The Scop, Fall 2021, Volume 81

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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2 PROSE

15 POETRY

36 ARTS

61 STAFF BIOS

Cover and Divider Photo Credits Front Cover

Zoë Yonkoski

Inside Covers

Anthony Ievlev, Unsplash

Prose Divider

Lance Jenson

Poetry Divider

Jennifer Judge

Arts Divider, Staff Divider, Back Cover

Paige King

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Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Once upon a time there was a girl. And she was a good girl. She listened to her parents and constantly tried to be like her older sisters. T was six years older than her, and E was five years older. She looked up to them like you would not believe. Family was her everything. As she grew up, the youngest little sibling, she loved spending time with her father. Every night before she went to bed, she would go into his room and tell him about her day. Often, she would fall asleep in there, taking up a lot of mom’s side of the bed, until mom came up to go to sleep and had to transfer her back into her own bed for the night. And the little girl was happy. She was carefree and go with the flow and outgoing and funny.

Once upon a time there was a girl.

And she was growing up. Eighth grade was over, and she was preparing for her first day of high school. Everything

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Angelina Y. Falcone

seemed to be changing. T was at school close by but lived on campus. E was now two hours away on a good traffic day.

Her parents were still around and driving her to school functions and practices but there seemed to be less and less time in the days. She made a new friend. A good friend. The kind of friend that it seemed like you have always known them and will always know them. A good friend. Things were changing. “I like her a lot” the little girl would think. And soon they became inseparable, best friends in every sense of the word. The good friend was going through a tough time. She was in the process of losing a friend and was sad. She made the girl promise that she would never leave her, she would always be there for her. And the girl agreed.

Once upon a time there was a girl. She had a good friend who went to a different

high school. The little girl was figuring out her school life and trying to fit in. She tried to make friends by being on a sports team and talking to people in her classes. But the one person she always wanted to hang out with was not at her school. Football games, parties, general get-togethers were all on her mind until her good friend asked to hang out. The little girl loved spending time with her good friend. Everything just seemed to feel right with her.

Once upon a time there was a girl. And she was confused. “Why do I feel this way?” she thought. “That’s not right,” she told herself. Boys, she insisted, I like boys. And so, she tried to. She made friends with boys so easily and she enjoyed their general presence. But they did not consume her thoughts. They did not spark the slightest feeling or desire within her. But she still tried. ‘Talk’ to him, you can like him. And they talked. And she didn’t like it, and they stopped talking. And she would try again, and she didn’t like it, and she didn’t like it, and she did not like it.

Once upon a time there was a girl. And she got frustrated. She liked spending time with her good friend. She was happy with her good friend. And she spent a lot of time with her good friend. Her mother asked, “Do you like your good friend?”

“Well of course I like her, mom. She’s my friend.” “No, little girl, do you like her as more than a friend?”

Once upon a time there was a girl. And she panicked. “No! I don’t like her mom, she’s just my friend.” The little girl retreated.

She was scared. She did not know how to describe how she felt. So how could anyone else expect her to? She pushed them away. Her sisters were busy with school and other commitments and when they did talk it remained surface level. The

little girl stopped visiting mom and dad’s room before going to bed. She stopped talking about her days. She spent a lot of time in her room. And she talked to her good friend. Day or night they talked and talked and talked.

Once upon a time there was a girl. And she was in denial. She forced thoughts out of her head. They have no business being there. Suppress, suppress, suppress.

Random outbursts became the norm for the little girl. When you hold so much in, the simplest thing can set you off. A dam can only hold so much back before the water overflows. And when it rained, it poured. She retreated into her room to avoid her parents. She closed herself off.

But she had her good friend.

Once upon a time there was a girl. And maybe she got too close? Too comfortable?

She may never really know. But all of the sudden. . . her good friend wasn’t a good friend anymore. The good friend wouldn’t answer as much. She didn’t want to hang out with the little girl. She started pulling away and she pulled away until the little girl was almost completely alone. The little girl was sad. She was lost and confused and in denial and lonely.

But she made me promise I wouldn’t leave? So why did she leave me?

Once upon a time there was a girl.

And she was broken. How do you explain to someone that you are going through your first heart break when they didn’t even know you were in love? The little girl was devastated. Her whole world flipped upside down and shattered before her very eyes. She had no one to turn to. She cried and cried and cried. Mom was worried. She doesn’t get it. How can I make her get it?

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. . . I can’t. The little girl hid in her room even more. She did not know how to mend the pieces of herself back together. She was not okay.

Once upon a time there was a girl. And she could not trust anyone. She did not let anyone get too close. She couldn’t. The pain of the recent betrayal haunted her.

Every waking moment was consumed by the shadow of the existence of her good friend. Every little thing reminded the girl of the one she used to call her best friend. She loved that song. She hated that commercial.

That was her favorite type of dog. She remained surface level with everyone around her in order to limit the pain they could cause her. But the pain of keeping it all inside was building up. She was scared of the pain. She was not happy.

Once upon a time there was a girl. And she was trying. She tried to get out of her room more and spend time with her family again. It was not easy, it was not like it was before, but it was getting better. She was doomed to a state of getting better but never being completely content. She was still lying. It is tiring to conceal such a huge part of yourself. It is lonely and confusing and downright sad. She made new friends but never let them get too close. She went out more but was always aware of how she presented herself. She still tried to deny, deny, deny.

Once upon a time there was a girl.

And she was getting better. But she was still lying to herself. But then there was another ‘good friend,’ and then another one. She reached a point where she couldn’t lie to herself anymore. She knew.

But just because she knew didn’t mean she was okay with it. She wasn’t. She was determined not to be different. She was determined to be normal. Or at least to

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appear ‘normal’ to everyone around her.

She told herself she had to. But hiding such a big part of who you are takes a massive tole on your inner self.

Once upon a time there was a girl. And she did not like herself at all. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I be normal. She beat herself up on the inside, never allowing herself to embrace who she was. She was negative and hateful, but she never let them see it.

Once upon a time there was a girl.

And she was getting ready for college.

She thought about going far away. I can reinvent myself there. But the school that made the most sense both academically and athletically was fifteen minutes from her home. AND her sister, E, would be her assistant soccer coach. Oh, wait. No, I can’t. Out of all the places she could have gone, she ended up going to the one place where she couldn’t reinvent herself.

She could not start over. She was trapped, again. But she still put on a good face. She made friends on her soccer team and kept all the pain inside.

Once upon a time there was a girl. And she let it all catch up. The dam overflowed.

She reached her breaking point. She avoided her friends. She thought no one wanted to hang out with her and so she made it easier for them. She reached out to her sister. She said “E, I am not happy anymore. I can’t do this.” Her sister knew there was something really wrong. E drove to her college campus. She pulled up outside and the little girl got inside the car.

She never felt so small.

Once upon a time there was a girl. And she was so scared. And she was crying. And she told her sister, voice shaking and body quaking and avoiding direct eye contact. . .

“E, I like girls.” And they sat there together

in E’s car and talked and talked and talked.

And they cried happy tears. And they laughed because they were happy crying so hard. That was a good night. For the first time in a long time, the girl felt like she could finally take a breath. It is going to be okay.

Once upon a time there was a girl. And after she told E, one day she told T. And eventually she told her parents too. Each step along the way she felt better and better. She felt free again. And her family noticed. The little, not so little girl was on the road to being happy again. The weight was finally off of her shoulders.

The little girl is about to turn twenty-

one. She has a girlfriend. They have been dating for almost eight months now. Her family is nothing but supportive. She had nothing to worry about. She was so hard on herself for so long for no reason, though it did not feel like that at the time. It has been a long journey. The path she is on is different than that of others, for sure, but that does not mean it is the wrong one.

She found friends who support her. Most importantly she learned to support herself.

The little girl feels happier than she has since she was in grade-school. Life starts to seem a whole lot simpler when you allow yourself to take a step back and identify what truly matters.

Angelina Yolanda Falcone is a junior English-Literature Secondary Education major at King’s College. She is a captain on the KC Women’s Soccer team. She grew up in Pittston, Pennsylvania. She is the youngest daughter of Samuel and Suzanne Falcone. She always finds inspiration from her sisters Tianna and Elana.

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I Am Not the Virus

After coming back from a seemingly normal trip to the grocery store, my father immediately greets me with saying, “I don’t want you going out alone anymore.” At first, I am taken aback and believe that I have done something wrong. However, the TV begins to play a video of an elderly woman being stomped on by a man in New York while bystanders did nothing. Once I saw that video, I could no longer go out into public without constantly looking over my shoulder in fear that I would be to blame for the pandemic because I am Asian. It had been about a year since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic where businesses were opening again, schools began hybrid options, and a sense of normalcy was reestablishing. As momentous as this seemed for most, Asian Americans were faced with relentless acts of hate. The United States is no stranger to racism as

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Vivian Phan

news headlines cover some of these stories daily, but discussing it is still viewed as a difficult topic. This reluctance to become more informed hinders the nation from being able to grow. As the COVID-19 pandemic progressed, racism towards Asian Americans has become one of the United States’ largest issues.

Violence towards the Asian American population has not only manifested in physical aggression, but online as well. In recent years, the use of social media has become more frequent as it is accessible at one’s fingertips, even more so during the stay-at-home mandates. From the start of the pandemic in November 2019 to March 2020, negative tweets about Asians increased by 68.4%, according to Thu T. Nguyen and others’ 2020 International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health article “Exploring U.S.

Shifts in Anti-Asian Sentiment with the Emergence of COVID-19.” Following March 2020, references to the virus such as “Wuhan virus” or “Asian virus” connected COVID-19 to Asians and increased the use of offensive language (Nguyen et al). The anonymity of a screen allows for people to make these comments, and the ability to spread them is easily done with a single tap without worrying about the repercussions.

This was around the same time that former president, Donald Trump, made a statement on Twitter and identified the virus as the “Chinese Virus.” In accordance with this tweet, the use of the hashtag, #chinesevirus, increased by 17,400 percent, according to Yulin Hswen and others’ May 2021 American Journal of Public Health article “Association of ‘#covid19’ Versus ‘#chinesevirus’ with Anti-Asian Sentiments on Twitter: March 9-23, 2020.” By not calling the virus by its scientific name, Trump’s words had an influence over those who read it as they become more likely to repeat what they hear from the president of the United States.

These acts of discrimination instill a sense of paranoia among Asians living in the United State while negatively impacting their mental health. The start of the pandemic had been jarring for Americans because it completely changed how one lives life. Without having time to adapt to this sudden change, it is natural that one develops certain anxieties about a global health crisis. From the start of COVID-19, the overall number of individuals using the Mental Health America anxiety screening tool increased by 22% while it was a 39% increase in Asian Americans, according to Angela R. Gover and others’ 2020 American Journal of Criminal Justice article “Anti-Asian Hate

Crime During the COVID-19 Pandemic: Exploring the Reproduction of Inequality.”

Americans were faced with fears regarding unemployment, making bill payments, and supporting their families. However, when viewing how discrimination affected white Americans compared to Asian Americans or immigrants, there is a clear difference: 11% of white Americans, 22% of Asian Americans, and 21% of Asian immigrants experienced prejudice that was related to COVID-19, according to Cary Wu and others’ 2021 Ethnic and Racial Studies article “Anti-Asian Discrimination and the Asian-White Mental Health Gap during COVID-19.” Asians living in the United States quickly became targets of violence and discrimination as the origin of the Coronavirus was found to be from China.

The fear of being blamed for the pandemic creates the need to be vigilant for potential attacks by a stranger, and the constant awareness about how others are perceiving them creates anxieties about going out into public. For white and Asian Americans alike, the pandemic had made it difficult to go out as businesses were closed and shortages began, but Asians now had the concern of not only being affected by the virus itself, but the brutality towards their ethnic identity as well.

Asian American individuals were not the only ones that suffered from discrimination from the pandemic, but Asian-owned businesses faced financial setbacks as well.

There was up to an 85% drop in profits for restaurants and businesses in New York City’s Chinatown, according to Hannah Tessler and others’ 2020 American Journal of Criminal Justice article “The Anxiety of Being Asian American: Hate Crimes and Negative Biases During the COVID-19 Pandemic.” The association of the virus with

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Asians made people wary to visit these shops as a result from blaming the foreign party for causing the pandemic. People will tend to create a perception of somebody based off of false pretenses which lead to generalizations. As the threat of the pandemic grew, 14% of Americans avoided Asian businesses (Tessler et al). At the time, COVID-19 was known to have come from China, and there is a stereotype that all Asians look alike. Therefore, an association between Asians and the Coronavirus developed as people fail to recognize the specific scientific details and focus on generalizations.

Asian hate is not a brand-new issue that was brought to the light by the COVID-19 pandemic. It has been a problem for

centuries but was emphasized by this crisis.

Whenever I go out in public, I refuse to cough or sneeze too loudly because I fear that someone will assume I have the virus.

Each time I go into a store, the unwanted stares and the slight movements away from me do not go unnoticed. People may view these actions as harmless, but to me they signify that that person will associate any Asian person with the cause of the pandemic. They assume that I must be from China and have COVID-19 while ignoring the truth that I am an American-born citizen. My culture holds immense value to me, and I feel that I have a responsibility to protect the integrity of my people and their identity.

Vivian Phan is a freshman in the Physician Assistant program who enjoys crocheting and knitting when she’s not swamped in lab homework. She can’t make anything useful like a sweater or a pair of gloves, but she’ll gladly crochet a stuffed animal with no questions asked.

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In Imagination Brandi Naprava

This is what it was: an abandoned baseball field, a stripping hole littered with trash, pathways overgrown with grass leading over a sad excuse of a creek emptying from a drainpipe before reaching the outskirts of a small patch of woods.

However, as all things are when viewed through the whimsical lens of childhood imagination, it was never going to be anything less than a grandiose land of adventure.

Great mountains of pitch-black coal jutted out from the ground, casting shadows upon the proud forms of oak trees standing tall along their bases, making their leaves quiver in fear of the dark and proclaim their terror to the world in the form of rustling carrying over the wind. The terrain ebbed and flowed with no distinguishable pattern, sprawling hills suddenly dropping off into gaping cliffs where one tumble meant your assured demise in the form of stinging bloody

knees. Past the mountain range where birds cried out in ecstasy, over a perilous rushing creek with the sweetest water, through winding trails dappled with great muddy lakes, arrangements of logs sat swimming in piles of once burning ash in cleared out spaces of woods.

There was no other place like it, no place where the cacophony of dirt bike engines roaring in the distance, dust clouds filling our noses with acrid gravel and debris was quite as much like home.

No place where the scent of smoke and gasoline signaled safety instead of danger, nowhere the crackle of flame eating away bark and shrieks of delighted laughter blended into the most perfect symphony.

No hiss of water sounded so inviting, no other mud was revered for its earthy smell rather than scorned for it, no eerie whistle of wind through swaying leaves brought such comfort to my ears.

It tasted of freedom. It felt like love. The

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powdery coal slipping beneath my fingers and scrabbling feet, sitting heavy on my tongue after a tumble down the banks of the steepest mountain, was the fruit of life itself. Though the food shoddily baked over the fire crumbled in my small hands and dissolved into charcoal, its bitter flavor tasted expertly smoked rather than ruined with the inexperience and carelessness of youth. The long grass provided a ticklish, prickly cushion to sit on, where we crunched apples bursting with sweetness and tossed their cores into the river gorge below, watching them be carried away and lost forever to the current.

We spoke about crafting a boat and doing the same, huddled around the fire in the dead of night, nervous ears peeled for the humming of an engine past the ambient noise of the forest. Fires were, of course, illegal so close to vulnerable groves of trees, but children have this way of making everything around them seem invincible. Enough so that we danced by the flames, picking each other up and swinging dangerously close to the heat, singeing our fingers with reckless fervor.

When headlights broke through the trees, as bright as floodlights catching prison escapees, sticks of marshmallows were hastily dropped into the fire and burst with a pop, Sketchers dug into loose dirt and launched us down winding paths and behind dense bushes that obscured our forms.

Our sneakers soaked through with water, mud turning them into a muted brown color. We never minded. We bore our stains like medals, our smarting ankles from dashing through pricker bushes like well-earned battle wounds, and our heaving chests and aching lungs with the pride of an Olympic runner. The fun, after

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all, was in the danger, was in the fact that out there, we were separated from the world in such a way that it could never be permitted. We never got caught. We never faced consequences because we were young, and that meant we were practically immortal.

Our presumed immortality led us to other ideas, such as banding together and embarking on an expedition to the summit of the tallest black mountain in the land. Bicycles carefully guided behind us with one determined arm, we hiked and climbed to the top, catching our feet on rocks and desperately reaching out toward tree branches offering a helping hand to prevent a disastrous tumble down. After what must have been hours of tireless work, we reached the top, basking in the cold wind nipping at our ears from such an altitude and desperately soaking in the view of our land spreading out below us.

Because we had reached the peak, it was clear that there was no power in the universe that wanted us to fail, no higher being that did not guide us along our perilous journeys. No matter what we did, we would be safe because the mountains and cliffs bent to us, not the other way around. Our bikes carried us back down the steep hill, soaring at great speeds and wheels catching on rocks until they launched one of us into the air, being met with the harsh embrace of the ground below. Time stopped–had the place we claimed as ours no longer protect us in the way we longed to protect it? Never.

Our friend popped back up, a wide smile slapped across her face and loving scrapes nestled along her back in a mimicry of a caring hug. The land simply wanted to say hello and had overestimated its own strength.

I found myself recently standing over the impact crater and was struck by how it had simply worn away, woven over by browned grass and a few particularly determined weeds sprouting up from the hard ground. I peered up at that monolith she sped down, at our own Everest, and realized that there was no need to strain my neck. The jagged peak was flattened, the slopes gentle and inviting, and its height was no longer a monumental feat. My heart panged as I wondered if this is what it had been all along, or if the passage of time had eroded away the beauties of my youth.

The trail, now partially obscured by fallen branches, guided me toward our rushing rapids. I had to strain my ears to hear the sound. Standing at the edge of the embankment, dipping a toe into the water below, I questioned how we had ever viewed this as a river at all. The water had shrunk in upon itself, dirt swallowing up the creek, and the sputtering of the drainpipe as it pushed out the faintest trickle of water did little to replenish its supply. I recalled the source of that and withdrew my foot from the water in disgust.

The miniscule step over the creek, which had once been a running leap, gave way to a thicket of bushes and trees that became denser the further I walked into the woods.

No longer lined with flourishing flora, shattered televisions and moldy couches instead dotted the edges, staining the once pristine landscape with proof of humanity’s innate talent of destruction. Our firepit, the once proud center of our gatherings, was

glaringly missing, and the grill had toppled over and rusted with time. Acidic yellow tape stopped me from going further, trees stabbed into by signs declaring that the property ahead was private.

I had forgotten the news, the notice that had led me back to the same field a little over a year ago, when the air was cold and biting. I could hear it now as clearly as I did then: workers in garish orange vests wielding sharp tools, the scream of chainsaws signaling bloody death to trees that dared get in the way of expansion.

Factories were moving in. The land was no longer ours. Someone else, someone who would never see its true value, had paid more than we ever could.

Occasionally, when walking past the field, I heard the growl of a motorbike, watched a rider zip toward the woods and skid to an abrupt halt. It was no longer free.

An impassible roadblock had been placed, and no detours were available to find a way around. The roar of the engine as it got closer to turn around, and then its fading whine as it retreated into the distance, broke some part of me I had not realized I maintained for all these years. My heart was carried away by the unaware biker, carted away at impossible speeds from a place that was no longer accessible for it.

The dust at my feet staining my boots is little more than an inconvenience now. I do not think I will return to the safe havens in the trees, the bonfires, or the mountain ranges lining the land. It is just a field.

There is no adventure.

Brandi Naprava is a first-year student at King’s College, studying Secondary Education with a focus in English. She is an avid reader and writer, with a particular love for poetry. There is nothing she prefers to a wonderful piece of writing.

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The First Day

Matthew Still

The day had been filled with chaos.

As soon as the new recruits had gotten off the buses in the morning, they were descended upon by drill sergeants. From that moment onward, the day was filled with yelling, running, and regret. It was plain on many people’s faces. They had not known what they were getting into and now they regretted it. But now it was evening, and the trainees were coming to the end of the first day.

“Trainees! You are now about to conduct personal hygiene, utilizing the showers,” thundered the Drill Sergeant to the room full of young men. “You will all enter the shower in groups of fifteen! Each group of fifteen will have three minutes to get in there, shower, and come back out here to toe the line!” The trainees were not able to hide the shock and confusion on their faces and it was exactly what the

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Drill Sergeant wanted. “First fifteen! Figure it out, your time starts now!” Fifteen of the trainees scrambled into the latrines.

None were confident that they would be able to be back in three minutes. The rest waited, not knowing what the consequence of being late would be. “Half right face!”

Yelled the Drill Sergeant and the trainees grimly executed the command. “Front leaning rest position move!” They all immediately assumed the push up position.

“Since your battle buddies want to take their sweet time, you all will pay for it. When I say down, you will all sound off with ‘Hurry Up!’ and when I say up, you will all sound off with ‘Waiting on you!’ Am I clear?!”

“Yes, Drill Sergeant!” came the harmonized yell of thirty-one young men.

“Down!” came the command.

“Hurry Up!” came the chorus.

“Up!” boomed the drill sergeant.

“Waiting On You!” The desperate cry of many sounded through the bay. Within the next couple of minutes, all fifteen made it back from the latrine and joined their battle buddies in the front leaning rest.

“All right, next fifteen, your time starts now!” says the Drill Sergeant with the hint of a smile, knowing that the next group would also not meet the timeline. Those who had just come out of the shower stood there, dripping. Those who still had to conduct their showers stood there, praying.

Unfortunately, although not unexpected, the three minutes were up before all fifteen could make it out. “Oh look, time is up,” said the Drill Sergeant cheerfully, looking around at the grim-faced trainees, “Half right face! Front leaning rest position, move!” The final group unsurprisingly did not make the timeline either and all fortyfour of the trainees of bay three were sent to bed sweaty, after their three-minute showers.

In bed by eight o’clock pm, many trainees found it hard to fall asleep, considering the Carolina sun shone brightly through the windows. Some fell asleep instantly, preferring the comforting darkness of sleep to help recover their mentally and physically exhausted bodies.

A few got out of bed and gathered together, preferring to be social rather than isolated. And then there were those who chose to quietly cry themselves to sleep. Ever so quietly their tears fell down their face and into their pillows; all traces gone by the morning. Regardless of their

individual coping methods, each trainee all had the same thought going around their head: what would the morning bring?

“Time to wake up!” The lights flash on with startling brightness as the moans and groans of the disgruntled trainees sound around the bay. It is 0400, one hour before toes on the line. Now is the time to make their beds, brush their teeth, and make the bay presentable for the inspection by their drill sergeants.

0455. Anxiety fills the air. 44 men stand next to each other, waiting, wondering what was going to happen when their superiors came through the door. 0500, the door swings open and two drill sergeants strut into the bay. Instantly, one of them goes over to the trash cans, ripping the full trash bags out and dumping the contents all around the bay. The other walks slowly around the bay, pulling covers from the beds that were not made to standard.

Lockers found unlocked were promptly opened and ransacked.

“This bay is a disgrace! I swear I’ll have all of you pushing until you can’t feel your arms whenever the bay looks like this!

Half right face! Front leaning rest position move!” The drill sergeants were not very merciful that morning. The mental and physical strain proved too much already for one trainee. He quit right then and there, the first morning. All the others could think is that if day one people were already quitting, this was going to be a long two and a half months.

Matthew Still is from Mount Laurel, New Jersey and a sophomore history major at King’s College. He is on the Wrestling Team and participates in the Pre-Law society. Matthew recently joined the United States Army Reserves and wishes to pursue a legal career in the United States Army after his studies.

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Hic Mortui Docent Vivos Paige Gould I feel ill prepared to be here with you.

When you donated your body to science, Did you expect your remains to be in the hands of young twenty-somethings grappling with the basics of anatomy?

We try our best to handle you with care, I didn’t think I would ever see your face, at first hidden under drapes and cloths saturated with fragrant formaldehyde.

Your eyes, while glassy and dull, are still distinctly human.

Your hair was shaven, and I wonder what it may have looked like before.

You had cancer, perhaps you embraced baldness in your courageous battle.

Maybe you mourned each and every clump that fell out.

Did you like to keep it long or short? Did you dye it in an act of teenage rebellion when I wouldn’t exist for another thirty years?

I wasn’t even a thought in my mother’s head.

She was more focused on kindergarten woes when you were graduating high school.

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Were you from Pennsylvania too?

I know nothing about you besides how you died, and how old you were.

I do not know your name, but part of it feels cold, how we simply refer to you as “our group’s body”.

I wonder if you liked your name, I never did growing up.

I will never know what your final days were like, I imagine you were scared Maybe you were at peace, did you embrace death like an old friend?

I hope it was painless.

Were you alone? Did you die at home surrounded by loved ones?

Did you leave behind a widow, or were you the widow?

Maybe you never married or happily divorced.

Did you have children?

Sixty-four years of life.

The joy, the pain, the boredom of it all.

I am able to distance myself in the lab, focus on the anatomy that you gifted us, but sometimes I am overwhelmed: You were a person who lived and breathed just like me.

Who laughed and cried and danced.

You had a favorite food,

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you had a favorite movie you could watch a thousand times Your home was decorated with pictures collected from the decades hung on the walls and shelves.

You existed.

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My Nephew’s Baby Doll Paige Gould Given to his sister years before he was born, dressed in pink floral pajamas with rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes.

In the mornings he takes her downstairs and shares his breakfast, Cheerios or Lucky Charms stuffed into her mouth later to be wiped away by his mother.

At night he rocks his baby, much as I did him.

Tucks her in, and gives her a kiss on the forehead. The very same toddler smoothly transitions to a tiny terror, crashing into the block tower constructed a few moments before. He pushes her in a tiny stroller, proudly displaying to the world his baby.

He is unafraid, unaware that there are even people who don’t think a little boy like him should be playing with dolls. The same people who would clutch their pearls if they saw him after getting into his older sister’s makeup.

He simply plays.

I often wonder what they’re so afraid of, him becoming a good father?

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I Always Knew Paige Gould When I was little I used to make my shadow look like a boy.

Holding my legs close together, pressing down the curves on the skirt of my catholic school uniform, a loose pony tail with fly-away hairs that posed for a young boy on the grey pavement of the parking lot that was our playground.

If I walked a certain way it seemed as if our shadows were holding hands.

This is how it had to be.

She would walk ahead too far and the silhouetted fantasy would disappear.

I never wanted to be a boy, I was jealous that only a boy could be with her.

Paige is a fourth year Physician Assistant student, president of the GSA, and chairperson for the Diversity Equity and Inclusion Committee. She had her first professional literary publication in the Spring of 2020 in “The American Writer’s Review.”

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The Early Days of Cubism Fr. Anthony Grasso, CSC i Half of your face smiles. The other appears neutral, uncertain whether to approve. The painter grew to expect such reactions.

I, however, am no artist. ii Watching you descend the stairs forces me to wonder. As your many facets change with the light, which one do I address? Is this an artistic or a moral dilemma? iii Mornings I find you awake at the counter sipping coffee.

You are a deactivated robot.

Is the coffee so bitter, or is it me you’d rather be done with? iv After lunch I suggest a walk.

The park bursts with color and there’s a breeze today. October’s sun might melt that rough, geometric cheek.

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i Half of your face smiles. The other appears neutral, uncertain whether to approve. The painter grew to expect such reactions.

I, however, am no artist. ii Watching you descend the stairs forces me to wonder. As your many facets change with the light, which one do I address? Is this an artistic or a moral dilemma? iii Mornings I find you awake at the counter sipping coffee.

You are a deactivated robot.

Is the coffee so bitter, or is it me you’d rather be done with? iv After lunch I suggest a walk.

The park bursts with color and there’s a breeze today. October’s sun might melt that rough, geometric cheek.

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v Your softer side turns toward the direction of my voice, entertaining the thought. The angled half looks through me to the clock on the wall behind. vi The stony side, eyelid ever open, brooks no change, nor will it focus enough to let me enter, or permit me now to close my eyes again.

Fr. Anthony Grasso, CSC, has been teaching English and Writing at King’s since 1985, after receiving a Ph. D. in English Literature from the University of Toronto. Over the years, Fr. Grasso has served as faculty advisor to our DES Chapter, and has been a member of the Executive Committee of the Delta Epsilon Sigma National Catholic Honor Society since 1992. Currently, he serves as National Chaplain of DES. He loves reading and teaching all types of literature, especially poetry, and has been writing poems since high school.

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Burning Evergreens Julia Sweeney I held a lit match in my hand, You told me to make you warm.

I gave it to you, but all you gave me was dampened wood.

I was so cold, Shivering in nothing but my bones, and you were filled with heat, insulated by my skin you had stolen.

Your rage was plentiful, freezing over Hell, making even Lucifer tremble with your carefully chosen words, But my carefully chosen words meant nothing, my body freezing, even with your heat upon me.

Your seed spread across acres of land, growing evergreens in my mind, swaying in the wind but far too sturdy to fall.

I won’t make a sound, unlike those same trees collapsing.

Silence when they’re falling.

Silence until they are planted again.

My love I plead with you, stop planting your seeds

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in soils that are not yet ready.

Stop growing evergreens in young girl’s minds, because I warn you now: an axe is small but not useless.

Your branches and bark shall be used to make wooden matches used to set fire to every evergreen you ever planted.

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love Julia Sweeney They say love is patient and they say it is kind but what they leave out is that love can be blind.

I have no idea who you are, but your eyes shimmer like the sea, shimmer like glitter and gold.

My eyes question what we can be if only I could speak to you, ask you about your passions, witness what makes you come to life, appreciating every single interaction between you and I. And between you and I I am afraid of love and loss, afraid of finally asking your name to one day want it as my own, just to lose you and end up alone.

Although it is only a glance, I could stare at your eyes forever.

However, the thoughts crash into me seeping that you’ll never know my name, but be patient.

Be patient with me as they say you’re supposed to.

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Be kind to me, love me patiently, and love me kindly.

Love me as if you were blind.

Love me, as if you were mine.

Julia Sweeney is a student at King’s College majoring in Psychology and minoring in Creative Writing. She is currently involved in the psych club, HOPE peer educators, as well as secretary of Campion Literary Society. Julia’s main style of writing is free verse poetry however has a great appreciation for all types of writing.

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Huckleberry Grove Sarah Beth Kolodziej along the hiking path of my youth, calls to me and begs me to hear the running stream, to see the light reflect off of the leaves of each branch, to feel the soft pads on the feet of my dog as she meanders around the muddy roots of a tree.

With each sweet taste of a huckleberry pancake from my mother’s frying pan, right back into the woods I race and melt into the tall grass and not only remember my youth, but feel a child once more, my kindred spirit renewed.

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ScapeGoat of Grief Sarah Beth Kolodziej We stood in front of the graves That tore us apart One, my father.

One, my grandfather.

“No, not there,” she said.

I stood up from where I had been laying roses.

“I don’t want any on his grave.”

“That’s your choice. I bought these flowers and I want to honor my grandpa’s memory.”

She bends over and moves the bouquet to my father’s.

He has two now. “ I know you had your differences, but he was a good grandpa to me.”

She turns and walks away.

I put at least one rose back.

He’ll have to settle for that.

He’d understand if he was here.

For he was our glue that held us together.

And my father was what remained after the glue had dried.

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Now we are left, just two pieces of paper, Floating through the window, Desperately trying to cling to one another, But failing because of what we have lost.

For she was jilted, But not by him.

She was left a widow, But the cancer gave him no choice.

She was left without a son, But he was already 10 years gone, And couldn’t control that either, And now he is the scapegoat of her pain.

And I struggle along with my grief.

For I have no idea how to hold it as well as her.

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Spider of My Mind Sarah Beth Kolodziej I’m so in awe of the everyday spider, the way they twist and turn their webs, weaving intricate patterns in the most innocuous of places.

The one that likes to inhabit my driver side rearview mirror has a tenacity I have never before witnessed.

As I watched this spider cling on desperately, the inner workings of my mind began to spiral apart, just like this poor soldier’s home.

Thoughts rush from him to me.

I struggle to keep my own web in place.

I trace pattern after pattern in hopes of being prepared for any scenario, but then the web breaks, after driver upon driver seems determined to wreck my home.

So I slow down, pull over, let the spider free, and wonder when anyone else will ever do the same for me.

Sarah Beth, King’s Class of 2015, teaches English and coaches soccer at Mid Valley HS. Her poetry appeared in Cicada in 2008 and in many issues of SCOP from 2011-2021. She is now back at King’s again, working on her Master’s in Reading and Curriculum and Instruction.

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There’s Just Something About Darius Bermudez Viccia Fall Or autumn Whichever you prefer The warm feeling of looking outside And seeing the scattered leaves For the first time in a year The cozy feeling of going outside And feeling a shiver go down your spine Before putting on your jacket I used to say my favorite season was winter When the snow was piled high And a warm mug greeted me at the door Before checking the approaching weather And wishing for the buses to stay away I used to say my favorite season was summer After growing tired of the snowless cold Longing to fumble with a frisbee And knowing the buses were in hibernation While my shorts awoke from their long slumber I never said my favorite season was spring An ugly chrysalis for the approaching summer When the weather deceives everyone Sun-shining days accompanied by zipped coats And the surprise blizzard that wasn’t there when I needed it

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I used to dislike going along with the crowd, So a hesitation would settle in my throat Before saying my favorite season was fall Or autumn Whichever you prefer

Darius Bermudez is a junior 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 Just Dance, and dabbling in the occasional ultimate frisbee match.

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Washing the Breakfast Dishes Jennifer Judge Despite a thousand wrong turns, we find ourselves in this moment of grace— Bill Evans plays in the background, the house bubbles with mid-October heat, and when I wash a pan, you are there to receive it, towel in hand.

The smell of coffee and sausage lingers in the air.

Plump balls of laughter roll down the stairs, knocking dents in our conversation.

Last night at the haunted house, we watched as bickering stilled for a moment, and our youngest slid her hand into her older sister’s, a protection against imagined threats: boys dressed as wolves, unconvincing chainsaws, projections of light, and faraway screams.

A deep, satisfied silence filled the car on the ride home.

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Tonight I will light candles against the early dark, take extra time arranging the vegetables on the plate, and fall in love with this family all over again.

“Washing the Breakfast Dishes” first appeared in Halfway Down the Stairs

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Harvest

Ariana Lizza

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Flutter

Ariana Lizza

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Trail of the Gray Fox Ariana Lizza

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Winter Storm

Ariana Lizza

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Guards

Ariana Lizza

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White Mountain Magic Paul Trzcinski

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Whiskey at Pembina Genel Gronkowski

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The Hills Have Eyes and So Do I Lance Jenson

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Honest Elysium Lance Jenson

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Relaxing Music Sean Crane

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Nice to See You Sean Crane

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Colors of the Sky Tabitha Kenzakoski

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Heart-Shaped Cloud Tabitha Kenzakoski

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Serenity

Tabitha Kenzakoski

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Tide

Tabitha Kenzakoski

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Snowball

Kassandra Smith

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Worlds End Josh Ulanoski

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Spectral

Josh Ulanoski

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The Fire Below Josh Ulanoski

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Wild

Josh Ulanoski

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Mayflies

Josh Ulanoski

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Momentary Bliss Josh Ulanoski

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Visual Art Contributors Ariana Lizza Ariana Lizza is a local wildlife photographer and environmental enthusiast. She discovered her love for Northeastern Pennsylvania’s natural areas and wildlife through her experiences in the environmental science program at King’s College. Since graduating, she has pursued her passion for capturing and sharing Pennsylvania’s beauty to inspire and educate others.

Instagram handle: @ari_wildphotography Paul Trzcinski Paul Martin Trzcinski is a returning student finishing an Environmental Studies degree. He’s a full time troubadour. Look for him serenading various venues around the valley as Paul Martin. You can usually find him adventuring from mountain to shore, sometimes in the same day, snapping photos along the way.

Genel Gronkowski Genel Gronkowski is a King’s College Alumni (2014) currently pretending to write in North Dakota. When not avoiding her dissertation, Genel can be found hiking with her dogs, journaling, and saying “Just one more chapter before bed can’t hurt.”

Tabitha Kenzakoski Tabitha has been interested in photography for many years and has mainly focused in fashion and beauty, but she also loves the simplicity and beauty of flowers. Tabitha is a Mass Communications major and she has been photographing for over five years and hopes to pursue a career in fashion photography.

Kassandra Smith Kassandra Smith is a freshman chemistry major at King’s College. If you ever need her, she is either struggling with physics in the library or working in the theatre. Since freshman year of high school, Kassandra has been drawing with charcoals and painting with oil paints in her free time.

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Visual Art Contributors (continued) Sean Crane Sean Crane is a junior computer science major. He enjoys reading, writing, drawing, and playing games. He hopes to one day create a manga himself.

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Editorial Staff Bios

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 forthcoming from Propertius Press.

Assistant 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 the past 16 years. When he’s not at work or taking more photos than he has time 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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Editorial Staff Bios

Editor Lance is a sophomore History and Secondary Education major, but for some reason has decided to busy himself even further with becoming Editor for The Scop and Vice President of Campion Society. He also hopes to not have ripped out all of his hair by next semester.

Assistant Editor Johnny Barrera is a junior Theatre major, president of the King’s Players and Entertainment Editor for The Crown.

Besides theatre he likes to watch movies, drink coffee, and judge profusely. He is ecstatic to be a part of such a showcase and enjoys each and every single submission.

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Editorial Staff Bios

Social Media Coordinator Jillian Snook is a freshman Physician Assistant major at King’s College who is also The Scop’s Social Media Coordinator.

Jillian enjoys writing and reading poetry, working in her local hospital, and spending time with her friends and family.

Layout Designer Samantha Bucher (King’s College Class of 2015) is a writer and graphic designer from Limerick, Pennsylvania. She usually has paint in her hair, can say the alphabet backwards, and determines if a day is great or not by the amount of dogs she’s seen. Her written work has been published in Aurora: The Allegory Ridge Poetry Anthology, The Northeast Poetry Review, Atomic No. 26, Poetry in Transit, the Delta Epsilon Sigma Journal, and the Scop.

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Staff Bios Zoe Smith has a passion for all stories and all mediums of storytelling. When she isn’t reading other people’s works, she writes her own under all types and genres. As long as the work is consistent and makes sense, she enjoys any story she reads.

Emily Miller is a junior Professional Writing and Marketing major at King’s College. While she does enjoy writing creative nonfiction pieces, she also loves reading novels, baking cookies, hiking, and spending time with her family. She is a member of Campion, Cantoris Christi Regis, Student Alumni Association, Catholic Relief Services and Student Government.

Voting Contributors Ian Edler Von Lerch Devin McCarthy

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