The SCOP, Spring 2020, Volume 78

THE SCOP Spring 2020 Volume 78

THE SCOP

Ms. Jennifer Yonkoski

Advisor

Matt Schoch

Jessica Einterz

Scarlett Spager

Editor

Design Editor

Social Media Coordinator

Staff Alison Moyer

Sydney Lonsdale

Kendyl Wright

Stephanie Kleinfelder

Melanie Carbery

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

PROSE

POETRY

2

30

VISUAL ART

STAFF BIOS

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Letter from the Editor: While many facets of life may be suspended due to the complications associated with the coronavirus pandemic, we still see an emergence of the arts. Poems, stories, paintings and songs are all being created in such difficult times, as an opportunity to promote a sense of community and healing. The Scop Literary Magazine, like everyone at home, has faced numerous challenges in adopting a new, remote lifestyle in quarantine. It is with great gratitude I would like to recognize several volunteers that have helped this issue come to fruition, regardless of any setbacks or obstacles. The King’s College English Program, including Dr. Corine Coniglio, Dr. Jennifer McClinton-Temple, Dr. Robin Field, Father Anthony Grasso, Dr. Laurie Sterling, and Dr. Megan Lloyd have been crucial facilitators to the magazine’s progression. Dr. Noreen O’ Connor, Dr. Michael Little and Mr. Josh Ulanoski have also collaborated their efforts to design the magazine – without their volunteer work, this magazine would not have been possible. Additionally, The Scop’s advisor, Ms. Jennifer Yonkoski, has been an essential resource throughout the entire publication process, acting as an incredible role model for professional standards in such difficult times. On behalf of the Scop Editorial Board, we sincerely thank all those that have volunteered their efforts to make a collective celebration of the King’s community. Your interest in arts preservation and acts of selflessness are greatly appreciated. Stay healthy and all best, Matthew Schoch, Editor

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PROSE PROSE

Let’s Just Give Up Mark G. Dziak

My fellow Americans, by which I mean assortment of individuals representing, or choosing not to represent, various cultures, communities, affiliations, and identities, or subgroups thereof, who are presently located in, or near, the United States: Ask not what your country can do for you, but what we cannot do, together, for the betterment of our country. Recent years have seen rising tides of divisiveness unknown since the Civil War. Seemingly every proposed aim has been derailed by venomous controversy and stalemate. The time has come for us to adopt a single overarching policy that will heal our wounds, bridge our gaps, and bring us to a state of national cohesion. The time has come for us to agree to just give up. What is more, my fellow Americans: We must give up together.

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In the long history of the world, never has so much freedom and opportunity amounted to so much deadlock. Never have such astounding amounts of energy been converted into clang, clatter, and whiny-hissy sounds. Only one step remains, the only logical step forward, and that is to divest ourselves of our differences and come together to embrace the void. The promises of dereliction are many. There are now at least six major streaming services, on top of thousands of channels. The vibrant colors, dancing shapes, and retro pop music on our screens will raise our spirits and our children. Did I mention that American couch-and-chair technology is at its pinnacle? There is much sitting and lying down to be done, and we are the people to do it! “Baby Yoda” memes will make us feel good about our shared culture. Our loy-

alties to sports teams and corporate conglomerates will fill our souls. Even our games will allow us to exercise our thumbs while collecting abundant gold coins, stars, hearts, and delicious candy. My fellow Americans, we have long sown the seeds of delinquency, and the

crop is now ripe. Let us walk together, hand-in-hand, shrugging, to harvest our bounty, unless we don’t want to, or it is too difficult, or we disagree on how to do it or whether it should be done. Thank you, and God bless America.

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.

The Scop • Spring 2020 • 4

One Good Turn Rob Burnside

Transition is an elegant process for some. Brownie Scouts fly up, quarterbacks get drafted, and tadpoles grow a brandnew set of legs. For others, it’s a more vaporous thing. Consider the fire service, where merit badges, touchdown passes, and bio-versatility have no bearing, where everything depends on beginner’s luck, and where this luck alone, or lack of same, can sculpt an entire career. Here, a rookie’s first assignment beyond the sanctuary of headquarters is something like St. George riding forth to face the dragon. Probationary Firefighter Skip Jarecki’s initial venture out of the fold—a “trick” at Number Five Engine Company—looked to be at least a notch or two above that. From the high ground the station occupied in the city’s North End section to the unsullied reputation of the veteran crews it housed, Number Five had always been a depart-

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ment-wide locus of intimidation and a potential black hole of despair for any new man unfortunate enough to be sent there. Somber, nineteenth-century brown brick construction, lofty stamped-metal ceilings, groaning plank floors, and a wheezing, hand-fired furnace rumored to be salvage from the R.M.S. Titanic added to the awe. Doors, windows, and staircase risers were at least twice normal size. Pendulous milk-glass light fixtures held nothing larger than a 40-watt incandescent bulb, and the ancient easy chairs—Jurassic Period, no doubt—were quite capable of swallowing an unsuspecting lounger in one dusty gulp. By Skip’s time, Number Five had become a living museum, a fully functioning monument to the days of iron men and iron hose. Captain Joe Kopchek, forty-plus years on the job and every bit as tough as

his coal miner father and grandfather had been, ruled this cavernous kingdom with a firm and practiced hand. And Skip was going to be HIS engine driver for the day. As fate would have it, Skip was born and reared in North End just a few blocks from Number Five—an advantage and a liability in the ordeal he now faced. On the plus side, he knew the company territory as well as anyone, and he knew the station could be a warm, friendly center of community activity despite its foreboding aura. Surely, Kopchek and his men, all lifelong residents of the same North End neighborhood, would welcome as one of their own the “nipper” who had frequently stopped to admire their fire engine on his way home from school, or gulp a cool drink of water following his early summer exploits on the nearby Little League diamond. On the minus side, Skip would be scrutinized much more thoroughly than any other “probie” engine driver. If he should rev it too high and grind the gears, release the clutch too quickly and stall, pull the wrong lever and flood the entire cargo bed—-there were a thousand perverse possibilities—-it would be hard to convince his childhood heroes that he was finally ready to take his place beside them. And it wouldn’t stop with them. When he got home, he’d likely find a small delegation of concerned neighbors waiting on the front porch for his side of the story. News of this sort traveled quickly in North End, especially when it came from Number Five. On his way upstairs to the kitchen where day duty normally began, Skip felt his burden grow heavier with each creaky step. He’d dared to hope the company would be out on a “worker” when he arrived. It would have been a blessing to pass the entire morning toiling on the apparatus

floor, washing, drying, and reloading heavy fire hose. But Engine Five was in place; he could hear laughter—-growing laughter—-as he neared the top, and he knew he was doomed. There would be no escape, no way to avoid the Kitchen Inquisition—a prospect he dreaded a great deal more than the heat of any blaze. His torture session began innocently enough with departing firefighters providing a summary of the night for their cross-shifters, morphed to a brief discussion of the new day’s headlines, and re-morphed to a spirited flare-up of a perpetual fire service debate over the most effective hose bed configuration. It always came down to one’s professional opinion, something Skip shouldn’t have to worry about defending here at Number Five for at least another decade. They were ignoring him. So far, so good. As a second pot of dark roast gurgled full and conversation settled to a simmer, topics ranged from the fire department itself, with emphasis on the generally accepted notion that it was much better in the old days, to the inevitable—Skip’s family tree. Once the floodgates opened, stories began to flow as freely as the coffee. “No, no, no guys. You got that all wrong,” Skip finally interrupted as emphatically as he dared. “It wasn’t my Uncle Ziggy who tipped all those shitters . . . it had to be somebody else, ‘cause he was away in the Army when that happened.” It had actually been Great Uncle Ziggy who, following a great North End wedding, single-handedly vanquished more than a dozen neighborhood privies to win a bet almost a half-century before, while on leave from Fort Dix. Yes, Skip was fibbing, but memories of the event in question were a

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trifle fuzzy and his contradiction went unchallenged. Employing standard North End thrustand-parry conversational skills he’d acquired over the years; Skip survived the second round of coffee, and a third, with his self-esteem intact. Had they gone easy on him? Perhaps, but he preferred to believe he’d been severely tested and earned himself at least a draw. In any case, the first, and maybe the worst part of his fledge day was over. It was time to begin checking equipment, and he felt much better lumbering down the main stairway than he had tiptoeing up, stomping all the way like a twenty-year man, the old oak treads squealing in protest as he passed. Skip had no trouble zipping through the pre-operational checklist under Captain Kopchek’s steady gaze. He’d been prudent enough to prepare for this critical performance by visiting the station on a day off, when Kopchek and his men were absent, to reconnoiter Engine Five’s bewildering array of switches, dials, gauges, and levers. Housework would be next, with a training session and lunch break to follow—routine activities at every firehouse, including Number Five, and no big deal for Skip. Accompanied by the steady hiss and bang of the station’s steam heat orchestra, he waltzed through his share of dusting, sweeping, mopping, and polishing without a snag. There had even been a brief moment of distinction when Freddie the ladder truck driver admonished him to go easier with the mop or he’d wear out the last remaining squares of green linoleum, and someone else yelled, “Yeah, Rookie . . . don’t kill the job!” This was good stuff—ear music—Skip’s

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first real indication the day might be turning his way. He was, in fact, scoring a little respect—something every new man wants like a goldfish on the parlor floor wants his bowl of water. Naturally, he wanted more. Kopchek’s schedule called for a full review of basic fire service rope techniques, a no-brainer for Skip. His clove hitch, sheepshank, and chimney knot—mastered a few weeks prior at the State Fire Academy— were cheerfully approved by all hands. His bowline fared better still, garnering a low whistle and nod of recognition from “Old Chief,” a retired US Navy petty officer who occasionally dropped by to kill time with the men of Number Five. By now Skip’s confidence should have been growing geometrically, but he felt the morning’s gain begin to ooze away instead. It was almost noon and no fire alarms had come in. Engine Five hadn’t moved an inch since he’d pulled the shiny Ward LaFrance outside to check the pump several hours before. True, everything was going swell, but how long would it last? He’d heard other firefighters, even experienced guys, described as “okay until the bell rings” and would rather fall through a burned-out floor than acquire that label himself. Once you get a rep for anything in the fire service—anything at all—it sticks to you the way hot tar sticks to the top of your helmet. You can always scrape away the goo when it hardens, but the dark stain, alas, is permanent. Skip’s former Little League coach, “Wrong Way” Whalen, was a perfect example. A fire department driver who’d recently retired out of Ladder Six, Coach Whalen should have turned left one night about thirty years past but turned right instead,

earning himself a moniker that dogged the remainder of his firefighting days and his athletic endeavors as well. Wrong Way’s teams never came close to a .500 season, and his more questionable coaching decisions were frequently met with a chorus of “Wrong Way, Wrong Way!” from directly behind his own dugout. It got downright ugly when the fans began to call his son, pitcher/catcher/first baseman Francis P. Whalen III, “Wrong Way Junior” after he beaned a batter or muffed a hot grounder, as he often did. Junior’s schoolwork suffered for it, too. There were others. Karl “Eagle Eye” Keck, a totally brave but extremely myopic nozzleman who donned his air mask one day and ran smack into the side of a building on fire missing the doorway completely, knocked back to the sidewalk arms and legs flailing the air like a turtle flipped on its shell—”Eagle Eye” from that moment on when he finally made Captain, it was “Captain Eagle Eye.” To his wife, affectionately, “Eagie.” Then there was Frank “Noodles” Pinkowski, who burned a pot of durum semolina extra wides his first week on the job—”Noodles” for the next twenty-five years. “Noodles” on his bowling shirt. “Noodles” till the end of time. And there were more, so many that the younger firefighters knew only a handful of their older counterparts by proper name. Skip hoped the men wouldn’t notice his growing distress and so he didn’t follow them upstairs for cream of asparagus soup. Instead, he spent a hungry half-hour pacing the apparatus floor, checking and re-checking the large city map, mentally reviewing all the steps necessary to get water through the pump quickly: wrap the hydrant twice,

drop the plug wrench . . . drive slowly so the hose lays straight . . . pull past the fire one length . . . stop smoothly, set the brake, shift to neutral hit the power takeoff, watch the indicator light; shift to 5th . . . rev it up, block the wheel . . . pull the tank-to-pump valve . . . check the tach again, hook up the supply line, signal for water, crack the gate valve . . . charge the attack line . . . throttle up. After lunch, the city suddenly remembered it had a fire department. What had been an unusually calm morning gave way to a very busy afternoon, except for Engine Five and Skip. Engine Three led off with a vehicle fire. Shortly, Engine Nine was sent to a brush fire. Next, Engines One, Two, Seven, Ladder Six, and Medic Three were dispatched to a fully involved structure fire “with possible entrapment.” Engine Four was special—called to the same fire minutes later, only to be diverted in-route to cover an accident with injuries. On it went. With each alarm, the great cosmic wheel spun ever closer to Engine Five and Skip, then seemed to pass them by when Engine Nine was sent to a cardiac arrest on a street near Five’s company district. “That should have been ours! It should have been ours!” Skip fairly screamed to himself in a fit of adrenalin-stoked bravado. Captain Kopchek urged him to stop pacing, take a deep breath, get out of his gear, and have a seat in one of their Jurassic armchairs. Days of Our Lives was about to start on the old RCA Victor color console and the smoke-eaters of Number Five Engine Company were dedicated soap opera buffs despite a somewhat erratic viewing schedule. At 3:34 p.m., near quitting time, Skip

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finally got his call. It wasn’t a raging inferno, an accident with injuries, a hazardous material spill, or even a cat-in-tree. Unfortunately, it wasn’t anything Skip had anticipated and developed a plan for. And, it wasn’t preceded by the usual tone alert, klaxon horn, and single, galvanizing “Brrrring” of Number Five’s red dispatch phone. It came in through the station’s private line—a request for assistance from the McMurty sisters, who lived next door. Agnes and Millie McMurty, twin octogenarians, had spent their entire lives in the little white house with the white picket fence tucked into the shadow of Number Five Engine Company. During World War II, Agnes, who was slightly more adventuresome, enlisted in the WAVES while Millie remained behind to care for their ailing parents. When the war was over, Agnes returned to North End and found work at a nearby hospital Neither sister married, nor even dated as far as anyone could tell, though there was some talk about Agnes. According to rumor, she’d had a brief fling with a young firefighter who was killed in Korea soon afterwards. But anyone with first-hand knowledge of that liaison had long since retired from the department. Relations between the McMurtry’s and the men of Number Five grew steadily more symbiotic over the years. Millie was a terrific cook. She’d send over roast turkey on Thanksgiving, ham at Christmas, a ring of kielbasa and pierogi for Easter, and fresh apple pie in season. All that, and the occasional soup du jour—varied in flavor and content, always tasty and invigorating. Agnes didn’t cook much, but spent long hours perched on a window seat overlook-

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ing the station, watching when Engine Five went out on a run and reporting suspicious events to the police. In return, firefighters tended the McMurtry’s garden, stoked their furnace, hauled their ashes, shoveled their walk in the winter, painted their porch every other summer, cut the grass, and routinely changed the oil in an old DeSoto the sisters never used. So, it wasn’t unusual for “the girls” to be calling for assistance that day, or any other day, really. And lately, a day without two or three calls from the McMurtry’s was strange. Kopchek answered, “Uh-huh . . . l see . . . aha . . . hmmmn . . .sure, Aggie, I’ll send a man right over.” Motioning for Skip, he explained to the wide eyed, panting rookie that Mille McMurty had slipped out of her rocking chair. She was perfectly fine, but needed help getting up off the floor and back into her seat. “Think you can handle it?” Kopchek inquired in a solemn tone, frilly aware that Number Five’s newest stalwart was practically foaming at the mouth for any opportunity to demonstrate his grace under the gun. “Sure, Cap—Nooo problemo” blurted Skip. He tried to appear nonchalant strolling across the apparatus floor to the side entrance, though he truly wanted to run full tilt. “Give us a holler if you need a hand!” Kopchek barked, wondering if he’d been heard over the din of the massive, varnish-laden door slamming shut. “I can ace this one myself, thank you,” muttered Skip, as he vaulted over the white picket fence. “And if I can’t . . .” he concluded, landing in the middle of McMurtry’s pea patch, “no way I’ m ever working at Number Five again.”

In a few minutes he returned, beaming. “How’d it go, Skip?” Kopchek queried, one thick, gray eyebrow slightly arched. “Like I said, ‘Cap—negative perspiration.” The bounce in his step and the expression he wore would have convinced anyone he’d just saved the city from a disaster akin to the Great Chicago Fire, and what timing! It was almost four o’clock. His relief driver should he arriving momentarily, and Skip would soon be heading home—mission accomplished and dragon repulsed— trailing clouds of glory on his way. As he climbed aboard the fire engine to retrieve his turnout gear, Skip was so pleased with himself and so preoccupied thinking about how he might describe his special day, with certain embellishments, to an admiring audience of family, friends, and :neighbors, that he didn’t hear the private phone ring. “Number Five, Kopchek speaking.” “Captain, it’s Agnes McMurty again.” “Yes, Aggie?” “We still need your help, I’m afraid.” “Oh? You Do? What is it now?”

“Mildred was watching television before, when she slipped. That nice young man you sent us got her up alright, and she’s fine, Captain. But he pointed her chair in the wrong direction. Now she’s facing the pantry and can’t see her programs.” “Uh-huh, Uh-huh . . . UH -HUH.” “Captain.” “Yes, Agnes.” “Please tell your new fireman to get back here pronto and tum my sister around. Thank you, Captain. Good day, Captain.” “SKIIIIIP!” bellowed Kopchek through the faintest hint of a smile as he cradled the receiver, “FRRRRONT AND CENTER ON THE DOUBLE!” Of such deeds, conceived in the eye of the storm and borne on the wing of destiny to every fire station across this broad realm arc great, and very long-lasting fire service legends made. Put another way, by Hamlet, “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.” To that, we can only add “Amen.”

Rob Burnside is a retired professional fire service officer who has been writing, primarily poetry, for the past twenty years. This story is heavily influenced by events that occurred in the WilkesBarre Fire Department’s North End (No. 5 Engine Company) during his career. All names are changed. He presently works part-time for a local florist, delivering flowers to the same neighborhoods he served as a firefighter. Today, the No. 5 station is a food broker’s warehouse.

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No Reason for Stars to Burn Blue Paige Gould

I was sitting at the end of the universe, burrowed up in my library as I watched the chaos unfold from outside my window. The stars were burning out in droves, some with a bang that disrupted my reading, others in a fiery passion that caused me to look up and gasp at the awe of it all. I never even noticed some going out. They simply collapsed into themselves and disappeared. There was nothing I could do about it anyway. All I could do was wait for the stars surrounding this system to collapse and take me with it. Everyone else was gone already. There was nowhere left to turn and no home to go back to, not that I could ever go back anyways. I turned the page of a book I had already read for the hundredth time and sipped on a long cold drink as I waited for the inevitable. I contemplated putting on

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some light music but I figured that would ruin the mood, this should be a solemn time, a reflective time. Music would be much too cheerful for the occasion. Suddenly there was a knock on my door. I thought nothing of it until I realized that this was the edge of the universe, the end of time. I thought I was the only thing left, and yet there was somebody knocking at my door. Short little knocks, not pressing at all. They weren’t seeking shelter or it would have been frantic bangs over and over again. No, these were so light that it was almost like the knocker didn’t want me to hear them. I placed my book upside down on the table next to my chair and went to go see what it was. There was no reason to be scared anymore. Even if they were a crazed murderer, it didn’t matter. If they killed me they’d only

be ending my existence maybe a few hours or days before the universe did. When I opened the door I didn’t find a murderer. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking at. They definitely weren’t from my home planet. I doubted they were even from my local star system. “Hello there,” I greeted, unsure if they could even understand that language I was speaking. They didn’t respond, they just stared at me as if they were completely shocked to see another living being standing in front of them. I waited for them to say something, but when they didn’t even react I simply smiled and went to close the door. I was really hoping to finish my book before I’d never have the chance to again. “Hello.” “Would you like to come in?” I asked, unsure of how to proceed. They clearly understood what I was saying, but I wasn’t sure what kind of being they were. Were they conscious? Were they intelligent? Did it matter? “I’ve got snacks inside.” They nodded and made their way into my more than humble living space. Oddly enough at the edge of the universe, there aren’t too many building materials to make a home and library with. It was two rooms, one with a small kitchen and a bed. The other room filled from top to bottom with hundreds of books. Every wall was covered save for the large window across from my chair so I could look out at the space in front of me. I grabbed a chair from the kitchen and brought it into the library. I gestured for them to join me and we just sat in awkward silence until a star very loudly imploded, releasing a vibrant color display in the not too distant space. “There goes another one,” they remarked

“Won’t be too long until it comes to us. I say we have a few hours. A day at best.” They hung their head solemnly and muttered some kind of phrase under their breath “I’m not sure praying will do anything now.” “I’m not praying, I’m calculating.” “Oh, well carry on then. I just gave you a rough estimate but be my guest if you want to count it down to the minute,” I joked, but they didn’t laugh. “So what’s your name?” “B. Or at least that’s what I’ve been going by since-” “Since . . . when?” “Well, since I had to leave my planet.” “Hey, me too! What happened to you?” “Less so what happened to me, more so what happened to my people while I was gone. I knew I should never have left. It was a dumb trip anyway to sell some paintings and make some extra money to bring home, but when I got back there was nobody left to come home to.” I wrung my hands in my lap, “Oh, I’m sorry. What happened to them?” “An invasion. No, a massacre. Everyone gone in a blink of an eye over some stupid rocks that we didn’t exploit for profit at a rate that pleased them. We knew they were dangerous, but I never thought they were that powerful. So I’ve been on my own ever since, selling my art to get from planet to planet. It hurt too much to stay close. I’ve just been running away from it for years now . . . on my own.” B turned their head toward me and remarked, “I can see a sadness inside of you. I can see regret. You’ve done something you regret.” I laughed, “There are lots of things I’ve done in life that I regret, B. That’s just part of living.”

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“This is a different kind of regret though. You did something. I just can’t see what.” “What, can you read my mind or something?” “No, but I can see into your being. You made a mistake and you were sent away from your home.” “I wasn’t sent away!” I defended myself, “I left, okay? I was the one who left.” “Oh, and you’re young too. Years and years younger than me. Goodness, you are basically a child, maybe just slightly older than mine before the invasion.” “You had children?” “One, my pride and joy, they were going to follow in my footsteps and become an artist. We were going to travel the galaxy together.” “Were your people the creative type?” “Some of us. Much like every race, there are artists, thinkers, leaders. We were very peaceful though. That’s how we were so easily killed. I heard from the bragging victors how our people welcomed them with open arms before they began the killing. No mercy.” “Wait, you’ve met the people that did that?” I almost leaped up from my seat “A couple of times. I had dinner with one of their generals.” “And you didn’t try to get revenge?” “What would be the point?” B shrugged, “Hurting them wouldn’t bring my people back. It wouldn’t bring back my child. Of course, I wish I could go back and change things, just how I know you’d also give anything to have a second chance.” I covered my stomach with my arms, “Stop ‘reading my being,’ I don’t want to think about that stuff before I die. I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about it in general.” “That’s a lie.”

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“Truth or lie, it doesn’t matter anymore!” I huffed “None of this matters anymore because in a matter of time we aren’t going to be anything. Not atoms, not dust. We’re just going to stop being. Everything will, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, B, but this is the end of the universe.” “The end of ours,” they corrected “What?” “It’s the end of our universe.” “My universe, your universe. Whatever you want to call it.” “You sound so hostile, like a child who isn’t getting their way.” “I’ll have you know that I was considered fully grown where I come from.” “Fully grown, but still so young. A punishment meant for an adult given to someone who was comparable to a baby taking their first uneven steps.” “I said I didn’t want to think of that stuff right now. You know, you’ve really messed up the whole mood I had going. I was having a pleasant evening but now you’ve shown up and you’re trying to make me think about stuff that I’d rather forget.” “You don’t need to feel bad about it anymore. I’m sure they’ve forgiven you.” “You have no idea what you’re talking about. They would never have forgiven me. They probably died hating me.” I can assure you their last thoughts weren’t about you. It was probably more along the lines of praying they somehow survive or saying goodbye to loved ones.” “That somehow brings me both great comfort and insults me,” I laughed. “I had a family there too. Parents and siblings. Even though they didn’t forgive me for what happened, I’d like to hope that they thought about me one last time before they died.”

“So you do want to talk about it?” “I’m only talking about it because you keep bringing it up! Tell you what, I’ll tell you one thing about me if it stops you from looking in my soul or whatever. It’s kind of creepy.” “Well, I suppose if we’re going to be at the end of the universe together, I’d like to know what to call you.” “What, you can’t see that with your magic eye?” I teased. “Well, if I call you B, why don’t you call me A.” “A and B at the end of the universe,” they replied “Now what we have that squared away, can we get back to reading? I’ve been meaning to finish this book for ages now.” For a little while, neither of us said anything until another loud boom drew me away from the words in my book. The house shook, the air in the room grew warm, almost burning my skin. It was getting very close now. A knot formed in my stomach, I had hoped it would be a black hole or something gentle that took me. I didn’t want to die in a fiery explosion. Something resting on my hand, I looked down at it I could see B gently stroking the back of my hand as if they were trying to tell me it was going to be alright. Everything wasn’t going to be alright. This was literally the end. Panic flooded my body as I thought back on how I’d wasted my last remaining days and hours, and how nothing ever was going to matter anymore. But it wasn’t just the last couple of days. I had wasted my entire life. I should have just faced the consequences of what I did and then I wouldn’t have had to die alone with some random alien that showed up at my doorstep.

Everything I ever did was wrong. My family knew it. The council knew it. I was just a waste of space. Maybe this was a good thing, if it’s all over my mistakes don’t matter anymore because there was nobody left to judge me. “That’s a nice way to think of things, A, really depressing.” “What did I tell you earlier about not reading my mind or whatever?” “Yeah, but it’s extremely boring not having someone to talk to, and I’d rather stop wasting time before we start setting up the next one.” “The next what?” “The next universe,” B as if it was the most logical thing to ever be thought of, “The one after this one collapses.” “In this short amount of time I’ve known you, this is the thing that has made the least amount of sense.” I shook my head at them as another star exploded, “The universe is ending. Period, end of sentence. We’re done.” “Yeah, but this doesn’t have to be the end of everything.” “What do you mean?” “Well, we can’t change what’s happening to this one, but maybe we can set up the next one. We know everything that our civilizations ever knew. I mean I think with all these books you’ve had plenty of time to learn. I assume you know the basics of the universe and how it was made.” “I suppose...” “We could do whatever we wanted, make it however we want.” “We could make it perfect,” I lamented. “If that’s what you want. Go on then grab a piece of paper let’s map this all out.” I went over to my desk and grabbed a pen and a few sheets of paper before

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returning to our chairs, “How do you know this is going to work?” “I have no idea if this will work or not, but I don’t think you have anything better to do.” It was a fair point. Even if this was nothing more than writing some ideas down on a piece of paper that would eventually be burned up with us along with it, it would keep my mind off of the past. “Alright, where shall we start?” It took a few minutes to get started, trying to figure out the physics and the nature of it all. I definitely took the lead when it came to coming up with the organization. I thought it would be very funny to base everything on subatomic particles called quarks but everything in this universe would be perfect. Everything lined up neatly from the most complex to the simplest parts of creation, symmetry and rules that could not be broken. There would be no room for error because I would make sure errors couldn’t exist. Planets would form after eons and there would be millions and millions of radiant stars illuminating the black nothingness of space. I made the rules for math, and physics, and chemistry. When I was done I turned and showed my plan to B. They took it in their hand and glanced over it quickly. I was beaming but their face turned into a frown. “What’s the matter?” I questioned. “I did everything exactly right.” “That’s the problem, A it’s so boring! You’ve made everything so easy.” “Easy! This is a masterpiece of all the science my people ever knew.” “Yeah, but you’ve made life too easy for whatever creatures are going to emerge. Look here,” B pointed at one section.

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“You’ve made life meaningless. Everything is abundant. They’ll have no reason to survive. Do you even want intelligent life to emerge from this all?” “I made intelligent life!” “Okay, but they won’t be conscious like us. Do you even know how we got to be how we are? We had to struggle. We had to work for what we wanted in life. You can’t have that without making it difficult.” “Well, then how would you make it?” “For starters, we need to add a lot more chaos. We need to make things weird enough that whatever comes next is curious about it. Like make some really funny looking trees or have all the stars burn white except one that burns...I don’t know purple or blue or something weird like that.” “But what’s the purpose of that? Everything that I wrote makes sense there’s no reason for a star to burn blue.” “Wonder!” they replied. “When you were small wasn’t there always something in the world that touched something in your core? Drove you to be the person you are?” “I guess.” “Then why deny that for whoever comes next? Let’s make food taste nice, except for some foods, but they’ll eat it anyway. And here we can have pain and wars and strife, but we’ll give them family and joy. Something to fight for! We don’t want them to be passive fools.” I went to put a comforting hand on their shoulder but they just kept working. Adding wonder after wonder to our new creation. “We’ll have to hide the meaning of it all, make it something they have to search for and be really clever for them to find.”

“And what exactly is the meaning of it all?” I asked with a laugh. “It’s a secret.” “To me? B, we’re going to die soon anyway why don’t you just tell me?” They pulled the paper away from me and wrote something I couldn’t read. When they seemed satisfied, they placed the document face down, out of sight. Around us the stars were disappearing quicker and closer, shaking the rock I resided on. It would be very soon now. The lights went out in my house and the books began flying off my shelf and onto the ground. “I’m scared, B,” I whispered. “Is it going to hurt?” They pulled us both to the floor and en-

veloped me in a tight hug, “I know a lot of things, A, but I don’t know if dying hurts.” I rested my head in their chest, listening to their heart beating slowly. They weren’t scared. They weren’t shaking like me as each thunderous boom got closer and closer. I wished I could be like them. The last star around us began to burn. I closed my eyes and held tighter onto B and they held onto me as a lifeline. I could feel heat pricking at my skin and I knew this was it. The heat became unbearable and I wanted it to just stop. I couldn’t feel anything anymore but the burning. “Goodbye, B,” I whispered, unsure if they heard me or if they were already gone. Suddenly everything was cold and I could see a bright light at the end of it all.

Paige Gould is a sophomore in the Physician Assistant program with a minor in creative writing.She is the VicePresident of the King’s college GSA. At one point she was a published child-poet and fears those two poems will become her legacy.

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Gourmet, Part I Pat Corcoran

2477 A.D. - Cylindrical MegaDomicile™ “ALEMSO,” 38.0300° N, 107.3153° W As far back as I can remember, it never really bothered me. I think that’s by design. It was never made into a spectacle, never something that was worth thinking twice about; it’s just “how things go.” The intent is surely for everyone to safely make it to their deaths— in their beds, at the trough, or otherwise —and never pay it too much mind. That’s what they’re counting on. To be honest, I think we’re sort of counting on it, too. It’s a comfortable misery. But lately, it’s been...for lack of a better term, eating away at me. I know others have had these same kinds of thoughts. At least, I think so. You hear rumblings throughout the can: rumors of people who may have suggested that this isn’t normal. All it takes is one mistake. Make those thoughts known to the wrong person? At best, ostracization. At worst, an

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unscheduled midnight visit from a couple of masked Flanks. One minute you’re in your bed...the next, you’re in the nearest trough. See, eating people wouldn’t bug me so much if I didn’t know that it used to be a much less popular option. In fact, to my admittedly limited understanding, it was rather frowned upon. I, and I would assume most others, had just been brought up under the belief that this was the natural order of things. A few weeks ago, I sort of accidentally found out that this is not the case. I guess ignorance really is bliss, because I almost wish I’d never stumbled onto the truth. Haven’t been sleeping well ever since. I’ve been eating even worse. If I had to pick one thing to blame my ordeal on, it would be seasonal decorations. I reckon it was not last Buysday, but the Buysday before that, I was helping Mom move the furniture in our Container™ to decorate for Fallautumn. We’d only been in this new

unit for a few weeks, but Mom wasn’t missing a beat; new decorations on the first day of each season, like clockwork. A brief aside, but even prior to all this, I’d always found the seasons to be kind of a sham. We’d learned in school that back before the Great Cessation, the calendar year was divided up into four seasons. Problem is, they were supposedly all characterized by changes to how things looked and felt Outside— which everyone is keenly unfamiliar with, lest they risk shriveling their lungs. Government-funded scientists and prologogists (I think some time in the 2360s) did their best to piece together what they could out of the few scratched-up and semi-corrupted artifacts they had. They managed to uncover what the seasons were called: Fallautumn, Winter, Spring, and Consummer, and they were able to surmise approximately how long each one lasted, but they were much more certain about what they represented. Consummer was assuredly marked by “the ethical and dutiful exercising of purchasing power.” Whenever Consummer rolled around, people were especially eager to spend their points on whatever they could get their hands on; it was, in fact, considered an honor, and it’s a tradition we uphold even in the cans today. Any prologogist worth their title subscribes to the view that Consummer is 49 weeks of each year, followed by Fallautumn, Winter, and Spring. What’s frustrating is that the other three seasons are hardly an occasion worth decorating for. Fallautumn in the cans is practically identical to Consummer; the only thing that’s different is that products are all themed around punkkids, which I guess were these plastic orange globes that people would buy and deface beyond recogni-

tion. Then they’d display them outside their Containers™, so neighbors could compete with each other to show who hated their punkkid the most. And y’know what, I may not fully understand the world I’m living in, but I’m fairly confident I understand the pre-GC world even less. But what I understand the absolute least is the act of putting up decorations for a season that lasts seven days. Not to mention the risk of forgetting to take them down before Winter starts and incurring an erroneous festivity fine. But Mom— especially after Dad “disappeared,” —has really bought into the seasons. Literally and figuratively. So time and time again, she insists on rearranging the Container™ to reflect each one. *** “Dear, would you take the jersey off the wall for me? And look in that bin there and grab the punkkid wall clock,” my mother said while cleaning off the countertop. I stared into the bin of orange knickknacks and their disfigured faces stared back at me. “Which one,” I said, my tone a mixture of exhausted and hypnotized. “Ohh, you know the one,” she said, as if it were obvious. “The sassy one, with the— ehhh, I don’t know— I think its tongue is sticking out.” I rummaged through the bin, displacing several punkkid-themed wall clocks before finding the correct one: the one that would have its week in the limelight before returning to its rightful place amongst its dusty, gaudy brethren, each with its own goofy and ugly visage. I do so detest punkkids. But the other Fallautumn mainstay is, oddly enough, people bones, which some stores like to display

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in their front windows. Any other time of year, they’re leftovers, but for one week, it’s decor. Given recent revelations, I have to begrudgingly prefer punkkids, but it’s a game of inches. I stood up fully after a few minutes of crouch-hunching over the bin, resulting in a pleasant criiick noise, courtesy of my knees. Probably not the sounds you’d want a 19-year-old body to be making, especially considering I’ve seen older classmates troughed for lesser deficiencies. Best to keep these lovely biological noises under wraps. I moved over to our north living room wall and took down the bright red ALEMSO Primals™ jersey and swapped it with the wall clock, whereupon it began its countdown to its own removal and replacement. Secretly, I’ve never really been a Primals™ fan, mostly because I have no idea what they do. They’re the only sports team in the can, and since only products move between cans— never people —they have a record of 0 wins, 0 losses. Nobody knows what a game looks like; they can’t even broadcast practice sessions on sphere because no one really has a grasp on what exactly they’d be practicing for. I’m not entirely sure why they exist. I think they might just be a group of guys wearing red jerseys. But, everyone has their favorite player. A similar Song™ and Dance™ ensued for the rest of our Container’s™ furnishings; a few hours elapsed as the Fallautumn storage bins gradually emptied, their contents plastered about our home. My mother had moved upstairs to readjust the bedrooms and hallway as I dealt with the remaining first floor decor. After I finished adorning every nook and cranny of the kitchen with season-appro-

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priate baubles, I picked up an empty bin to take it back to our upstairs storage closet. Or rather, I thought it was empty. As I lifted the bin, I felt a semi-considerable weight to it. In the moment, I thought it somewhat odd, but nonetheless, I made my way up the stairs. While making my ascent, I guess I misjudged the height of each step, or maybe I was simply not paying attention. Regardless, I lost my balance, and in an attempt to reclaim it, I gripped the bannister to my right as my knee thrust upwards into the bin. I managed to avoid falling down the stairs, and fell down the rabbit hole instead; the force from my rebalancing efforts dislodged something in the bin— a false bottom of some sort. As I resumed my climb, I peered into the space between the side of the bin and the lifted piece of shelving and saw some worn papers. It was the name written in the corner of one of the sheets that really caught my eye, though: Braelyndyn Flank, my late father. My heart sort of skipped a beat; my initial thought was that these were just some old legal documents, but I knew very well that Mom kept any and all paperwork downstairs in one of the kitchen cupboards. I had a feeling that she wasn’t even aware of these. I diverted course to my room, pausing before passing Mom’s . . . sounded like she was enraptured by what I think was a new OffalBarn™ ad on sphere: One son per person; buy one person for a sum of two persons— the original person and the person’s son! “Ooh, go get my purse, son,” she yelled from her room. I made some sort of affirmative noise as I slipped past her doorway and into my room, stowing the bin under my bed.

*** Fuck. I really should have figured. I had long ago given up on ever seeing my dad again, but I guess I’d been keeping my mind occupied with cheerier alternatives all these years. We’d been using words like “disappeared” or “vanished” but the can is only so big; where could he have gone? Someone’s fucking plate, that’s where. The stuff I found, the stuff in the bin— it all but confirms it. All kinds of unthinkably old pre-GC things in different mediums, and judging from the other names I found inside, they were passed down directly from grandparents to their children and so on. Loose papers, books, and a couple of ancient formats that I was able to jury-rig to get playing on my bedroom sphere. I must’ve spent the first half hour looking over all of it and thinking it was some sort of joke. I’ve spent my entire life believing it. Because why wouldn’t you? People are naturally eaten by people. That’s just the way it is; it’s what we’re meant for. But then it all became readily apparent. I saw pictures, read descriptions: people eating things that weren’t people or Nullum™. Bonafide, lifelike images of what I thought were made-up creatures from cartoons on sphere. And I mean, I’d seen trees before, it’s one of the few things we have from the Outside, but this went beyond that. All kinds of plants, all of them edible. PUNKKIDS. People made food out of punkkids. They weren’t even plastic to begin with. It’s “pumpkin,” by the way. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that. I spent nearly the entire night flipping through pages, my attention divided between the spread of materials across my bed and the images flashing on my sphere,

which was set to a volume so low I was practically straining to hear anything. I sincerely lost count of the different things people ate. It was well into the 500s, and I wasn’t even halfway through the bin. Very quickly, I came to understand that back before people were moved into the cans, not only did they not eat each other, but it was actively discouraged. People used to write fiction about it, like it was some kind of unthinkable act. I watched this video called Soylent Green, and that was the big twist to it all, that their food was people. The oldest dated thing in the bin was an essay called A Modest Proposal For preventing the Children of Poor People From being a Burthen to Their Parents or Country, and For making them Beneficial to the Publick, written by a guy named Jonathan Swift: just about the funkiest name for a person I’d ever seen. (Which reminds me, none of the names I saw inside the bin—besides those I assume belonged to my direct ancestors —had a designation. No Offals, no Flanks, no Primes.) A thousand years ago, the mere idea of eating people was, at most, used as some sort of dark, sardonic solution to a problem I can’t even wrap my head around. How in the hell did anyone ever go hungry when there was that much stuff to eat back then? The more I watched and read, the more upset my stomach became. I threw up on two occasions throughout the night, and as my stomach emptied, it was filling up with something even harder to keep down: hatred. A thick, dense, red hatred, for everything, for the situation, for anyone who was complicit in this devolution after humanity was moved into the cans. Hatred for my father, for having all of this junk and undoubt-

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edly letting it slip and getting troughed for it. Hatred for myself, for quite literally stumbling into this and having to live with the information. All of this hatred and nothing to realistically point it toward. What I lack in agency, I make up for in gut rot. *** I made my way downstairs after what was, at most, five minutes of sleep. My grogginess was quickly replaced by dread as a single word bounced around in my brain: breakfast. I slowed my descent down the stairs as I could hear Mom bustling about in the kitchen; I started running through excuses I could use. Late for class? Hardly. Classes start later on Gulsdays. I entertained the idea of claiming I had a stomach ache, which wasn’t necessarily untrue. But I had experienced a genuine headache a few days prior, and I wasn’t entirely sold on the prospect of being treated for another ailment so soon; two deficiencies halfway into the month is not where you want to be. Could I possibly just choke this down? What’s one more pair of hands or thigh cutlets after a lifetime of eating folks? Forget the food; what about Mom? Does she even know why Dad is actually gone? Does she have any idea about the bin? For the first time in my life, I had less than 100% trust in her. As I turned the corner into the kitchen, I realized I hadn’t actually settled on a plan, instead banking on the slightest possibility, the slimmest chance, that maybe she had gone through the last of the leftovers and— it was Nullum™. Thank God™, it was Nullum™. The only other option in the can, the option that I loathed from birth up until 10:30 last night. A tasteless, gray paste that comes in an even grayer cylinder, about the height and width of my clenched fist. I’d always liked to imagine that the Nullum™ cans are what

21 • The Scop • Spring 2020

the big cans— the Cylindrical MegaDomiciles™ —looked like from the outside, just scaled up times a billion. I would throw fits as a child whenever I saw one of these canisters get pulled out from a cupboard. Absolutely no one enjoys it; one of the few memories I have of Dad is him yelling into the kitchen from the living room as Mom fussed over me during dinnertime. “Nobody likes it, shitdamn it, you learn to put up with it!” Which takes on an entirely new meaning now. Mom would always put it more gently: “It has everything a growing Flank needs.” And yes, the labeling on the side of the can includes roughly half of the English language, but forgive me for being skeptical of its veracity in light of my “research” the night before. It must genuinely have at least some nutritional value, since Nullum™ has been on the menu just as often (if not more often, at this rate) than people, and I’ve made it this far. I actually have very little worry that Nullum™ is just another method of delivering people to people, because, well...the taste. Even despite all of this lamenting and bewailing and vomiting, I can’t deny that I’d always looked forward to people night, because it’s damn delicious. If Nullum™ was just watered-down people, I think I’d be able to sniff, or rather, taste it out. In fact, I even believe the story behind why this stuff even exists; it was created in the event of population shortage, but sometime after the GC, it came to be mass produced for families who can’t afford people for one reason or another. Regardless, I’ve never had any interest in knowing exactly what Nullum™ is, and I want to know even less now, because if I don’t like the answer, I am going to starve. I sighed as I took my seat at the table,

and my mother must have mistaken it as a noise of contempt instead of exhaustion (or relief). “I know, I know,” she said with her back faced to me as she wiped down the cupboards. “I thought the man was gonna last us longer— that’s my bad. Was up late last night and helped myself to a little bit. Thought it wasn’t much, but I checked this morning and there really wasn’t anything good left.” Why was she up late? She knows. Does she know? Was my sphere too loud; did she hear it and recognize the videos? Would she recognize them if she heard them? No, she can’t possibly know. Who could keep eating it after knowing? She probably just couldn’t fall asleep. “S’alright, ma,” I said, eagerly peeling open the Nullum™ can as if it was the only sustenance I would be able to stomach from this day forward(!) “You know how it’s been; points are tight. Might have to be a once-a-week thing for a little while, maybe just women or kids, ‘least till this downturn blows over,” she said. I can’t say the notion of only purchasing women and children is exactly a comforting one, but one person a week is a step in the preferable direction. What am I even talking about? What is the end game here? Eat Nullum™ until I die and then get eaten myself? Ideally, I would like to throw everyone responsible for the historical erasure into a black hole. I’m not sure how one person with a dusty bin of illegal antiques can make that happen. One step at a time. Mom spoke again, startling me out of my inner monologue: “If you’d rather, there might be a can or two of punkkid-spice Nullum™ in the cabinet.” Punkkid-spice Nullum™ is exactly the same as regular Nullum™, but orange.

“I’m good,” I said. As I dug into my Nullum™ and made even blander smalltalk with Mom, the sounds of a political ad which I had heard dozens of times before assaulted my ears by way of the kitchen sphere. It’s the same old Premiere Preservationist Party (PPP) ad, because God™ forbid we go a day without it. I’m not super invested in politics, but at this point in the election cycle, I’ve got ads from both sides memorized through involuntary osmosis. The major subject of contention this year seems to be reforming protocol regarding Flank underperformance. As it stands, in the event that a Flank is underperforming at his or her occupation, 80 percent of the time, they’re socially downgraded to Offal. The remaining 20 percent of the time, they’re troughed and sold at market for other well-performing Flanks to eat. And within that 20 percent, one underperformer per month is chosen at random and thrown into the Offal portion of the can, whereupon the subsequent Feeding™ is broadcast on sphere. Essentially, PPP wants to decrease Offal Transitionary Rate (OTR) to 75 percent; that’s pretty much their main platform, I think. In contrast, there’s the Primary Perpetuity Party (PPP), which is looking to push OTR down to 72 percent. Naturally, PPP policies are a bit more popular with your average Flank, though you might be surprised by how many self-loathing Flanks there are in this can who take no issue with PPP’s stance at all. “If you’re working hard, why should it matter how low OTR is? You should have nothing to worry about.” That’s one I hear thrown around a lot. Regardless, both PPP and PPP are looking to lower OTR, but one wants it lowered less,

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so I guess that’s...good? Consider me in the PPP camp, if I have to pick. *** What I learned last night has severely shaken my perspective on...everything. On life in the cans, on the tiers, and what it’s all for. If we didn’t always do this, why did we start? I know the Cessation forced us into the cans, but we didn’t bring any of the hundreds and hundreds of foods with us? It takes so much work to keep the can running, and we eat our own workforce. It’s like one of the pictures I saw in the bin— a drawing of a snake, a creature I recognized from sphere, eating its own tail. To what end are we doing it? Where the hell did all the food go? As I made my commute to class alongside the inner ring of Flank Layer Delta, I passed by a pair of Offals, marked by their tan “O” smocks, pushing along a cart of products. I used to feel disgust toward them...fear of them, even. They give you some reason to, but it’s basically taught. Well, it’s not outright said, but it might as well be. It’s surely no mistake that Offal and “awful” sound identical when said aloud. But now, I mostly feel bad for them. Angry for them. An entire tier of people born and grown to be dinner. My gaze lingered on the face of the leftmost Offal pushing the cart, and I couldn’t help but think about his circumstances; had he been born a few hundred years earlier, he could’ve had a life in the Outside, eaten anything he wanted, and probably not have been eaten by his upstairs neighbor long before his number was meant to be up. Instead, he lucked into being an Offal, I guess because that’s what his parents were, and their parents before them. And I know that we’ve just established

23 • The Scop • Spring 2020

the truly heinous and tragic nature of eating people after confirming a long history of not doing that, but I still can’t deny that in the taste department, people beats the hell out of the gray stuff. It’s making me kind of sick to feel pity about it, but Offals don’t even get to eat people, save for the chance that they get a taste of flesh at the Feeding™ every 30 days. I’ve heard that tons of them don’t even attend Feedings™ because you’re more likely to get trampled or beaten than you are to get a piece of the poor Flank bastard who gets thrown down into the Offal Layer. For them, it’s Nullum™ for every meal. It’s their fuel for their labor that keeps the upper layers running, keeping them hearty and healthy so they can be troughed before they hit 25. It’s said that Flanks can work up to Prime, but I’ve never actually met or heard of anyone who’s done that; it’s a very popular storyline on sphere, however. (Though, everyone on sphere is a Prime, even if they’re playing a Flank or an Offal.) But if you have the misfortune of being an Offal in the real world, that’s the end of the road. Can’t go up, can’t go any further down. The cart Offals had continued on past me, their own gazes affixed on the stacks of crates in front of them. I craned my neck as I kept walking to look at them for just a bit longer; I had likely never looked at one— a living one —for more than a few seconds, but I found myself feeling hauntingly enchanted by them this morning. I couldn’t stop thinking about the rot of it all: if I had ever eaten one of their family members, and if that even meant anything to them. The prevailing attitude, at least in ALEMSO, is that Offals should feel proud to feed the higher tiers, and thankful for being given accommodations by the Flanks and

Primes until their time is up. I suppose I had always bought into that, but those notions are melting away; do the Offals believe that too, or are they pretending? Does anyone really believe it? I’ve yet to meet a Flank who’s eager to screw up at work so he can pack his bags for his move into either the Offal Layer or my stomach. *** Naturally, I’ve found it difficult to concentrate in any of my classes because (1) my mind is a bit preoccupied and (2) I’ve surmised that whatever we’re being taught is likely complete offalshit anyway. My economics class ended as quickly as it began, the room emptied, and the mad dash for the cafeteria ensued. If a livestream of these hallways was broadcast on sphere every day, you might mistake it for an actual Feeding™. Granted, the people who get to the dispensers the earliest usually get the better cuts of meat, but I’ve been as early as 3rd or 4th and still gotten some pretty mediocre servings. I assume the school gets a few Offals each day, but the rest of the lunching supply likely consists of older and less tasteful Flanks. I’d spent years being mad about students getting the short end of the stick, but this inadequacy is going to come in handy now. I can just claim to be a picky eater if anyone questions why my food has gone untouched; “I only dine on the finest selections, you see!” As planned, I was among the last people to reach the cafeteria dispensers. My meager serving came barreling out of the metal chute and onto my tray. I had never been this purposefully late to the lunch line before, but I don’t think anyone would judge me for not gorging myself on this...frankly unimpressive cut. It must have

literally been from the bottom of the barrel. I wouldn’t call it diseased, since anyone who dies of sickness is jettisoned into the Outside, but I’m guessing this person must have died of old age, judging from the discoloration. I actually found myself hoping that this was a grandpa or grandma Flank who met their natural end; otherwise, they truly died for nothing, because I’m just going to poke at them with my fork until it’s time for my next class. I gripped my tray and turned around to survey the lunch room and find a place to sit. Since I usually arrive much earlier, real estate is normally much easier to come by. By this point in the hour, large groups had already coalesced throughout the cafeteria, each one rowdier than the last...which I found questionable, to say the least. Friendship has always been a tricky thing for me. I’ve had passing acquaintances here and there from classes but never much beyond that; Mom’s always said that you shouldn’t play with what might be your food. If everyone’s moms give that advice, it seems like most people have ignored it, even despite the chance of your friend from sixth period ending up on your plate. I suppose there’s probably a quite small chance of that actually happening, but the fear of having an emotional attachment to my lunch has always kept me at bay. Although, I’d like to think that my people-eating days are entirely behind me, so maybe it’s time to make friends. The perks of a Nullum™-based diet is that I’ll never find myself staring at a mass of gray paste and reminiscing about all the good times we had; only my tastebuds will be crying. After scanning the room for a while, I settled on one of the least populated tables and made my way over. As I approached the table, I recognized someone from a few of

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my classes: Aldaen Flank, a blond boy, about my age, though a good bit skinnier. He’d always been nice enough whenever we’d been assigned to projects together, so I set my tray down next to him and took my seat. We might as well have been complete strangers, though, as his attention was entirely focused on his palmsphere, which he spun through like a machine. I thought about striking up a conversation with him, but I was feeling a bit short on discussion-starters besides “Did you know that everything we hold true is a carefully constructed fabrication and that there are also, like, a million other things that people used to eat?” Negative. I instead resorted to my own palmsphere for companionship. As my edible prop grew cold, I spun through ad after ad, whistling a tune to myself to keep entertained as I waited for PPP or OffalBarn promotions to end. I spun and spun, hardly coming across anything worth more than a few seconds of looking at. As my interest drifted, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Aldaen had stopped spinning too. Probably just as bored as I am with today’s content. But then I realized he wasn’t doing anything at all: not spinning, not eating, not talking to anybody. He was just a static lump in my peripheral vision. I tilted my head up to steal a better view of him and he was looking directly at me.

I blinked a few times in rapid succession, like some sort of defensive reflex, as we stared at each other and I tried to discern what I’d done to so quickly get his attention— and apparently quite effectively too, judging from the intentness in his expression. As I searched my brain for the reason I suddenly became interesting to Aldaen, I realized my lips were still pursed from whis— you idiot! I might as well have stood on the table and announced everything I’d found to the room! The tune. I’d been whistling the music from the opening of Soylent Green this whole time. Between how often I’d replayed the video the night before and my lack of sleep, my brain was running on a failing mixture of fumes and autopilot. I had been involuntarily betraying myself for who knows how many minutes now. I began to stutter as I tried to come up with something, anything to talk about to divert his attention. My attempts came up short and I continued to babble aimlessly as he leaned in toward me; I could practically envision the smooth, sleek surface of the trough in front of me. I could smell the remnants of all who were there before. My throat tightened as he leaned in closer. He looked around the room, lowered his head, and his eyes softened from intense to . . . scared? He said to me, in a low, shaky voice, “You’ve seen it too?” To be continued

Pat Corcoran is a procrastinator who’s gonna get his act together one of these days. King’s College shook Pat loose in May 2019 . . . or so they thought! Now, his unresting and irreverent spirit haunts the pages of the SCOP. Gaze upon his translucent likeness, ye mortals, and feel sufficiently whelmed!

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I Was and I Am Claire Timbrell

Empty Is this what it means to be empty? Refusing to swallow as your ribs become more prominent, to continuously bring the fork to your mouth only to put it back down untouched, listening to the voice inside your head as it makes itself known Are you really empty when your head is filled with doubt and insecurities, creating a checklist of the next part to go as your hand traces each former curve, each bone as you stare yourself down in the mirror Is being empty not caring as the fatigue sets in, as your vision blurs and words slur together, the world blending together into one lasting moment Yeah, that’s being empty

When I was nine my mother was diagnosed with cancer. She fell at work, so they took a scan of her back, simple, routine. What they found, though, wasn’t routine. She had a tumor on her kidney, kidney cancer. It’s a miracle, they said. They found it early, they could fix it, all they had to do was take out her kidney. I wasn’t allowed to see her after the surgery, I was too young. I had sat out in the hallway, playing with the bottom of my shirt as my aunt tried to calm my nerves. She held me, rubbed my arms, sang to me. My sister came out of my mother’s rooms in tears, gasping for air as she shoved me out of my aunt’s arms and took my place instead. I started crying too, unsure of why. My mother was okay, they said, so why was my sister crying? Why was she so scared? I found out for myself why she was scared when my mother finally came home. She was pale and in pain, her stomach

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littered with purple and black bruises. She couldn’t move without crying. I was scared. I hated seeing her like that, but I forced myself to stay with her, to help her when she needed something. That’s what good girls do, my aunt said, they force themselves to do things that are hard. I forced myself to learn how to use the stove for the first time so I could make her food. I forced myself to help her wipe off her wounds because she couldn’t shower. I forced myself to comfort herself when she cried. I forced myself to make her feel safe and calm, even though I was terrified. When I was thirteen years old my aunt died. I had been sitting on the couch watching a cartoon when my mother came rushing down the stairs. She was dressed in pajamas, grey bottoms, I think, with a short sleeved short. Her hair was messy, as if she had been laying down. She kept yelling for my father, begging him to hurry up. I could hear him getting dressed upstairs, cursing as he ran his foot into something, probably his nightstand. Just as my mother had put her shoes on my father arrived at her side, ignoring her completely as he exited the house. Your aunt fell, my mother had spoken quietly, taking a moment to look me in the eyes. The edges of her lips lifted up, but I’m not sure if it was to comfort me or herself. I simply nodded, watching as she made her way outside. She didn’t close the door. She returned within the hour, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t even look at me, just walked to the kitchen and sat down. My father followed behind her, and he gathered my sisters and I on the couch, squished together onto a single cushion. Aunt Karen is gone. She passed away. It was her weight, I heard them whisper.

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Everyone said it. If she had only lost some weight. If she had only taken care of herself. She would be alive. They made it out to be her fault, as if she had done something wrong by not making her body conform to what they thought it should be. My sisters cried. Ellen, my older sister, cried because she knew what had happened, my aunt had died. We would no longer get to listen to her sing us songs upon request or feel her arms around us as she gave us a hug. My younger sister cried too, but I don’t think she really knew what was going on, she was just scared. I didn’t cry as I sat there on the couch. I didn’t cry as my grandmother came in and sat herself in a chair in the corner, holding on to some piece of clothing. My aunt’s, I assumed. I didn’t cry as I walked over to her and hugged her, nor did I cry as she wept. She’s in heaven now. She’s okay now. This is better, she repeated, hands rubbing over the cloth in her hands. I didn’t cry as I made my way upstairs and laid down on my bed. I didn’t cry at her viewing, or at her funeral, or when she was buried. I didn’t cry. Why didn’t I cry? When I was in high school, I was convinced I could be better, be smaller. As I stared into the mirror, I didn’t see my ribs poking through my skin or how the bones of my hips were more prominent than my stomach. I only saw the belly that could be smaller, flatter, the legs that could be thinner, collar bones that could be more prominent. I had shoved my sweater down, tucking it back into the confines of my jeans, and set out back to my friends. My tray was piled high with food, sandwiches, fruits, vegetables, salads, and dessert, yet it rarely met my lips. I pushed the food around with my fork, attempting to focus more on the

conversation being held with my friends than the growling from my stomach, only taking a bite or two when necessary to calm their nerves. I would gulp down two bottles of water, calming my stomach until I got home. When I would get home I easily covered, saying that I had eaten to big of a meal at school, so I wasn’t hungry yet. I would down another glass of water. When my mom started to notice and scolded me, accused me of not taking care of myself, I drank water. I gulped it so quick and fast that I almost threw up, but it worked. As I stepped on the scale the number went up, even if for a moment, and she was happy. She left me alone. When my body became tired and I swayed as I walked, I sat in the kitchen staring at a class of juice, knowing that it would make me feel better, but also make me feel so much worse. I took a sip, then another, dumping the rest into the sink. Water would be better; water would be fine. When I woke up in the middle of the night, my stomach aching and empty, I crawled my way downstairs, sitting on the floor as I drank glass after glass of water, trying to make myself feel full, trying to make myself feel anything. I still don’t feel full. When I was in college my mother broke my heart. I sat on the couch; eyes trained on the TV but not watching. I knew my mother was upstairs, that she was having one of her episodes. I knew that it wasn’t her, at least not completely, it was the cocktail of pills she had taken the day before. She sauntered down the stairs and into the room, sitting down in the chair across from me. Her head turned to me, eyes glassy and fits curled tight. I ignored what she was saying at first, nodding my head

absentmindedly as I kept my focus on the TV. She was angry, of course she was. I was doing a good job of ignoring her, of staying silent, until she said it. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t your mother, that I could just run away. Sometimes I like to think that if people wouldn’t have judged me for it, I would have left a long time ago. I would be happier.” I had known that she felt that way for a long time, for years, but for some reason hearing it was different. I could handle the back-handed comments, the fights, the belittling, the fear. I couldn’t take her voicing those words, making it real. I couldn’t handle her telling me she didn’t want me. I couldn’t handle the fact that I had to take care of her for so long. As I sat there and cried, as I begged her to take it back, as I apologized, she walked away. I couldn’t handle that. As I sat in class trying to write, trying to relive moments in my life that were somehow connected and made me who I am, I learned that I’m not better, not yet. I’m getting there, working on things. I still force myself to do what needs to be done. I finished high school, I went to college. I’m going to classes, working, taking care of my siblings, trying to move forward with my life. I still miss my aunt, every day. I eat more. I work with my nutritionist and make sure that I’m eating what I’m supposed to, that I’m not going to kneel over and die. But I still get scared when I see the numbers on the scale go up. I still change into baggier clothing when my stomach pokes out or gets bigger. I’m working on forgiving my mother. But I’ll get there, I’ll get better.

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Happy Unhappy

to not cry at night when I’m alone

Sometimes I want to be happy, to go out and not have to force a smile on my face each time someone says a joke or looks my way, to not have to think about each word I say before they spill forth, to not have to count each calorie in my head before they pass my lips, to not have to suck in my stomach whenever I stand up,

But when the smile disappears, when the filter is gone and the numbers on the scale get smaller and smaller, when my stomach can be sucked in no further and the tears are nothing by dried patches on my face, I’m happy Maybe I’m happy being unhappy

Claire Timbrell is a Junior Psychology major at King’s College, is the President of the Campion Society and the Gay-Straight Alliance, and is a member of Psi Chi. She enjoys writing dystopian pieces and poetry, knitting, spending time with her sisters, being an outspoken vegan, and learning Korean.

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POETRY POETRY

Trail 10 Luan Hoang The thick tree trunks spanned all around. They covered the warm light of the canopy, but we didn’t need it. Five curious students on the edge of a cliff, on the edge of dawn. As the sun rose ahead of us we watched awestruck. We were at the elevation where the clouds met the trees the horizon forced up the sky, and the early birds were our neighbors. As that yellow ball drifted, we know we aren’t supposed to look directly at it, but this is a once in a lifetime chance. Luckily the rays were dimmed by the overcast fog that clanged onto the treetops ahead. Bugs were waking up more. Howler monkeys made their usual roars, and bipedal footsteps can be heard all over the dirt. But we didn’t care. We were too exhausted from the hike, too damp from the dew, too tired from waking early. Sitting here on this packed dirt was luxury as the ants crawled on our thighs. Our legs were dangling off the edge of the world, and nothing can beat that.

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Pure White Architecture Luan Hoang This town is rich. The buildings are painted with hues of maroon, turquoise, purple, and yellow. Its bricks are lined side to side. In the center sits a fountain with statues of burly knights on horses, One holds a sword, the other a shield. Its streets are filled with vintage and lively alleyways, each packed with coffee shops, bakeries and smokehouses for the finest meats. A wafting aroma of charred cinder ovens from baked goods overwhelms the olfactory senses. It’s a forceful invitation to indulge oneself with this city’s culture. Its citizens are talking with each other, content with themselves and their neighbors. If you walk to the left you can see that it rests near a body of rich blue water. That coast is basking in warm sunlight. But go below, and you see its history. Catacombs fill the underground tunnels of this city. Swords, bows, shields, and lances sit there like a rusted armory. The air smells of musky mold. Bones are neatly aligned and organized, femurs with femurs, skulls with skulls, an out of place phalange here and there and they’re all stacked on each other, but this macabre fortress is not a home.

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Sail Team Six Luan Hoang I’ve been coming here every day for the past two weeks It’s winter break, but my break isn’t a break. I come here and it smells like old fish. The fryers and oils seep into my pores. It attaches itself onto my skin like tape. The smells of sulfurous oceanic remnants wafts from the drains. I’m constantly breaking my back with heavy lifting, or I take an insurmountable amount of customer orders. Every morning I come in and count clams with my eyes half-awake. But the people. Oh the people. I’m around them more than some of my friends twenty to thirty-five hours a week. Each person carries something different. One person has an intensely sunbaked humor, dry as the eye can see. Another, I can crack the dumbest joke and still get a cracked smile. One, she constantly keeps me bewildered by her presence, but there’s something there that I want to know. One guy has the coolest hair, a straight afro that spans at least a foot and a half. These people, who were once shadows in my pursuit of money, became something more. And this place. It isn’t work anymore. Luan Hoang is a junior Marketing major at King’s College, with a minor in creative writing. He is a native of Wilkes-Barre. When he’s not writing in his free time, he enjoys playing music.

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Myrtle Beach Morning with Grandma Courtney Allen Loose locks of chocolate hair stroke my cheek and stir me awake. Bouncy curls tumble down my shoulders, the surviving scent of salt drifting off each strand despite attempts to extinguish it with sweet almond milk and honey soaps. From behind the creaky couch-bed where I still lay curled up in a pile of thin sheets, a snappy tune plays that I am still too muzzy to make out. I crawl to the camelback, carefully avoiding my sister’s tangled, outstretched limbs and peek over the edge. Beams of sunlight seep through the cracks in the curtained windows illuminating her silver hair like tinsel. Her chalky arms, covered in creases and folds, shake as she picks up her plain coffee mug— one that belongs to the resort, not like her mismatched batch of mugs at home that sit nestled in the faded wooden cabinet above the sink. With a pointed fingernail coated in a shiny gloss of pink, she beckons me forward, her mousy eyes smirking over the rim of her sugary concoction in the devilish way that only a granddaughter would understand. I shuffle to her side, my bare feet slapping against the sticky beige tile. She hugs me tight. I squish my face into her fluffy robe, sapping up the comfort that the stiff bed sheets lacked. On the stovetop, she taps a three-pronged fork against the side of a pan in rhythm with the music playing. The bacon in the pan begins to sizzle and shrink, the foamy grease bubbles popping and snapping. The way my name slips from her tongue and pours from her lips. A moment in time, a pause in the puzzle-piecing of my memory. I’d sleep on a thousand cramped couches for another morning in Myrtle Beach. The Scop • Spring 2020 • 34

Kindergarten Crush Courtney Allen Bookbags knocked against our shoulders, swinging on the hooks you swore looked like scrappy boxing octopuses. The smell of processed meat was overwhelming as it sat squished, soggy, crammed into tightly zippered pouches. The closet was dark, but your rubber-bound braces highlighted your crooked smile. Warm, bubblegum breath tickled my cheeks, plump, chubby, crimson, as you whispered your secret. The melted Hershey Kisses staining your pockets were meant for a prettier, blonder breed plagued by piddling puppy love.

35 • The Scop • Spring 2020

Train Chaser Courtney Allen Driving along a desolate road, artificial beams of light tint the amber lines that guide the way. Through the barren silhouettes of trees, I spot a light more radiant than my own. The gnashing of wheels against iron teeth floods the air— a collective system of churning cogs. Louder and louder it grows until the mechanical beast passes me by. The tip of my shoe presses further down. I wonder if I can keep up with its stride. Instead, I curve down the dirt path that leads home, watching its tail end carry down the tracks.

Courtney Allen is a senior at King’s College. She is a professional writing major, with minors in literature, creative writing, and women’s studies. She mostly writes works of fiction, but dares to dabble in any and all genres. She dreams to one day write and publish a horror novel that’ll make the toughest cookies jump out of their skin!

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November 18th, 1978 Leo Brennan An icy chill ran through the commune, Guyana is mostly pleasant in November. Children, parents, and elderly, gathered at the central pavillion, everyone accounted for. Brightly colored t-shirts, the children wore little denim overalls. Behind, they filled the metal washtub with grape kool-aid, sweetened with cyanide and valium. Let’s make it a beautiful day. A mother’s baby was the first to drink, they put a rubber nipple on the syringe so the baby wouldn’t be startled. The chill wind breezed through the trees, behind them, guards in olive drab, pointed crossbows. Let’s die with a degree of dignity. Hysteria, as parents watched their children sleep, never to wake. Let’s make it a beautiful day. 918 bodies lay on the ground waiting for reincarnation.

37 • The Scop • Spring 2020

Knocking Leo Brennan Summer heat— the kind that velcros fabric to your skin. Three knocks at the door, answered by none other than empty silence. My knuckles at the door for a repeat, ready for another try, when a blur of orange fire flies past my feet— A feline frenzy! Followed by three hundred pounds of anxiety and disheveled white hair, dressed in nothing but his finest boxer briefs. Darting through the grass, I chased the four-legged huntress. Get that cat! Cornered, she lay limp under my arm. She is everything to me. Behind, a red pickup truck hums by, a soothing breeze on my neck. I can’t thank you enough. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I see a silver tear settle onto his flushed cheeks. I’m am reminded, sometimes we never know what is on the other side of the door. Leo Brennan is a Mathematics Education major at King’s College, who is also pursuing Special Education certification. He is passionate about creating music, art, and works of writing. In his free time, enjoys hiking, reading fiction, and playing with his dog. The Scop • Spring 2020 • 38

Numbers That Will Haunt Me for the Rest of My Life Marissa Rogers You only got an 85? I ask my cousin in a teasing manner. My mother would have literally killed me. Everyone laughs, thinking that last bit was for dramatic effect, but no one knows the truth behind it. My first test of first grade—a religion test—I got a 97. My mother was convinced I wasn’t listening to my teacher. You should have been smarter. 75 in fourth grade math that got me screamed at in the parking lot, 96 that forced me to dodge flying textbooks, 90 in science that made me burst into tears in class, 60 in eighth grade math that my wonderful teacher made disappear before my parents could find out about it, the 4.0125 GPA that wasn’t as good as Alyssa’s 4.025, 99.44 in algebra that my teacher wouldn’t round up, 102.46 in pre-calc that cost me the award because someone had a 102.47, all the 98’s on chem labs that wouldn’t get any higher no matter what I did because no one is perfect enough for a 100, 60 on the first economics test, 73’s on all the physics tests because that was the lowest grade he would give, the 6 – yes 6 – out of 100 on that one calculus test that still wasn’t the lowest grade in the class, 1’s on all three AP exams, 1770 on my SATs, which wasn’t good enough, 1950 on my SATs, which still wasn’t good enough, but it didn’t matter anymore because it was too late to take them again, 72, 47, and 41 on my first three tests in college, 17 in calculus, 99 on the first effective writing paper.

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The 99 that became a 100 after revising my minor mistake. The 99 that was an A – my first A in forever, that led to more A’s, that led to a 4.0. A 4.0 in college. Finally, I thought, I did something they’ll be proud of. I was wrong. I got a 4.0, but…. But I’m an English major. But my classes are easier. But I took imaginative writing. But I took a class on fairytales. But I watched Black Mirror for philosophy. But I did a presentation pretending to be an anti-vaxxer. I got a 4.0, but suddenly grades—at least mine—don’t matter anymore.

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The Fortune Cookie Marissa Rogers It was already broken in half, starting to crumble to pieces, with the paper floating loosely in the wrapper by the time I got to it. I wasn’t expecting anything good. Maybe something a little positive – It’s alright to have butterflies in your stomach. Just get them to fly in formation. Maybe funny – It’s about time I got out of that cookie. Maybe vaguely threatening if I was really lucky – Your problem just got bigger. Think, what have you done. I pulled the wrapper open with too much force, and watched the tiny paper float to the ground, flipping over hundreds of times, as I scrambled to catch the broken pieces of cookie. Jumping from my bed, I searched the floor for my missing fortune – Make decisions from the heart and use your head to make it work out.

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Don’t Ask Questions Marissa Rogers Don’t ask questions unless you want everyone to think you’re stupid – don’t you want people to think you’re smart? Don’t ask questions even when you’re confused – the smart kids don’t get confused. Don’t ask questions especially if you need help or people will think you’re weak – there’s no place for weakness in this family. Don’t ask questions ever under any circumstances no matter what is the only lesson my parents ever taught me.

Marissa Rogers is a senior at King’s. She’s a professional writing major with a creative writing minor. She was forced into writing poetry by her creative writing professor, and now absolutely loves it. In addition to writing, she enjoys drawing, reading, and watching the same movies over and over again. The Scop • Spring 2020 • 42

Losing My Religion Jessica Einterz I wake up clutching onto hope with such reckless devotion that it crumbles to dust. I trace my grandmother’s rosary beads, maniacally hoping the clarity I’m told this should give me magically seeps through my fingertips. The fingertips I’ve imagined gracing the gentle curves of her. The girl who twirls her hair, bites her pens, throws her head back when she laughs With a voice that’s sweeter than honey and melts me when she holds me. I’m not supposed to notice these things. at least not when she does them. If I love a him, I’m golden. If I love a her, I’m immoral. Acceptance is an ocean, roaring waves that wash away the pain, but with the impurity of my mind and the sins of my past I cannot baptize myself in it. The path to heaven and salvation feels more like the fast lane to hell and damnation.

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Unfulfilled Jessica Einterz I was the equivalent of a cigarette to a chain smoker. Satisfying in the moment, never fulfilling enough and easily forgotten after the next.

Jessica Einterz is a senior Mass Communications major and Creative Writing minor at King’s College. She’s also the Assistant Editor-in-Chief of The Crown, the Entertainment Director for WRKC and a member of the Psi Epsilon chapter of Lambda Pi Eta. Her dream is to become a journalist and a novelist.

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A Love Noah Krubitzer The pitter patter down the pavement, An unspoken exclamation, Void of explanation, A nonverbal conversation The sensational exultation. A tippety tap on a downward slope The clumsy gait of the happy oaf The visible smile upon faces both Occasions that to each matter most Cheek to cheek, a grin so wide A swift step, a super stride Hugging close, going side by side They laugh and laugh, then head inside

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A Letter to Loneliness Noah Krubitzer The night grips me tight, Wrapping my face in a cold embrace. I breathe him in, delicately in my lungs, And let him carve rivers down my cheeks as he leaves In their reflections dance Memories, moments, and mementos. Relics of remembrance.

Noah Krubitzer is a writer from Nanticoke, Pennsylvania, currently in his second semester of attending King’s College. He is a History major, planning on achieving a doctorate in the not-at-all-near future. While quite interested in History, he is also a fan of musical theatre and professional wrestling. The Scop • Spring 2020 • 46

The Little Things Paige Gould Too many names to remember, people I knew but didn’t are gone. Do I mourn? Is that my place? Flashes of their smiles, or the sound of their laugh after a joke I’d heard before. Their kind words, their eyes, snippets of a life so complex that I will never comprehend. Gone. What do I do with their stories? If grey was a color it was her and her daughter a mulled yellow bubbling with fake smiles, and cheerful lies. A new outlook on life, more years to live she promised but the mother wanted a peanut butter egg one wrapped in opaque paper and tied with a silver bow. Unable to enjoy what she once loved, feeling as though she is already gone and only living for everybody else Trapped. Unhuman. Dead. The daughter showed no malice, no spite her voice smooth and low, a tone meant to soothe a fussing baby telling her: You can go,

47 • The Scop • Spring 2020

we want you to be happy. Is she afraid to die? She is afraid to live. Life to her is years behind, a love filled with violets on the first date, arguments over the dishes or laundry, a single silver wedding band, children born but now grown, a phone call home if there’s time, jobs replaced by someone younger. A life lived that is disappearing into the oblivion, fading from memory.

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A Conversation with a Ghost Paige Gould I asked the old man how he was doing that day, his disheveled silver hair contrasting the order of the parking lot. Teeth were off-set in his mouth, an unsettling grin Not good, I’m dead. I’m in purgatory. A broken brown cross hung with black thread around his neck. His heart was no longer beating he presented his warm arm and took my hand in his. Two fingers pressed on the pale skin of his wrist, a palpable pulsation underneath or was it my own heart compensating? Nobody can see me, he was lonely. The people behind him in line stood on the white tile floor a look on their faces as I imagined I must have looked to them. Shock, unsure how to proceed. In purgatory, you can have a car but only if you killed somebody in a car accident. He drove, pointing to the silver-grey car outside the store window.

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Heaven was not somewhere he wanted to be, a talking dog behind the golden gates beckoning him to join lead him to flee, but Satan knocks things over. Disorder and chaos. He insisted he was not Satan despite the shelf now in shambles. His mossy green eyes stared into mine, I can see your soul. You aren’t going to heaven.

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Footprints Paige Gould Untouched snow illuminated by the pale rising sun, the air frozen in time and the world is still. It’s beautiful to witness in the early morning before disgruntled sons and daughters are sent out with their shovels, before cars speed by tarnishing the pure white powder with dirt transforming the awe-inspiring sight to a hazard to be cleaned away by the salt trucks so the day can go on, before dogs and young ones frolic and leap in the piles leaving imprints of their presence. There’s something tranquil about it, before I need to layer up and brave the cold, but the view outside my window is the closest the world gets to perfect.

Paige Gould is a sophomore in the Physician Assistant program with a minor in creative writing.She is the VicePresident of the King’s college GSA. At one point she was a published child-poet and fears those two poems will become her legacy. 51 • The Scop • Spring 2020

Poetry Sarah Beth Kolodziej I want to be… Possessed with the poets’ hungry drive, feel the rush of words on paper, have the constant need to write, to feel, to express passion. But at what price? The mundane aspects of life are at my beck and call: Work, Drive, Cook, Clean, Repeat Where in that cycle is the room for my creativity to flow? I may sacrifice some time. Make time. But that utter zest, that writer’s zeal will always be interrupted and taken over by the necessities of life needed to survive. But poetryWhat would life be without it? Sarah Beth Kolodziej, King’s Class of 2015, teaches 10th Grade English at Mid Valley High School. She is a proud coach for Mid Valley Junior High Soccer. Her poetry was published in Cicada magazine in 2008 and has made appearances in issues of the SCOP magazine over the past several years. The Scop • Spring 2020 • 52

A Colorless World Matthew Schoch The spectral setting of cornfields at night Cascade life in a shadow’s dark. Gusts of wind cause branches and leaves to fray, With winter’s frost beckoning. Familiar purples and calming greens are erased, Only the maroon drops of blood remain. Neon colors bleed into the drab, Grey permeates the unspoken hues of today. Death flies in, its black wingtips tainting all in decease. Soon, all color shall fall, and cold reign supreme.

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Arrival Matthew Schoch Colorless leaves wisp about in the cold air. The barren, wooden frames of trees Reflected in an ice puddle. Water, unnervingly motionless, Crystallizes over the rocky, unforgiving ground. A worn-away window screen slaps back and forth In rhythmic anticipation.

Matthew Schoch is a full-time student at King’s College pursuing a dual major in Mass Communications and Professional Writing. He has been published in the King’s College newspaper, The Crown, as well as in The Young Person’s Anthology, The Scop, and the freelance journalism site, Blasting News. When he isn’t writing, he can be seen running for the King’s Cross Country team, as well as co-hosting a local podcast, the Mystery Meat Podcast. The Scop • Spring 2020 • 54

Wreckage Jennifer Judge A moment frozen in my brain gets tossed up regularly: facade of a building torn away on a corner street in Ithaca. The apartment upstairs was still furnished: a little bed with a white coverlet, an oval mirror hanging, yellowed wallpaper, the roses pink. It looked like a dollhouse, the wall left out so some giant child could come play. I might be remembering it wrong, embellishing with the dangers and darkness of childhood, endless Sundays alone. Every time I see something torn down, I have to stop and stare at the wreckage, say a prayer for abandoned things.

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. 55 • The Scop • Spring 2020

V I SVISUAL UA LART A RT

Peeking Down at His Masterpiece Andrew Bowden

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Pondering Place Andrew Bowden

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Invasive Jolie Coates

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Phragmites Sunrise Jolie Coates

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Snow Much Fun Jolie Coates

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Stay Away From My Nice Truck Mark G. Dziak

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Bloom

Tabitha Kenazoski

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Hopeless Romxntic Sydney Lonsdale

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Self Love Juice Sydney Lonsdale

65 • The Scop • Spring 2020

Carolyn, 2019 Liam McLoughlin

The Scop • Spring 2020 • 66

Justin Pizzullo

67 • The Scop • Spring 2020

Heart Roses Scarlett Spager

The Scop • Spring 2020 • 68

Steel Stacks Scarlett Spager

69 • The Scop • Spring 2020

Cow Pi

(Acrylic Painting on MDF) Karen Traver

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Cow Selfie

(Acrylic Painting on MDF) Karen Traver

71 • The Scop • Spring 2020

Bolts of Lightning Don’t Just Happen Josh Ulanoski

The Scop • Spring 2020 • 72

No Ray of Sunlight Lost Josh Ulanoski

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When the Sun is Low, Everything’s Gold Josh Ulanoski

The Scop • Spring 2020 • 74

You Will Never Be Alone Josh Ulanoski

75 • The Scop • Spring 2020

Butterfly on Sunflower Emily Viteritti

The Scop • Spring 2020 • 76

Japanese Beetle Jennifer Washicosky

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Red-winged Blackbird Lunch Jennifer Washicosky

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Two-striped Grasshopper Jennifer Washicosky

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Visual Art Contributors Andrew Bowden Andrew Bowden loves nature and the outdoors. At any point, he would rather be outside. He enjoys capturing natively aesthetic things among nature, which entails nature in general–life. The beauty of the pristine, the untouched. His writings are inspired by his admiration for nature, and his favorite thing to photograph is the outdoors. Jolie Coates Jolie is a Senior Environmental Studies major from rural LeRaysville PA. She has also taken on the responsibility of two minors, Geography and Communications, with hopes to expand her horizons. She is looking forward to what life after graduation has in store for her, and all the photo opportunities that come with it! Mark G. Dziak 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. Tabitha Kenzakowski 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. Sydney Lonsdale Sydney Lonsdale is a junior Mass Communications major with a concentration in Visual Communications. She is from and currently based out of Wilkes-Barre, PA. Sydney is a staff member of The Scop. Liam McLoughlin Liam is a Junior, Mass Communications major currently enrolled at King’s College and is looking to pursue a career in photography. In his free time, he loves taking photographs of his friends and the life around him. The Scop • Spring 2020 • 80

Visual Art Contributors (continued) Justin Pizullo Justin Pizzullo is a Mass Communications major at King’s college. He also runs his own photography business on Instagram @jp_media22. Not only that but he does photographs for individuals on their cars. He is also a racing driver. Justin also creates short films for companies and his own personal experiences at car shows and races. Scarlett Spager Scarlett Spager is a Mass Communications Major and a History Minor from Old Forge, Pennsylvania. Scarlett is the Sophomore Class President, WRKC Station Manager, The Crown Web Manager, and the Social Media and Events Coordinator for The Scop. Scarlett enjoys broadcast journalism and studying comedy. Josh Ulanoski Josh Ulanoski is the Associate Art Director in the King’s College Office of Marketing and Communications. When he’s not working, you may find him bike riding, hiking, taking more photos, or planning his next trip to a national park. Emily Viteritti Emily Viteritti is a Junior majoring in Marketing and minoring in Communications. She is committed to learning and enjoys structure in her life yet embraces creativity. In her free time, she enjoys painting her nails with intricate designs, taking photos of anything deemed “pretty”, and playing with her three cats. Jennifer Washicosky Jennifer Washicosky enjoys using her DSLR and its various lenses to get a closer look at Pennsylvania’s natural marvels. She is a novice when it comes to camera use and function, but even rudimentary use of her Canon allows her to discover the beauty hidden right in her backyard.

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STAFF STA F F BIOS BIOS

Editorial Staff Bios Faculty Advisor Ms. Jennifer Judge Yonkoski serves as advisor to The Scop and the Campion Literary Society and is coordinator of the Luzerne County Poetry in Transit program. She has taught creative writing and composition at King’s for more than 20 years.

Editor Matt Schoch is a full-time student at King’s College pursuing a dual major in Mass Communications and Professional Writing. He has been published in the King’s College newspaper, The Crown, as well as The Young Person’s Anthology and the freelance journalism site, Blasting News. When he isn’t writing, he can be seen running for the King’s Cross Country and Track and Field teams, for both of which he is captain.

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Editorial Staff Bios Design Editor Jessica Einterz is a senior at King’s College majoring in Mass Communications with a minor in Creative Writing. She’s also the Entertainment Director for WRKC and the Assistant Editorin-Chief for The Crown. In her free time, she loves reading, writing, and binge-watching “It’s Always Sunny in Philidelphia” as if it’s the first time she’s ever watched it.

Social Media Coordinator Scarlett Spager is the sophomore Class President and she serves on the SGA constitution committee. Scarlett is the Station Manager at WRKC, the Social Media Coordinatior for The Scop, and Web Manager for The Crown at King’s. Scarlett is an aspiring broadcaster and hopes to be a producer for a national news program in the future.

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Staff Bios Alison Moyer is a senior Economics, Spanish, and Philosophy major from Mountain Top, PA. She is the Editor-in-Chief of The Crown newspaper, Managing Editor for The Regis yearbook, President of the Economics and International Business Club, and Secretary for the Environmental Club and Rotaract. She is also a Writing Center tutor.

Kendyl Wright is a second-year student from Berwick, PA. She is the current music director for WRKC. She is an active member of the community and spends her free time attending local events and concerts.

Melanie Carbery is a senior Professional Writing major with a Creative Writing minor. She is originally from Sparta, New Jersey, and works as a tutor at the Writing Center. She is the news and features manager for The Crown, staff writer for The Scop, as well as a volunteer for Rotaract Club.

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Staff Bios Sydney Lonsdale is a junior Mass Communications major with a concentration in Visual Communications. She is from and currently based out of Wilkes-Barre, PA. Sydney is a staff member of The Scop.

Stephanie Kleinfelder is in her sophomore year majoring in Early Childhood and Special Education at King’s College. She is always busy with 10+ extra-curricular activities. The last time her photos were published was senior year of high school and her most recent written publication was for the National Constitution Center.