even mean?" she demanded to know.

He had beaten her again and now she was caught in the trap.

It took most of his strength not to show his satisfaction.

"The moon likes to think she's so mysterious," he explained.

"She rises in the night, sometimes masked by clouds, believing the sun is unaware of her actions. And yet, the sun sets precisely at the right time, fully aware and allowing her to have her time to shine. Their whole lives revolve around each other, these two, every day and every night."

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Like a Chaotic Sea By: Benjamin Hawes Our arms wrapped ‘round like great jungle vines, hugging for eternity on a grand old tree.

I enjoy to be like the sun and give her freckled kisses all day long.

I can’t sing, but for her I’ll try a love song.

She makes the bass drum beat down in my chest.

I love her, I’ll always do my best.

She gives me purpose; there’s nothing more I want than to love and to be loved.

Like a chaotic sea, we found love in a different place.

From the water arose a volcano: our lives together.

Hand in hand, we make our plans.

I know that tomorrow will be ok, because I see the future when I see her face.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Untitled By: Molly Powers I know you like the wind and, as you know, The wind knows me, too.

It runs its fingers through my hair.

It brushes my skin.

I know you like a song in ¾ time.

I follow each beat I hear.

And it knows me too well.

It knows how to make me dance.

There are some things I don’t know: If I can trust the Weather Channel, If I can confide in a friend, If I can let myself cry.

There are some things I hope for: Like 75 degrees in the winter, Like a white porch and your hand in mine, Like a sign. Anything.

But I don’t think about what I don’t know.

I think about the things of which I am certain, And how you write this music, how you are everywhere.

This, This is what I am certain of.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Photo by: Donald Catlett

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Photo by: Macaulay Glynn

Art by: Karlee Patton

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Escaping By: Victoria Eremo I take the crisp bandage out of my dinky, tattered first-aid kit, rip off the unimportant white tabs, and stick it onto my slightly torn skin. Hopefully this stops the blood. I reject gravity for a moment as I propel myself off the tiny, dry rocks. That’s enough of a break for me; I need to keep going. My legs take turns reaching for the gravel until they drench themselves into a pool of moisture, and I think, “Thank God!” For a brief moment, I force my gaze downward…. I can’t help but question my reflection. I see my auburn brunette hair, which is ragged and knotted from lack of a brush; I see my once golden, sparkling brown eyes, which now hold two very similar black holes from witnessing horror far outside reality; I am lucky to escape, but not lucky enough to know where I am; I see my cracked and bloody lips, which burn at the thought of the harsh UV rays grasping them. I see all of these changing obstacles on my face and I worry…but I will not seek aid. I trusted

Him and he stole me; emotionally, I was his. My mind revolved in quick circles around Him. Are you going to kill me? He stole me; physically, I was his. My body ached from Him. Will you please stop hitting me?

I attempt to fold my aching body in half to reach the godly water. I start with my knees, my bloody and whimpering knees. I beg them to contract their joints just one more time for this much needed moisture. I then move to my surprisingly-not-as-painful hips; they fold my thin upper half with a hardened ease. I reach in the ripping, weakened sack that I stole from Him and attempt to discover the aluminum canteen, which I grabbed and threw into the sack before bolting out of His tall, wooden door. I thought I was going to need it to carry water…if I found any and I figured I could use whatever was inside of the sack…if there was anything of importance.

While my hands are fidgeting around my collected mess, my ears feel a sudden surprise, a pop. I feel almost

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

as if my hearing devices have deafened themselves, and my mind quickly wanders to the thought of survival and begins to question my chance. I finally feel my hands around the aluminum canteen, and I squeeze my grip to pull it out. I’m in utter shock when my canteen is actually a black metallic A-60 semi-automatic pistol. “Oh, fuck.”

A thin bandage from my dinky first-aid kit isn’t going to fix this scrape.

My protection is trapping me into a vast danger. My hand is covered and dripping in a dark, painful AB positive.

I quickly remove my not-so-blue-anymore shirt and try to clean it in the water. I take the wetted shirt and tightly tie it around my injured hand. I’ll be much more chilled than prior, but I’d rather live cold than die warm.

My hand is murdering me with pain and my mind is gazing into another dimension…maybe from the blood loss?

I cannot keep walking; I think I need to rest for the night. I hear a screeching howl from the wolves and almost hope they prey on me tonight.

Without shelter in sight, I decide to stretch my thinning body upon a sheet of rocks. Maybe their strength will offer some protection to my aches. My hair rises with goosebumps, and my teeth shake with chilled chatter. My eyes allow shallow water droplets to cascade down my face, which is the only thing bringing warmth to my body. The shirt tied around my hand is now dampened with only my blood, but I cannot bring

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myself to retie it; I am far too exhausted.

My body aches in ways I didn’t know existed, but I somehow relax myself enough to tiptoe into my peaceful dreamland.

When I wake, I feel astonished. My body no longer aches from the battering cold, from the wicked gunshot wounds and bloody scrapes, or…from His hands. I fell rejuvenated, and I somehow find a petite glimpse of hope in this world: hope that I will once again find my way back to my society, my world.

Hope that, if I keep walking, I will somehow walk right up the twirled, dark metal stairs to my shack-like apartment and be able to throw myself into my warm, unmade, but perfect in a not-soperfect kind of way bed.

This journey will be much easier to conquer without my good friend pain as loving company. Though my body is not aching, and my goosebumps have disappeared to somewhere they are better needed, I somehow cannot move forward. My knees, which are fully rested and completely healed, do not wish to carry my body in front of me. My mind is cracked enough to break into a billion flecks, and my soul is transparent enough to disappear completely.

I want to cry, but my tears are locked somewhere inside of me, and I’m not so sure I have the key. I step backwards and place my body in a sitting position on the large, grey rock next to where I slept the previous night. As I am sitting, contemplating my further journey, I

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

notice some AB positive seeping out from under the rock next to me. My breathing shallows and my heart feels as if it is pounding faster than I’ve ever felt before. I take my gaze and turn it to the right…“No.” I sit on this rock with my perfectly healed body and look at myself lying on the gravel. My lips that were once cracked and bloody are now bluish and cold, and my skin, which was once tanned from the harsh UV rays, is now a chilled porcelain.

My eyes, once golden, are now closed.

My blood, which once used my loving body as its shelter for protection, is now poured onto the ground to mark my deathbed, and all I can think is, “He can’t hurt me anymore.”

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Love Songs By: Nyasia Smith I think about love more than I should About long slow dances Anniversaries and memories that'll keep me going.

I wonder when and where I will find the Mrs. to my Ms. Will she have brown eyes like mine?

Or will blue, green, perhaps even hazel eyes mesmerize this heart of mine?

I've been broken for far too long Want to cherish love but can not stomach a love song.

Tears have filled my ears or maybe my heart I yearn to love love songs again To express without a pen To make love abandon lust And build bonds on trust‌ Maybe then‌ Then I could play a love song again.

Maybe.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

By: Bree Riley

An Unfamiliar Silhouette

An impetuous force thrust fiercely upon me Waves heaving wildly from the savage scene Paralyzed in raging rapids, thrashed around at sea As I rewind to yesteryear when I was not yet fifteen The sight of a helpless girl unfamiliar to my eye She wasn’t me, I wasn’t her, just a stranger passing by Upon recollection I take a daring plunge Down deep into the raw cracks and wounds Scavenging for solutions, memories to expunge A heap of old debris, a journey through ruins Who is this girl, who could she be?

She wasn’t me, I wasn’t her, just a shadow I see Could it be that she was not at fault Did the waves really just crash her way?

Or did she tempt the twister she could have put to a halt And surrender her soul and choose to obey?

Who is this soul I wish to ask She wasn’t me, I wasn’t her She’s unrecognizable, wearing a mask Terror pierces my pulsating veins My brain restless, full of dismay

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Remembering every detail, every aspect it contains My soul departs, it hastens away A cry, a voice, who makes that call?

She wasn’t me, I wasn’t her, I was never that small Film flickers as I watch powerless A replay of a nightmare I forgot to forget Overwhelming me, intensity I cannot express But she wasn’t me, I wasn’t her, just an unfamiliar silhouette But silhouette hold tight, do not fear, For I can foresee the end You will survive, make it through, I am here For once a compassionate hand I extend Stand up, rise, be strong Chin up, come along, you don’t deserve this hell She’s messed up, sick, what’s happening is wrong I’ll keep you safe, your story I will tell You are secure; you’ll stand safe and sound Together brave and resilient I’ll never leave, I’ll always be around You deserve better, you’re beautiful, you’re brilliant I’ll let you soar, I’ll set you free Release the hell that you went through Soon no torture, only a distant memory Of something endured, and survived too I am a witness, it is time to heal Tell me everything from when it began Intense I know but time to feel It will be tough but together we can Believe, be confident, you are strong Don’t doubt yourself and the song you must sing

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Open up, its time, claim the life you long And oh yes, just one more thing You chose to survive, never regret that fact, You did what was needed to stay intact, Silhouette, I thank you and love you, too Because you are me and I am you

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Forgotten Festival By: Joanna Wallace The sun rises, as always, and the light creeps over the dry tidal basin. Around the basin, the cherry blossom trees are in full bloom and seemingly the only living thing in the Capitol. People are long gone, have been for one hundred years, and the grass scorched away shortly after; the exotic plants choked on a bit longer but eventually suffocated and withered, too. Yet, the cherry blossoms remain— incredible for such a temperamental tree. The hardy marble monuments and decaying office buildings still stand, the trees’ only companions in this barren land that was once the most important city in America. This would have been the 300th anniversary of the Tokyo mayor’s gift, and thousands of people would have flocked to catch a glimpse of the beautiful pink flowers, but now their elegance goes unnoticed save for a green oxidized Jefferson peeking through the columns of his memorial.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Photo by: Kaitlyn Kielar

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Art by: Nicole Delevan

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Untitled

By: Maddie Lengel

I long for the nights when I fall asleep Sounds of plow trucks replaced with rolling thunder When the wind is a more wholesome hollow Rather than shallow breath When moonlight reflects green instead of white Peepers, they sing me to sleep on hot Nights with cool conversations The lake is warm and inviting She opens up to you after short days And long nights of silence Relentlessly attempting to break her Surface for even a glimpse of what’s inside A world of her own sheltered by an icy façade Broken by the hospitality of a summer night

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Who's First By: Christina Sinibaldi “I’m not going to do it.”

Everyone sunk into silence. There was no sound. Not even white noise.

The bright white room, though aggressively lit, made no fluorescent buzz. The walls seemed lit from within.

The walls and ceiling were smooth, white and looked almost like plastic.

The floor was large, shiny white tiles with brighter white grout running in parallels and perpendiculars to separate them. There was no furniture. No windows.

No door.

“There’s no coming back from something like that.”

The room only held a small collection of people. Maybe seven of them, from diverse backgrounds, different ages, genders, races, identities. It was unclear how well they knew each other, if at all. Or how long they’d been in the room. And how they’d gotten there.

One was dead on the floor.

Blood had spread from the body in an oblong shape. Deep and dark contrast across the tiles. Whether this person had killed or been killed was indistinguishable. But this was not the issue.

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“Haven’t you ever heard of the Donner Party?”

The conversation had dwindled down to three of them. Everyone else had given up. They didn’t want to make this decision for themselves. It was likely that a decision would be reached and then one or two of the others would question it and the discussion would start all over again.

“They did what they had to do to survive.”

One of the people still speaking was a girl. Her clothing was hanging off her body like there was only a wire frame of a body left underneath them. She was gripping her wrist, which she did every few minutes or so at this point, to see how far her fingers would overlap. She twisted her fingers around her wrist, rubbing her skin raw.

“They lived, didn’t they?”

One of the others speaking was a man with glasses. He’d had to tie one of his shoelaces around the arms of his glasses frame to keep them around his head. There wasn’t much to hold on to.

His eyes were shadowed by dark circles, which made them look even more sunken in than they already were. He would occasionally glance at his watch

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

that no longer worked and no longer fit around his wrist. It had slipped around his boney hand and fallen to the floor, splitting its face. But it had never worked in this room.

“They did, that’s true, but they were shunned from society once they made their way back. They had made a morally unjust choice. They lived the rest of their lives in exile.”

The other man speaking had lost so much weight that his pants would no longer stay up without assistance.

He’d ripped strips from his shirt to tie around the waist line and hold his pants in place. He had bruises running down the bones protruding on one side of his body. Cheek and temple, chin, shoulder, rib, hip, knee, and the little bones of his feet. He always slept on that side. The hardness of the floor had become unbearable. Very little sleep happened anymore.

A stomach growled in the group.

“That’s it. I say we do it and do it now before we change our minds.”

The girl picked up one of the legs of the dead person and started to pull the body toward the center of the room. The blood pulled in an arc. The skin and bones and connective tissue creaked. The body was not so much a fresh one. But no one seemed too interested in that.

“No! We can’t!”

The man with the sad, useless pants grabbed the arm of the body to keep the girl from pulling it away. Even though there was nowhere for her to

go with it. She just wanted to position it in a spot that felt right for what they had to do. But the man pulled back and they tugged back and forth. Their own bodies creaked from the effort, tiny arms shaking to hold the weight.

“Then you sit in a corner and die if you have such a problem with it.”

They played tug-of-war with the body, leaving little blood droplets sprinkled on the floor.

“No,” interjected the man with the glasses, “if one of us does it, we all have to. No one’s going to have a clean conscious and turn on the rest of us. If we’re going to do something worthy of social stigma then we’re going to do it together.”

He left out the part of his thoughts that had convinced him that it would seem less crazy if everyone did it. One person doing it would sound like a maniac. He could see the story breaking: man goes mad and slaughters fellow hostages for the sake of his own survival. He was maybe afraid that it would be him who would break first. If they all broke he’d feel less guilty.

“I am not going to starve in here.”

The girl pulled on the body as forcefully as her tiny arms would let her. With a final tug, the foot she was holding made an interesting suction noise and sloughed away from the rest of the body. Both of them dropped the body and it landed with a wet slap back on the floor. The girl dropped the foot, too. Surprised. Voices rose up from the rest of the group.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

“The body’s too old. It’s been dead for too long.”

“We should have eaten it sooner instead of talking about it for so long.”

“We can’t eat that.”

“Maybe it’ll poison us and we can all die in our sleep instead of waiting to starve to death.”

The man with the sagging pants said, “That’s pretty appetizing, huh?”

He guffawed triumphantly. He bent to pick up the arm he’d been pulling.

“Looks like a decision’s been made.”

He went to tug on the arm and his foot slipped in the blood. He toppled over quickly, his feet flinging out from under him almost cartoonishly. He landed heavily on the floor with the sound of cracking bones. He stayed there not moving. The rest of the group looked on in awe.

“Is he…?”

“Is he dead?”

“Someone check his pulse.”

“That definitely sounded like his neck.”

“It’s a sign!”

“Is he dead?”

The girl and the man with glasses crept up to the new body, prodding it with their feet. It didn’t move. They looked at each other and grinned, their skin so tight around their faces that their teeth looked too big for their mouths. They turned around to the rest of the group.

“Who’s first?”

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Photo by: Joanna Wallace

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

What Ali Said By: Andrew S. Trotter The boxer’s gloves sat all tied up next to a bucket. The boxer himself gripped the chain of a punching bag with both hands. He rested his forehead gently on the bag’s cloth cover like it was a lover.

He rested his whole weight into the hanging sandbag, feeling the chain cut into his hands.

“You have to fight to feel like a man,” the boxer said.

“Fight like a man? Just like you’re supposed to? Just like your good poppa raised you?” Mossy replied, hands on hips and watching the sweaty fighter.

“All the time.” The boxer shook his head slowly, the sound of his skin rubbing against the cover echoed through the empty gym.

“Suffer now…” Mossy began to say.

“And live the rest of your life as a champion. I know what Ali said.”

“He wasn’t just talking about the ring.” The thinner man stepped forward, an intensity on his face and in his words. “He was talking about the heart, too. You live through this, one day at a time, and you will live the whole rest your life with a big gold belt nobody can take away from you.”

The boxer was silent.

“You may not see it now, but it’s hard

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to see the light at the end of a tunnel when you’re still digging yourself out of the hole.”

“So what are you saying, Mossy?” The bigger man asked.

“Put the gloves back on,” he told him, looking down at the red, sixteen-ounce monsters. “You haven’t suffered enough for a belt yet.”

The boxer let go of the chain, turned to look for Mossy. He had slipped off into the darkness. He was still quick even in his old age. He thought he caught sight of him with a towel over his shoulder, going down the lighted hallway at the end of the gym. He was almost certain because, boy, was it hard to miss that ugly lime shirt.

He untied the old things and slipped his taped hands into them. He pulled them on, no longer struggling with what was a two man job. He bit the Velcro strap and pulled it closed tight around his wrists. He moved his feet in the old, familiar rhythm. One hand out in front of the other, he punched. It was a jab at first, then a cut until it developed into a whirlwind. Between the thumping of his fists on the bag he thought, “Ya, I’ll be just fine.”

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Photo by: Christina Sinibaldi

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Art by: Karlee Patton

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Punctuation By: Kristy L. Alinoski I had the strangest thought tonight, What if I let the letters and words and punctuation save me, What if capital letters and apostrophes could heal me?

I could pick up my needle and thread, and stitch myself back together again.

A semicolon in some of the holes will hold the pieces together, Maybe quotations around my heart like bookends will keep the tiny bits from falling apart.

I’ll crawl into the deep corner of my mind and sew a period there, Something to put an end to all my dark thoughts.

I can put an exclamation point in my mouth so exciting things can come out, And maybe a comma to link my head and heart, So they can consult each other more often.

Maybe I can fix myself with letters and words and punctuation.

Maybe I can put myself back together again.

Maybe I’ve already started.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

The Darkest Day By: Mariana Corrêa Costa The fog is just lifting And there is no sign of the sun The ducks and swans are asleep And people walk to their appointments People wearing thick winter coats People wearing big scarves, Their eyes are the only things not covered.

Trains are leaving the station, Trains to Årus, Malmö, Birkerød, Østerport Pigeons are awake, eating crumbs that people drop from brown bags People standing relaxed on the right side of the escalator People rushing to their trains on the left side of the escalator The whole world seems to be functioning just as usual Except the sun never shows up

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Kissed by a Blade While Chasing a Dream By: Darren J. Weber Butterflies and hearts on a shelf Because that's what we do in life We take beautiful things and put them in jars, leaving them on display Missed opportunities haunting like ghosts waiting to cross over And there's nowhere for them to go There's a role we all portray There's a shadow we all cast A game we all play It's life, this life Where do we go from here?

We can't find start, but there's a destined finish line Stitches in wounds we don't know will heal We are all dealt a deck of cards, yet none of us can even deal Romance is a forgotten virtue It's like there's nowhere left for love to grow A flower long left wilted, intimacy has long gone unknown So take off your clothes, strip yourself of pride Come on in, this vessel with nothing left inside Courtship has perished in the hands of friends with benefits They say love is like dope, but we're all fiends for something else This nightmare is reoccurring It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, something you've never felt Like being kissed by a blade while chasing a dream

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Waves By: Kristy L. Alinoski You hit me like a wave, Hard and all at once.

Knocking me off my feet, Unsure of where I’ll land.

Trying to keep the salt off my tongue.

And then just like that you’re gone, And I’m standing again in the calm reverberations of water, Waiting for the next surge.

Photo by: Antonia Stinson

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

The Butthut By: Kimberly Boland The butthut right outside here is my favorite one.

When I look back on college, I’ll remember it well.

How it was a substitution for my back porch, how it was where I met so many of my friends, how freshman year I was too scared to set foot in it, but by now it’s my special place, my Keystone home.

And sure, I shouldn’t have been smoking, but if I was going to do it anyway, well, better here, surrounded by friends and trees, better here, than alone, better here, with smiles, with smoke, ash, pretend zen garden of sand.

I’ll remember who made what graffiti and when like the time with the paint samples.

I remember watching my friend paint her name up high.

It’s a nice reminder, a year later.

Only that mark stayed the same.

Also, the cat my friend cared for.

She threw her sweater under the gap to keep him warm.

He lived under the butthut and survived off the Grill’s chicken tenders.

That’s in the past, too, he’s away, has a home now.

Like us, he was only here for a while, and then moved on.

The anticipation of having five minutes left ‘til class and the way the rain managed to soak every surface, the wind unrelenting and the hot days and cold days.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

We’ll never forget when they took the railings out for no reason.

Now we are unguarded, losing our footing, mourning what we had, mourning how things were and how it’s not fair that life changes what is comfortable and safe and known for no reason.

There’s a reason even nonsmokers, ex-smokers hang out there, rain or shine or time of day.

The employees, our teachers, us—we’re all friends.

The butthut community is laughs and conversations; the longing for a few more minutes and for once, a temperate, calm day. someday I’ll quit and graduate from this and from that and from here But like any place the soul bonds to, some of my ghost will remain here, just like all my lipstick stained cigarette butts that I was always infamous for leaving behind.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

After Buying Tea Rose #351 By: Christina Sinibaldi I lick my mouth taking the taste of your lipstick on my tongue.

The flavor takes on the shape of your name rolling across the back of my throat warming my skin.

I miss the smell of the pigment of when it would linger just under my nose.

You have a boyfriend now who won’t even kiss you if you’re wearing it.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

This Poem Doesn't Have a Title and Probably Never Will By: Kimberly Boland I. Ever since I was a kid, I always thought the best superpower would be the ability to use photo editing software in real life, on reality. To just reach your hand out and poof, make it look how you want. It’s almost like being able to control reality. Think about it—flying and invisibility pale in comparison, with all those toolbars literally at your fingertips.

The idea has come back to me recently, but I use it differently now. I just want the eraser tool. I think about how that would look. Erasing things from existence. The gaussian blur along the edges of each sweep of the brush. Erasing is much better than cropping, than cutting, than masking it. Erasing just makes it go away. I superpower-erase things every day, now, in my mind.

Just swish, swish, swish, until it all goes away, until there’s only blank spaces, from which I can start again.

II. I’m lying in the pool, floating on my back. This isn’t real—I know that.

I know I’m asleep and just dreaming.

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It’s nighttime and the stars make a map of where I drove last week, when I wore this outfit last. I can see the water around me is turning black, and I realize that the dye must be running out of my black stockings, my black dress, my black cardigan. I feel bad for my clothes, feel bad for having no one to blame other than myself again; for ruining something I loved and treasured, again; accidentally, again, but I don’t feel anything about bleeding out in the water. The water is impartial and neutral. It understands. My face is still dry, untouched. I don’t want to try to get out of the pool because I would have to move, roll over, would have to swim, and I don’t want to ruin my makeup. I can tell I have it on. I feel the weight of the foundation in my pores, the solid comfort of lipstick sealed against my lips, the stick and pull of eyelashes coated in mascara slotting together and catching as they pull apart with each blink. Makeup is the only thing that makes me feel safe anymore, that and this dress, the leggings. The water sloshes me, but I keep floating

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

there, unmoving. Months later, I still don’t know what the dream means.

III. The dollhouse of my life was always wobbling and uneven and everything would fall out, so, afterwards, I finally got frustrated enough to try something new. I grabbed it and spun it around, away from me. Now it’s backwards and pieces of it went flying. Half the furniture and dolls fell out, little accessories and pieces of the decorations cascading around me on the floor. I reached my arms around it, picked it up to flip the whole thing over, balancing it midair against myself, because the dollhouse of my life is too big to move in one try.

Some of the dolls who used to be on their heads landed on their feet this time and suddenly the whole thing started to make sense. The reason the house was always wobbling was because I had it on its roof. The reason things were often a mess was because I had everyone upside down in my head.

IV. She said to me, sadly, “I just want the old you back,” and I said to myself yeah, me too, me too, me too, and my brain said to me, sadly, “But we’re trying to do that every day—it’s not enough?” and I said to myself it’s ok, I know, I know, I know.

V. Another reason the stage is missing the fourth wall is because life is missing one, too.

I used to love that.

VI. I feel like everything I love is just on the other side of the distance between me and everything else, and I can’t go over there anymore to get it back. Why is it over there?

VII. When you start feeling guilty for having passions, because passions get in the way of single-minded devotion to survival, you need to recenter yourself. This has always been true. It is never more true than now.

VIII. They say when you have a negative thought, you should think three positive ones immediately—you have to retrain yourself. You have to flip the script.

So, despite all of my rage, 1. I am grateful.

2. I am grateful.

3. I am grateful.

IX. It’s on you, but, you keep putting all the burden of it on me.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Bleeding Truth By: Bree Riley “Write hard and clear about what hurts” —Ernest Hemingway

Everyone tucks away a chapter or two in their lives containing precious secrets. Vigorously, we scrubbed away the words until the pages ripped and our hands were raw. Attempting to smudge the past, only to find out the permanence of these chapters. We then searched for hiding places, in cabinets, the refrigerator, under the old couch cushion with the stain on the side, and we buried these chapters as best we could. Praying we will in turn forget the page numbers like these chapters never existed; an author who wrote our book just skipped a few numbers here or there.

But we know. It's real. It happened.

It haunts us in our sleep.

Sadly, for too many of us, our hidden chapters compiled into novels.

Too soon. Too long. We kept too many secrets, living in a house now flooded and out of places to hide the pages.

As a victim, trapped in the lies of a perpetrator, we felt as though expressing our world would cause our book to explode. Yet the paradox is blaring.

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Our secrets are killing us. We are lost in a maze of untold stories, trying to find a way out. Our book is too full; the words haunt us wherever we turn.

Slowly, we must start letting the ink seep from our soul, as the truth bleeds from these pages. Ernest Hemingway once avowed, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

I am bleeding.

To write not what we are able to speak, but what we may never have been able to speak. Truth. Painful truth. Memories. The moments that changed our lives forever. I write what disturbs me. I write what I fear. I write what should never be forgotten and what I have prayed to forget my entire life. Most of all, I write for those still bleeding pain, unable to share their truth. I bleed for them. I bleed words, stories, memories. I bleed for those without a voice. I bleed tears. I bleed despair. I bleed hope. I bleed truth.

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Art by: Karlee Patton

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Broken Seashells By: Haley Salak I can feel the waves They live inside me The cool, gray-blue washing over The smooth, beautiful sands Leaving behind white foam As it quickly scurries away The waves' pace begins to quicken The soft sounds soon become din The sands are left with cracks Crevasses of what once was Harder the waves move Pounding against my chest Soon enough, I am drowning Unable to breathe in, breathe out Thanks to the crashing of the waves I sink down, down, down Permitting the blue to enter my lungs Eyes open wide, unseeing Overwhelmed yet enthralled By the crashing waves power Thrashing, kicking, fighting I make my way to the surface Gasping, begging for air and rescue Only to be drug back under once more Rescue does not come I’m forced to ride out the crashing waves

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Eventually I can feel its pattern It gets easier to detect the next wave So I am better prepared for its arrival And the waves' stings begin to hurt less When I find my way back to shore The once smooth sands are torn and scarred All thanks to the crashing of the waves Yet beauty remains in small, simple forms The shells that once lay at the ocean's depths Now risen to the sandy surface, chipped and broken Loved still by those who come across such artifacts I have had waves crash inside me Fought for air as I swirled in turmoil Been scarred and chipped and broken Like the little shells along the shore These survivors are still loved and beautiful They, too, know the pain I endured Because I can feel the waves They live inside me

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Photo by: Christina Sinibaldi

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Quiet Footsteps By: Nyasia Smith I have 4 little sisters 3 little brothers And a family dog I'd like to believe was named after me None of them older than 16 which means THEY PICK UP EVERYTHING. My mother once told me they look up to me‌ I stopped going home.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Room Six By: Christina Sinibaldi

The wind sounded like the wings of birds clipping buildings as they passed. The car was moving fast enough that a tense friction encased it and caused it to vibrate gently as it sped down the road. There were no birds. Just the flapping of loose cash streaming from the driver’s window.

The bills mingled with the dust that was kicked up from the tires and the dirty storm rose up in a scattered cloud as the vehicle continued.

The large car swerved on the warm, red road as the driver looked desperately out the window to make sure the money he tossed went as far away from him as it could. There were no other vehicles on the long, straight road and nothing else to suggest that any civilization was nearby. Regardless, the driver acted quickly. The handfuls that found their way out the window grew in size exponentially until the driver took the whole duffle bag of cash and shook it out of the car.

When all of the money had been emptied, the driver leaned half of his body out the window to watch it go.

He laughed, loud and taunting, at its tangled dance through the air, the

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slow flutter to the ground. He smiled with his head in the wind, stinging breeze slapping his hair behind him.

He closed his eyes in response to the overwhelming sense of relief, not caring where the speeding car was headed.

∞ The pavement had become saturated by rain over the last few hours of driving. Night had fallen and the lights of the highway shimmered in the reflection of the collecting puddles. His tires cut across the orange and white glow as he pulled off into the parking lot of a motel. The generic building sat just slightly back from the main highway and it was surprisingly unpopulated.

He pulled the car through the carefully lit parking lot until it was hidden in the shadow of the corner of the building. He twisted his headlights off. He had to blink fast a few times, thinking he’d seen a figure standing in the glimmer as the lights had flashed away. He blinked and saw hundred dollar bills floating to the ground. He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips; everything was back in place when he

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

looked up again.

He gathered the few belongings he had in the car: a jacket, a wallet, a gun he’d never used. Getting out of the car, he closed the door gently, locked it, and headed behind it. He crouched and used one of the keys to twist the screws that held the license plate in place. They were difficult to turn out but they came eventually, falling into the palm of his hand. He tucked them into his jeans pocket.

He peeled the plate from its mount.

It took him two tries to fling it up on the roof of the motel. Smiling, he emerged from the shadow of the building and headed toward the front desk. He walked under the partition that covered the walkway and room doors from the rain. The lights next to each door buzzed as he passed them, casting off a milky, blue glow that turned the minty green paint on the building into a dull gray color. As he passed the door to room number six something thudded against the wall.

He jumped, startled a little, staring at the door with less surprise and more disappointed; he’d hoped the place was completely vacant.

The check-in office sat at the end of the building. The door squeaked and the interior looked like it hadn’t been reconsidered, or cleaned much, since the seventies. The woman reading at the desk looked like she probably had a gun under the desk, ready to shoot anything that took up too much of her time.

They exchanged a little chitchat, begrudgingly with some unnecessary, forced pleasantness on his part. His efforts weren’t reciprocated but that’s not what he was seeking anyway. He was just done with making enemies.

They got down to business: how many occupants, how many nights. He pulled out his wallet to pay, pulling out a few bills while trying not to reveal the small fortune he’d tucked in there before the rest of the money went out the window. The woman wasn’t paying much attention anyway. She already had her book in her hands as she tossed a room key in front of him.

He held it up and nodded in thanks and turned to leave. As the door squeaked open, he stopped as he noticed the number on the key tag.

“Excuse me.” He turned back into the room. “I thought room number six was occupied.”

The woman didn’t bother to move her book away this time. “Every room’s unoccupied. You have the place to yourself.”

Reassured, he started walking back down the length of the building. Most of the rain had stopped, but the motel was close enough to the highway that the sound of passing vehicles on the wet pavement sounded like the spatter of rainfall. The sound of the key jiggling in his grip blended nicely with the sounds and kept his mind distant from the concern he had about room number six. As he approached the door, there were no more sounds

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

from inside. Standing on the outside, he fought the urge to knock.

He unlocked the door slowly and cursed the sudden feeling of fear that was pulsing over him. He had rid himself of it, and he wasn’t ready to welcome it back. The door pushed open into a dark, very standard motel room. He entered the room with a forced confidence and when nothing dug its nails into his face or blew his head off, his nerves settled. Relieved, he found himself pleasantly surprised by the quality of his room. Very neat, clean, stylish even. He sprawled out on the full size bed and leaned back for a moment, eyes thankful to close.

A blaring woman’s laughter started him from a sleep he hadn’t realized he’d fallen into. He jumped from the bed and wedged himself standing in the corner of the room and braced.

The television was on, incredibly loud.

Some sort of game show. He couldn’t even muster a laugh. He told himself that he must have rolled onto the remote in his sleep and started toward the bathroom to shower away the cold sweat. As he used the remote to turn the T.V. off, he tried to ignore that he had picked it up from the coffee table, not the bed.

The bathroom was comfortably clean, and it calmed him a little bit. He took a few deep breaths and reminded himself that he was okay. He was guilt free. He was okay now. The shower ran and he undressed. He thought about taking the gun in and resting it on the

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soap rack. He laughed at himself this time, realizing how ridiculous he felt.

He stepped under the hot water and stood still for a long moment, enjoying the soothing heat. The room hadn’t even begun to steam before a sound from the other room broke him from his peace. He paused, eyes open wide as if that would help him hear better, convincing himself that he did not possibly hear what he thought he’d heard.

Right as he was about to crack, the same laughter from before resonated loud enough for him to hear it over the rush of water. He leaped from the shower, slipping on the wet floor as he dug for the gun that was buried in the pile of clothes on the toilet lid. He gripped it hard in his hands and pointed it toward the bathroom door.

“Who’s out there!” The laughter continued, the laughter of a satisfied cat with the blood of a mouse on its lips.

“Is that you?” He called out twice, the second time to correct the shake in his voice.

“I’m done with this, do you hear me? I’m not going to be part of your games anymore!” He shouted and, fueled by his conviction, fired the gun through the door. The laughter stopped.

He lowered the gun, almost out of shock. His feet crept toward the cracked door, and his free hand gently pushed it open. He didn’t know what he’d see on the other side, but he was

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

suddenly sick of running and didn’t care if he didn’t stand a chance. He was confronted by the sound of the wings of thousands of birds. The gun slipped from his hand and clattered against the floor.

Hundreds of bills were fluttering around the room as if a tornado had swirled them in there. He stared at them with a similar awe from when he’d thought he’d rid himself of it all on his way down that road. He weakly swatted a few that fluttered near him and let his knees give out. Slowly, defeated, he began to collect the bills into neat little piles.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

The Chateau By: Zachary R. Traver At nighttime when the sky darkens past pale blue, beyond royal, and into midnight, the water comes alive.

Not with mating bullfrogs nor the liberated skinny dipper, but with flame-filled lampposts.

Varying in sizes, they cast their flickering light out over the shadowy lake and up the stone wall of a tower.

The amber glow warms the high walls of the chateau that loom deep into the blackened sky.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Rogue By: Gabrielle Bosshard In the moments after the leader of the pack found us, I knew two things: 1. we were going to die and 2. it was going to be all my fault. I could see no way out of this, and why should there be? It seemed my life had always followed the path of tragedy: Orphaned at a young age, passed from foster home to foster home, psych patient, and finally high school dropout, it was a wonder I had even found a group of decent people to call family.

I had been down such a dark path before I met him. I never had friends growing up, so I never got to be the typical girl who had “girls' nights” filled with gossiping and doing each other’s hair. This very basic memory was missing from my arsenal, which is probably why I could always be found with my hair lying across my shoulders very plainly or mumbling through my awkward sentences. It took me a while to realize this flaw of mine—the awkward part—but once I saw it in myself it made the problem even worse.

When I met Thomas, it was a terrible occurrence.

As you can imagine, from head to toe, I was in shambles. My dark hair

just lay there, no makeup on, plastic glasses pushed up on my straight nose, cheeks bright red, old sweatshirt, jeans, and a ratty pair of blue flats. The only reason I had thought to emerge from my small apartment that day was to grab a coffee from Joe’s in the hopes of satisfying a very noticeable craving.

But suddenly there he was in all his bright eyed, muscular, happy glory and there I was in…well, you know, not glory. For some unknown reason my dead stare and his deep-all-the-wayto-his-belly laugh lead to a first date where I stumbled over my sentences and spilt the food on the only dress I owned.

Three years later and here we were—me watching a wolf tear that belly out—the laugh of my love would never be the same. He was the one who was excited about this trip with his friends, who had become mine, too, and me. I tried to convince him not to take me because I would do something wrong. He said something about camping being a rite of passage as he packed our bags—clothes, food, a knife for protection, and whatever other uses that he mentioned while I was

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

wringing my hands. When I begged him not to take me, I never imagined that it would be like this. I never knew I could be so stupid.

Whenever I failed in life, my mind automatically traveled back in time to my first foster home. It was in Indiana, Pennsylvania, which is kind of a deadbeat town that you only hear about if you want to go to the University there.

It was in that home that my foster father stripped me of every ounce of confidence I had. Every time I made a mistake—no matter how slight—he would scream at the top of his lungs, smack me with the leather belt that had the big metal buckle, and then he would make me recite the newest reason why I was stupid, or in his exact words why I was “a fucking worthless, idiotic, piece of shit” that he and his wife only kept around so they got their check every month. But Thomas fixed all that damage, or at least he was working on it.

Thomas was the reason I got my GED and had started an online college program. I wanted to be a social worker, which I now realize is probably a pretty typical field for someone like me. I guess it won’t matter soon.

I can hear the screams from Jack and then Ashley. They just got married a few months ago. It was such a beautiful beach ceremony, and I think that was the day Thomas got the idea to propose to me. Jack and Ashley have been together since they were in high school, and I know they wanted

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to start their family after this trip. But now I’m seeing all those dreams leave their eyes for the last time.

The wolf is bloodied now—red is soaking into the fur around her jaw and dripping down her strong legs to sink into her paws. I don’t know where her pack is, but I am sure they aren’t far. They always follow their leader. Thomas is just lying there— pine needles and dirt haloing his body.

The blood is leaving him, and he is asking me why this is happening. But I can’t answer him. Not just yet.

The night Thomas proposed was the night I found out I was accepted into that online social worker program at the University of North Carolina. I should have been more excited than he was, but I wasn’t. I think he was so overjoyed because he was part of my evolution—or rather my domestication. When he proposed, I said yes, and he had the biggest grin on his face. I could see his soul, I could see the light inside of him shining through and I didn’t understand how I could be the reason for it. Watching the blood flow from his abdomen, I know that the light is gone. I see that those bright blue eyes are almost lifeless. I am not sure why the wolf left before Thomas was dead.

The screams of Jennifer and David break through my thoughts, and I can see their struggle. They were hiding in their tent—that was a stupid idea.

I know the wolf will finish them, and I keep thinking that if the wolf only

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

knew that the couple had a two-month old baby at home, maybe she would have shown them mercy. But, then again, maybe she would not have cared. I look back to Thomas, and I can’t imagine how I could help him now. I have just been standing here waiting for the rest of the pack to find me and end this misery. Thomas is crying now. I never appreciated a man who cried. I think that foster father from so long ago robbed me of my empathy, too. I walk towards Thomas anyway, despite the disgust that is boiling inside of me. I can hear the old rotting branches crack underneath my weight and the greedy panting and low growls of the alpha. This is probably where I die, but I think I am supposed to be comforting Thomas right now.

Just as I am about to kneel beside him, the wolf lunges from the forest and finishes him. There is barely a whisper of a scream that escapes his lungs as she bites through the flesh that used to cover his neck. I tell Thomas why this is happening, but I don’t think he can hear me. And now it is my turn. I resign myself to the wolf, no longer wondering where her pack is because I know the truth. She is a rogue, roaming through life all alone, like me. At some point, someone stopped loving us. We were told we were worthless and our best parts were stolen from us all the while being warned not to say a word about it to anyone else. We are on our own and even when there is someone who tries

to tame the wild or erase the pain, the beast will always overcome.

And she did.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Wolf By: Amanda J. Bradley I’ve never stayed in a Bed & Breakfast.

Homemade cranberry muffins, antique knobs on green dressers, wooden floors with braided rugs in earthy yarns: these get on my nerves. I prefer an urban, chic hotel with forty plus floors and glass elevators, a sushi bar on the main floor and a martini bar on the eighth. Anonymity appeals to me.

But I’ve stayed at the Super 8 on trips crossing half the country. I know the cockroaches are there, hiding in crevices, waiting for me to turn out the lights or put my suitcase on the floor. I stay there for the experience.

I do a lot of things for the experience.

My mother would kill me if she knew.

Like the wolf dressed as granny in Little Red Riding Hood, I warrant: “The better to eat you with, my dear!”

I live by the myth that writing requires I eat you alive. I need experience under my belt. I am willing to lose myself in this pretense.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

When I arrive at my family’s home, my grandmother finds a cockroach the size of my big toe in the hallway and kills it. I find another in my room at the foot of the bed. They are half dead and easy to kill. “Shh,” my grandma says.

“We won’t tell your mother.”

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Dread

By: Zachary R. Traver

I woke up to a bright flash of white light. Everything is hard and cold. I try to move my arms, but I can’t get them to budge. I think I hear voices, distant echoes. I hear laughter, too, but it seems so far away. Not like it’s out of earshot, but like it’s resounding from deep within me. I try to move my arms again, and I feel them this time, just dead weight. I hear and feel the crinkle of plastic beneath my body. I’m shaking all of a sudden. It is so cold.

I can’t sit up for some reason. I don’t know why, but something inside me is screaming to get out. Dread crawls over my skin like a thousand little horrible insects. Everything is white with blue blinking lights.

“Where am I?” The hum of electricity consumes the air, making the room's silent reply that much eerier. I hear a smooth, sliding whoosh resonate from somewhere nearby.

“Who’s there?...Hello?...Hello?...

Where am I?” “Hello…” is what I hear, spoken softly and with curiosity.

Something is probing at my side

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that I didn’t notice before. I want to feel the thing that is poking at me, but I still lack total control of my arms.

“What’s happening to me? Why can’t I move?”

“You're safe, no need to worry about anything,” the voice coos.

“Tell me. I can’t remember anything. How did I get here?”

“You're a human,” it replies, the statement coming from everywhere and nowhere.

“I know that…if I’m human, though, then what does that make you?”

A warm buzz begins in my side at the point of the probing I noticed before. I’m suddenly aware that my skin is wet and clammy. My eyes blur again.

“Your shuttle had just entered the asteroid belt in the Helga quadrant before it wrecked.”

“Wrecked? I’m not aboard the Alter?” The creeping horror I felt before wells up in my throat.

“A cyborg scavenger vessel discovered the crashed Alter. And now…you are aboard the Hallowed Cyl Station in the Ulta System,” the sound drones,

THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

each word hitting harder and harder, as hideous reality settles back in. Fire blazes up my side. Something clamps tightly onto both sides of my head. I see another flash of intense white light.

“What? The Cyl Station?” I yell, fear rising in my gut. “The Cyl Station?”

“Yes…now…relax, human…”

Panic fires on all cylinders; the dread I felt before fully realized…. The Cyl Station…. The largest cyborg-run human research testing station in the galaxy. There’s another flash of light, but this time I only see blood red. I don’t realize I’m squeezing my eyelids tightly shut. I’m sweating. My heart is pounding.

“Wake up!” I hear a sharp voice, and I jolt up. My second-in-command is staring at me wild-eyed, pointing a flashlight in my eyes. “Captain, you okay? You passed out on the floor.” I feel my shirt stuck to my back.

“Must have been having some bad dream.” He smirked.

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Road Work By: Haley Salak See the cracks below your feet?

Among the black top, fractures How can something so strong, Such a hard surface, be crumbling?

Because sometimes things simply break Not just those that are fragile have cracks Even the most concrete of subjects Will eventually break down Damaged and in pieces Until someone comes along to fix The shattered pieces that remain

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THE PLUME The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2016

Photo by: Kaitlyn Kielar

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