The SCOP, Fall 2020, Volume 79

THE SCOP

Ms. Jennifer Yonkowski Advisor Josh Ulanoski Advisor Matthew Schoch Editor Kendyl Wright Assistant Editor Scarlett Spager Design Editor Luan Hoang Social Media Coordinator Voting Contributors Noelle Boucher Andrew BWowden Sarah Healy Genevieve Federici Madelyn Pavlico Anaroe Davidson Bailey Slacktish

THE SCOP The Scop is a literary magazine run out of King’s College. It is entirely run and created by undergraduate students from a variety of majors. Its members believe in fostering creativity of all forms, including poetry, prose, and visual arts. The name comes from the term for an Old English bard or poet. This is the second year that The Scop officially accepted submissions nationwide.

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Photo Credits Covers and Section Dividers: Scarlett Spager

TABLE OF CONTENTS PROSE........................................4 POETRY...................................12 VISUAL ART...........................33 STAFF BIOS...........................51

Letter from the Editor:

In the past couple months, there has been a variety of words used to categorize, identify, or even explain our living situation. The words unusual, unprecedented, and different have all been used heavily in recent times; while some argue they hold a negative connotation, many believe that these words possess positive outlooks.

During these unusual times, we have had the opportunity to keep ourselves busy; we learned how to write, paint, sculpt, build, sing and communicate. The unlikelihood, the probability of this pandemic has allowed many the chance to discover new, unique disciplines they would otherwise not be exposed to.

These unprecedented circumstances brought with them individuality and uniqueness; after all, hour after hour of being inside has led to heavy self-reflection.

Lastly, the different nature of this pandemic has created an altered space to our lifestyles. We have grown used to independence -- learning and creating on our own to suffice our own needs. Complacency has disappeared, with emphasized spontaneity and inventiveness.

The human tendency is to find the underlying optimistic value, especially in times of hardship and strife. This global “inconvenience” has brought with it a sense of creative renewal, and this renewal has given the Scop Literary Magazine (and many other arts platforms) the ability to blossom and provide a sense of community for all.

Thank you to all for your inherent tenacity to create, and please stay busy.

Matthew Schoch, Editor

The Placeholder

Dave Borowski

My mother passed away just as Covid-19 was evolving from an epidemic in China to a pandemic that was starting to be felt in the United States. Dolores was old but in relatively good physical and mental health and she lived in the house that she was born in 95 years ago in Wilkes-Barre, PA. She wasn’t felled by the virus, things just wore out.

On a Sunday in early March, Mom complained of a stomachache and was taken to Wilkes-Barre’s General Hospital.

“Dave, I’ve never seen her this sick,” my brother, Bernie, told me on the phone. “You may want to come up.”

My wife, Patricia, and I were supposed to celebrate a neighbor’s birthday at a local restaurant Sunday evening so I texted Walt to explain why we weren’t going to be there. It was late, so we decided to leave early the next morning. We packed and asked a neighbor to pick up our mail and left early Monday for the the five-hour drive from Northern Virginia to my hometown.

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We went directly to the hospital. The person at the desk managing visitors told us the room number and I braced myself for what I would see. When we got to the floor we exited the elevator and I could see Bernie talking to someone at the nurses’ station. He saw me, waved me over and introduced us to my mother’s nurse then led me in to her room.

We go to Wilkes-Barre to visit several times a year. In fact, we were there two weeks before. Mom was in fine spirits then, laughing and telling stories.

She had a salty tongue that frequently embarrassed those around her. Dolores occasionally complained about things but generally kept an upbeat spirit. She had a great smile and loved to laugh.

When we would visit, Pat and I would drive her up to her favorite grocery store and, as usual, she moved her cart swiftly through the aisles picking up her weekly food supply. We had to watch her closely because she would scamper quickly through the aisles leaving us behind. Bernie usually helped my mother with errands and many other things, but he still works and has other responsibilities so we try to take some of the burden off of him when we are in town.

For a woman nearing 100, Dolores kept busy. In the spring, summer and fall she would work in her garden pruning leaves and weeding. When she was younger, she also planted vegetables like tomatoes, zucchini and squash. But vegetables are a lot of work, and eventually she moved to perennial plants.

Her garden was small but beautiful and she was proud of it. Bernie always said that when he called her and got no answer, he suspected that if the weather was nice she was outside pruning and feeding her flowers.

For many years she made jewelry until her eyesight made it hard to string beads or do other close work. She was also a seamstress who loved to sew outfits for my wife. But when her eyesight and manual dexterity started to falter she gave sewing up too. She watched a little TV, mostly news shows and some less serious fare. One surprising bit of television was C-Span. She loved it.

The woman I saw in bed that afternoon at the hospital was in stark contrast to the one I saw not long before. She was awake, but her eyes were darting around the room and she was talking in a quick staccato voice about things that happened long ago. She did tell me me that I looked good in the

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shirt I wore, but to be fair, she always told me I looked good.

She recognized Pat and spoke to her about a set of china in her cupboard.

Our son, David, lives in Los Angeles and called to speak with her. We told him what happened and he wanted to come in but the virus was beginning to make plane travel dangerous so we encouraged him to wait. She perked up when she recognized his voice. Mom always loved talking to David. He would call her frequently patiently staying on the phone talking about his life in California and listening to what his grandmother was interested in.

We stayed at the hospital with Bernie until my mother fell asleep. Pat and I went back to Bernie’s house for the night.

We came back to the hospital the next day and mom’s condition had changed. Her eyes were closed, but she would open them occasionally to glance around the room finally quieting down and, I guess, sleeping. Again, we all stayed until late in the evening.

Early next morning my brother got a phone call from the duty nurse that my mother passed during the night. We rushed to the hospital and up to her room to see her in bed. I touched her face and it was warm and I kissed her forehead. Bernie asked a nurse if a Catholic chaplain could come for last rites.

The hospital chaplain came and blessed her and forgave whatever sins a 95-year-old woman could have. Mom was a devout Catholic and would have insisted on a prayer to help her on her way to meet the Lord.

My father, Bernard, passed away nine years ago at 89. My mom and he were married for 63 years. He laid unresponsive in a nursing home for about a year before he died. It was a slow death and we went up frequently to visit him. We would take him out in a wheelchair with his eyes closed and if the weather was nice we would take him outside to a gazebo and talk to him. I pretended he could hear me so I told him about what was happening in our lives. We had a long time to say good-bye. With mom it was different, it was fast. In an odd twist of fate, the anniversary of his passing was the day after my mom’s.

Pat and I stayed with Bernie to help make arrangements and to start to get papers and other things in order. Dolores told my brother and I many times that she wanted to be cremated and we honored her wishes.

Because the coronavirus was racing through the country and the world,

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we elected to postpone a celebration of life until May or June hoping that the virus would loosen its grip on the world and people could safely travel and congregate to wish Dolores goodbye. But Covid-19 would not cooperate so Pat and I stayed at home through the worse of the pandemic.

When things appeared to open up a bit in July, we returned to Wilkes-Barre. It was still not safe to have a ceremony and lay her to rest next to my dad. We went up to support Bernie and help him get the house ready for sale. Temperatures were in the 90’s when we went to my old house to gather up whatever remaining detritus of my early life was left. There were a few items like my first grade report card from Marymount school in the Heights.

The three of us packed boxes and planned to get the house ready for sale. I walked through her garden, once immaculately kept but now overgrown. My brother took a rosebush that my mom carefully cultivated for years. It was an orange rose and it was beautiful. I had thought about taking a plant, but things had gotten so overrun that I gave up that idea.

My mother was very efficient even into her 90s. She planned for her death arranging her affairs to leave nothing to chance. Years ago she bought a plot at our parish cemetery for her and dad and made all the arrangements and paid for it in advance.

We finished our work at the house and headed back to Bernie’s for the evening. I wanted to stop by the cemetery in West Wyoming to visit my father’s grave. Maybe it was to warn him that Dolores was coming.

We parked on the gravel road and walked quietly to the grave. My brother always kept the grave neat and trimmed and the headstone cleaned. And it still was.

There was a marker commemorating my father’s service in World War II and a flag. Ever since dad’s passing the gravestone read: Bernard G. Borowski July 10, 1921 - March 13, 2011.

For the longest time my mother’s name and date of birth were carved into the stone with the date of her death left blank. That carving without the date of death always struck me as a placeholder, something we all have and will eventually fill.

But when I saw the stone that day I realized it was changed.

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Dolores M. Borowski December 12, 1924 - March 12, 2020.

Her earthly remains were not there, her ashes were kept by the funeral director until we were ready for a service and final farewell.

I stared at the date letting it sink in a bit. The marker was physically changed by the funeral home she contracted with thanks to my mother’s efficient planning for her death. The placeholder had been filled.

Dave Borowski is a 1970 graduate of Kings, in 2016, Dave retired as a staff writer for the Arlington Catholic Herald in Virginia. He and his wife, Patricia, live in Annandale, VA., a suburb of Washington, DC.

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Dear RusticCrafts Industrial Corp

Mark G. Dziak

Dear RusticCrafts Industrial Corp., Recently I was walking through my local closeout store, when I got a sign from above. It said: “HOPE”.

I said: “For what?”

The sign said nothing more. It was actually a piece of black-painted wood hanging high on a rack. All it said, in big white letters, simulating a chalk texture, was: “HOPE”.

Not too far away, I saw another sign. It said: “DREAM”.

“What about?”

I have lots of dreams. They are my major social and emotional outlet in life.

They let me go to places besides the closeout store and the dim cubicle I go to make money to spend at the closeout store. But no dreams came to me,

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and so I wearily returned to my cubicle and then the closeout store.

Today there was a new sign. It was a big and busy sign. It said: “SMILE till your face hurts GIVE like you are rich PLAY like you cannot lose CHERISH your every friend LOVE every minute of it” A splitting headache hit me. This was too much.

I needed to know who was telling me this. Was it a new slate of commandments from God? Would I be like Moses? Was it from Atlantis? Ancient Babylonia? Mars?

On the back of the sign were price stickers (MSRP $29.99 with a progression of stickers of various colors and decreasing quality, currently at $4.99) and—to my amazement—an address. Finally, a hint as to the origins of this monolith.

The address was RusticCrafts Industrial Corp., Ltd., 874 Bay Tong Road, Xiaoshan Economy, Technology Development Zone, Zhejiang Province, China.

(The model number was 0M-00804704.)

I knew it was time to act. I bought a slightly damaged blank piece of wood ($1.99) and a slightly damaged acrylic painting set ($3.99). Thus armed, I rushed home to paint my own sign that would say: “DEAR RUSTICCRAFTS, you don’t understand THE FUNDAMENTAL WORKINGS OF MY LIFE; THEREFORE, your attempts to MICROMANAGE ME are proving INEFFICIENT to the point of VEXATION”.

Considering the wood was not very large, I ran out of room after “DEAR”.

So, I chose to send this letter and ask you to please cease all communications immediately. Or else to please provide more detailed communications, because I must admit that all this hoping, dreaming, smiling, etc., sounds very nice.

Mark G. Dziak graduated from King’s in 2003. He is currently a NEPAbased professional writer of educational materials and writes all sorts of fiction and nonfiction after work.

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THE WEIGHT OF THEIR SIN

Jincy Mathew

Step by step you walked up the hill With the weight of your sin binding you down In the shape of a stone, a boulder so large Which covered your eyes from the beautiful Never once could you remove your sight From the round object that you rolled up your obstacle Only to find it fall back again You hope that one day your true efforts will pay off That the stone would reach the top That the stone would roll off your heart Yet once again you watch the stone roll down the hill To the same exact place where you began You drowned in hopelessness as you lifted each foot And dragged them one by one to the bottom of your belief To the bottom of your hope that this would one day come to an end But day after day you watch the same stone you roll up Come crashing down on you and your strength You watch as this happens and regret every time The mistakes and signs of ignorance you showed when you had power Sisyphus, you watch your life continue in a repetitive cycle As you were labeled as one of the many fallen You finally understand the truth of your weary life That the fallen must shoulder the weight of their sins

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THE FALLEN

Jincy Mathew

As a young child, you grew With an eye that could see the whole world Not only the world, but also the victims of your appetite And as your appetite grew, so did your victims But in the midst of your victims you missed a small particle A small speck of dust that would soon turn into a plank jammed in your eye Easily, could you have killed him Joined him with the others of his kind The others your appetite stole from this world But he had what you lacked Made allies with those you couldn’t Because you were not meant to survive As a young child, you grew With your fate glued onto the stars By drunk gods and goddesses that couldn’t care twice Before giving you, a name recognized by your one eye They titled you, they named you Labeled you with what would follow you forever Follow you throughout your history They made you the enemy They gave you no choice For you had no democracy, but by a tyranny Ruled by ‘a god’ who couldn’t care enough to protect one of his kind To protect his beloved For they took you, beloved, and turned you into a suicide trap Because you were never meant to survive They all knew from the start Because they had what you lacked They all knew from the very beginning That you were meant to fall That you were meant to be the fallen Because you, Cyclops, lacked what they had You lacked the wisdom that allied with your killer The other eye to see the world in a new perspective You lacked that one moment you desperately needed That moment in which you realize, you don’t have to be the enemy That you don’t have to be titled with a destined death But you, dear Cyclops, lacked what they had Which led you to fall, led you to be the fallen

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Jincy Mathew is an American-Indian woman who enjoys writing creative pieces from a point of view not often thought about.

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TO THE MIND THAT TOSSES AND TURNS ALL NIGHT Jennifer Judge Small fish, you jump in the bed, stand between me and the empty-headedness of sleep.

Because there is nothing else for you, you spin strange sad dreams.

But the bed is too small for your scheming.

I watch dreams tumble out of my cupped hands and over the sheets to pool into the carpeting.

Spirit, sleep.

Let all the shops close for the night.

Let dusk settle in, important, large, insistent and temporary.

Jennifer Judge is a poet, professor at King’s College, and coordinator of the Luzerne County Poetry in Transit program. Her work has appeared in

Rhino, Literary Mama, Blueline, Under the Gum Tree, and The Fictional Cafe, among others. She earned her MFA from Goddard College.

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THE BOOK I’M WRITING

Darius Bermudez

The book I’m writing Will never be written A train that never reaches its destination It stops It refuels It exchanges passengers It doesn’t arrive Sometimes I board a new train Similar to the first But going somewhere else I think I’m getting closer Then forget I’m riding it Forget I’m writing it The train halts in its tracks Sparks fly from the brakes I get off And stray somewhere else I hear something I watch something I read something I remember something I discover the train Right where I left it I hop back on Knowing I will stop again

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THE BOOK I’M READING

Darius Bermudez

The book I’m reading I glance at the page number And scold myself My foot taps My eyes scan My thoughts wander I reach to turn the page and realize I need to go back I love to read I love books Just not this one A green blink on my phone calls me Not yet I need to go back

Darius Bermudez is a freshman at King’s majoring in accounting.

Growing up, he loved to read and write, hoping to one day publish his own novel. Until then, he’ll keep studying, playing Nintendo games, and dabbling in the occasional ultimate frisbee match.

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COMING OUT Paige Gould

Pressure building up for years inside a sealed tea kettle, with nowhere to escape unless I open up the valve, but I could get burned by the scalding steam inside should I go to quickly, but go too slow and there’s nothing to reveal, another opportunity missed.

I know the tea inside is worth it, taking the risk of short term pain to sit down and have a cup of tea with my father, but I turn off the burner and save it for another day, and another day, and another day.

Different flavors of tea; earl grey paired with bagels and the crinkle of a Sunday paper, chai tea with sprinkles of cinnamon perfect for a rainy afternoon of sitting indoors, or black tea the golden honey bear bottle sat patiently on the counter waiting to be added.

Who would have thought it would be chamomile at midnight when everyone, but us, was asleep. The whistle of the kettle on the stove instead of turning off the flame I open the valve, pour two cups and just talk.

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DONATED BY FATHER NOLEN

Paige Gould

I had come here a long time ago, seven or eight years old walking with my class down the nature trail by the school down to the creek, little mesh nets, and plastic containers to catch bugs and lizards skimming on the water. The leaves and twigs crunched and crackled beneath a dozen sets of feet, birds chirping up above as the cool May breeze whooshed through the air. The creek trickled slowly, tumbling over rocks and debris carelessly discarded by those embarking the trail before us. The sun glistened on the water, splitting into mosaics of light as the creek curved and split along its course.

Mischievous little hands allowing the cool liquid to run over fingertips, the greying teacher with crooked glasses warning there was to be no horseplay. The water comes to our knees, a boy in my grade falling in, according to him by accident but the smiles on the faces of his friends suggested otherwise.

Further down the trail a small waterfall, tiny yet rushing with an exhilaration had it been Victoria Falls.

Our teacher promised at the end of the school year we would return with ice cream sandwiches and we could traipse through the creek as we please. I don’t recall if we ever did, twelve years later the waterfall is gone and the creek now only comes up to my ankles.

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twelve years later the waterfall is gone and the creek now only comes up to my ankles.

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NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE Paige Gould

I quite like the rain, drizzles and downpours, flickering lights, and the smell of muggy air after the storm had passed.

My brother does not feel the same, used to hide in the linen closet at the first crack of thunder, severe storm warnings blaring enough to send him into a panic.

The sound of the pitter-patter on the roof, the driveway, the grass, the enchanting dance down my windowpane of two racing raindrops that would merge into one.

Love stories filling my brain with fantasies of how it was supposed to be. Grey clouds were a welcome sight, a night spent cozied up in the master bedroom with flashlights and hot chocolate in mugs topped with sweet whipped cream. Four siblings, the only thing that could bring us together was some aggressive precipitation We all had our reasons, and sometimes I like to think that on nights it pours we feel the warmth of hot chocolate and blankets draped around us, an eternal embrace.

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DUCK POND

Paige Gould

Sunlight peaking through a green canopy, dry and dusted dirt kicked up by my shoes, careful not to stumble on the rocks littered across the trail. Unfamiliar terrain quickly becoming monotonous, and marked paths abandoned to slink through the web of trees and fallen logs. Houses in the foreground a reminder that I won’t be lost, permission to explore and indulge in the solitude. Down a steep incline, mossy grass and crisp twigs morph to my steps, the ground beneath me sinking in as I approach the pond.

Stagnant water covered in green film, cabbage-like plants taking root, thick green leaves sticking up in defiance. A used tire floating in the murkiness, trash from the curious and thoughtless people who treaded the path before me.

Harsh to the eyes, struggling to imagine what might have been had we not discovered the pond. I pick up a smooth stone, my thumb grazing over the small indents of the marbled grey before skipping the rock, ripples disturbing the layers of algae and grime before dissipating, returning to a status quo.

Rustling across the water, two ducks swam across, unbothered by the state of their home nor my disruption.

Ignoring me, instead quacking and diving in the shallow water to find something to eat.

I watch for a while, stunned that anything would consider the filthy

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pond to be sustainable for life.

Grey clouds overcast the sky, and faint raindrops signaled for my departure.

Five days I returned to the pond, hoping to find the ducks once again, bribes of grapes and sliced watermelon, but each day they never came back.

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NINETEEN MONTHS

Paige Gould

Driving down a grey road illuminated by peaks of sunlight scattered among the black shadows of the towering green trees of June, hands go around the steering wheel; right over left as we slowly skate a turn on freshly paved backroads.

The sound of wheels spinning at thirty-five miles per hour a gentle lullaby to the baby secured in his car seat. His whimpers dissipate as I pressed my foot gently on the gas pedal, the uneven bumps across the abandoned railroad track rock and soothe. A glance in the rearview mirror, his face now slack and peaceful. Delicately closed dreaming eyes covered by dirty blond bangs overdue for a trim I turn the grooved dial of the car radio, relishing in the serenity and attempting to stay afloat with the knowledge that one day he will no longer need car rides to fall asleep.

Paige is a junior physician assistant major minoring in creative writing.

Published in the SCOP as well as her debut professional publication in The American Writer’s Review in April of 2020. Vice-President of the King’s College GSA, Paige has a passion for providing a voice for those without one.

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ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?

Juan Martinez

I’m real pissed That these people have Lost the damn Plot.

This started as A Movement towards Improving Human Rights Now. It’s a Fucking joke Its Not a Funny one Either You want me to make Everyone Happy?

Ok Here I Fucking Go. Guess what Y’all?

Abraham Lincoln, He was black.

Guess what?

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Teddy roosevelt.

He hated native AND African americans.

Guess what?

George Washington, He was black As well.

I feel as Though That’s the shit Some people want.

In reality, Everyone’s missed The damn Point.

Nobody fucking asked For minority characters to Be voiced by An actor whose group they’re in.

Nobody fucking asked For these idiot Statues to be Vandalized.

Nobody fucking asked These massive coorporations And celebrities To sing kumbaya.

YO! GET FUCKING REAL!!!

It’s been several Fucking Days Now.

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The cops Who killed Breonna Taylor Are still free.

Several other cops Who’ve done events Following her death Are still free.

The government let George Floyd’s Killers out, Because of the dangerous Rony-virus.

But kids.

America’s future, Can return to school, With 0 harm.

It just “Needs to Happen” Gimme a break.

Look.

Right now More than ever, We as a society need to get real.

I don’t give a shit about White artists sampling Non-white artists.

Entertainment comes after human rights.

I don’t give a shit about The overusage of “Black best friends in shows” There’s bigger issues right now.

All this over exposure Is making me Not give a Shit.

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I am On your side, But I’m sick of Your incompetence.

If you’re luring Away allies, And not getting through To the ignorant.

I have One question for You all.

Are you happy now?

Think about that.

Get back to me later.

I’ll say it again.

Are you happy now?

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CHERRY TREES

Anarose Davidson

My love is like a cherry There is no other fruit Sweetest flesh there ever is Rock solid at the root.

Your pit is quite a bother But you yourself so sweet That I will mouth it carefully So I may of you eat.

I’ll set your pits aside, dear And of them, grow a tree.

Through patience of thy petty faults I’ll gain tenfold of thee.

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THE CAROUSEL

Anarose Davidson

She was a A Fool A Failure A Ne’er-do-well Went to the Fair one day.

It was Broken And Beaten A Lost Carousel Alone and deserted it lay.

She Bought it And Buffed it Polished and Waxed For two years and a day.

And They would Howl And Holler Pester and ask Why she would work without pay.

She would Stand And Stare Straighten her hair Turn around, smile, and Say, “What a friend I’ve found in a Merry-go-Round.”

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THE BARD

Anarose Davidson

In yonder churchyard Lies dead An old bard Of whom is said Sang so well In King Arthur’s day When Camelot glittered on the hill Upon lute and harp did play And the king’s hall with music fill.

And of this bard, Merlin did foretell “The kings and knights shall fall, But yonder bard who plays so well His song outlive us all.”

Anarose Davidson is a writer, poet, and a procrastinating disaster who is writing this at 11:00pm. A Pre-PA major who struggles with dividing her love equally between her beloved Art and her dearest Science, she does her best work late at night or at ungodly hours of the morning.

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Bear Tabitha Kenzakoski

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Burning Sky Isabella Gibbon

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Colored Pencil Portrait Jessica Henderson

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Electric City Staple Scarlett Spager The Scop • Fall 2020 • 37

Home Is Wherever I’m With You Joshua Ulanoski 38 • The Scop • Fall 2020

Lone Matthew Schoch

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Low Tide Tabitha Kenzakoski

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Meadows Tabitha Kenzakoski

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Nothing Gold Can Stay

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Sea Foam on Film Scarlett Spager

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Standing In Awe of Superficial Things Joshua Ulanoski

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Triple Purple Isabella Gibbon

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Thaw Matthew Schoch

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Sunset Beach in Cape May Point Christopher Rickert

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Time Rools By Mark Dziak

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Grandpa’s Sunset Samantha Lipperini

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VISUAL ART CONTRIBUTORS

Mark G. Dziak graduated from King’s in 2003. He is currently a NEPA-based professional writer of educational materials and writes all sorts of fiction and nonfiction after work.

Josh Ulanoski works as the Associate Art Director in the King’s College Office of Marketing and Communications. Photography has been his hobby (and sometimes his job) for almost 15 years. When he’s not at work or taking more photos than he can possibly hope to edit, he enjoys bike riding, hiking, traveling, listening to music, and catching up on movies, TV shows, and video games.

Scarlett Spager is a third year Mass Communications student with a minor in History. Scarlett is the Editor-In-Chief at The Crown Newspaper and Station Manager at WRKC. Scarlett also serves as Junior class President. This spring Scarlett is a media intern at The Lands at Hillside Farm. She is an aspiring producer who makes student documentaries and a podcast with her friends who enjoy comedy.

Matthew is a full-time student at King’s College pursuing a double major in Mass Communications and Professional Writing.

He has been featured in several publications, including The Crown, The Scop, and most recently, The Daily Caller, which he serves as an intern in the journalism department. When he isn’t writing, he can be seen running for the King’s Cross Country and Track and Field teams, both of which he is the Men’s Team Captain.

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Faculty Advisor Jennifer Judge Yonkoski writes poetry, is an assistant technical professor of English at King’s College, and serves as advisor to The Scop and Campion Literary Society.

Her work has appeared in Rhino, Blueline, Under the Gum Tree, Literary Mama, and Gyroscope Review, among others. She earned her MFA from Goddard College.

She also serves as the coordinator of the Luzerne County Poetry in Transit program.

Her first book of poetry, Spoons, Knives, Checkbooks, is due out in Spring 2021.

Faculty Advisor Josh Ulanoski works as the Associate Art Director in the King’s College Office of Marketing and Communications. Photography has been his hobby (and sometimes his job) for almost 15 years. When he’s not at work or taking more photos than he can possibly hope to edit, he enjoys bike riding, hiking, traveling, listening to music, and catching up on movies, TV shows, and video games.

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Editor Matthew Schoch is a full-time student at King’s College pursuing a double major in Mass Communications and Professional Writing. He has been featured in several publications, including The Crown, The Scop, and most recently, The Daily Caller, which he serves as an intern in the journalism department. When he isn’t writing, he can be seen running for the King’s Cross Country and Track and Field teams, both of which he is the Men’s Team Captain.

Assistant Editor Kendyl Wright is a third year mass communications student. She is from Berwick, PA. Her hobbies include listening to music and reading.

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Design Editor Scarlett Spager is a third year Mass Communications student with a minor in History. Scarlett is the Editor-In-Chief at The Crown Newspaper and Station Manager at WRKC. Scarlett also serves as Junior class President. This spring Scarlett is a media intern at The Lands at Hillside Farm. She is an aspiring producer who makes student documentaries and a podcast with her friends who enjoy comedy.

Social Media Coordinator Luan Hoang is a native of Wilkes-Barre and has lived here for 15 years. He is a Marketing Major with a Creative Writing minor. In his free time he enjoys writing poetry, and playing guitar.

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Voting Contributors Noelle Boucher Andrew Bowden Sarah Healy Genevieve Federici Madelyn Pavlico Anaroe Davidson Bailey Slacktish

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