Lion's Eye Fall 2010 by Lion's Eye

The Lionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eye

Literary Magazine

Volume XXVII Fall 2010

THe Lionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eye Staff Fall 2010

Meet the Staff (from left to right) Back Row: Saagar Trivedi, Corey Drake, Brett Tannenbaun, Dan Coughlin, Jeff Harrison, Yale Weiss, Eric Fuchs, Middle Row: Cynthia Ritter, Rebecca Abrams, Ellen Winter, Jessica Gronzalez, Christine Austin, Courtney Moses, Kaitlyn Capelakos, Jessica Baker, Marico Curran Front Row: Caroline Bachmann, Katie Pucci, Samantha Zimbler, Nicole Priestner, Danna Wolf Not in this photo: Matthew Brown, Keerthana Krosuri, Sam Nader, Catherine Rossi

Executive STaff Executive Editor: Caroline Bachmann Issue Editor: Nicole Priestner Copy Editor: Samantha Zimbler Treasurer: Katie Pucci Publicist: Jessica Baker Corresponding Secretary: Saagar Trivedi Recording Secretary: Cynthia Ritter Historian: Danna Wolf Faculty Advisor: Frank Hannold

Contributing Writers

Becca Abrams, Caroline Bachmann, Alexa Baird, Jessica Baker, Helen Carey, Marico Curran, Corey Drake, Mary Dwyer, Jeffery Harrison, Keesean Moore, Cynthia Ritter, Jeffrey Roman, Marisa Sanders, Dan Zampini, Samantha Zimbler

Contributing Artists

Jessica Baker, Meghan Bruce, Nicole Priestner, Katie Pucci, Rachel Razza, Philip Stevens, Danna Wolf

Who We are

The Lion’s Eye is published by the students of the College of New Jersey with funding from the Student Finance Board. The magazine provides a medium for creative expression, publishing student short fiction, poetry, prose, photography, illustrations, graphic art, and more. To learn more about The Lion’s Eye, visit www.lionseyepbworks.com. Calling All Sumbissions: Althought the deadline for our next issue has not yet been decided, submissions are currently being accepted. Please send all sumbissions via e-mail to lionseye@tcnj.edu Printed at - Bill’s Printing Service - Trenton, NJ 08610

Table of Contents Writing 4 5 6 8 9 11 12 13 14 15 20

Executive Editor’s Letter Down Sun Cypress Infestation Above... Beneath a Dream, Honesty Why Can’t Women... Ode to Fluff A Letter to Nowakai Split Railing Journey 21 Self-Portrait 22 The Prospector 23 48 Hours Home

Caroline Bachmann Rebecca Abrams Corey Drake Samantha Zimbler Mary Dwyer Corey Drake Jeffery Harrison Marisa Sanders Alexa Baird Samantha Zimbler Marico Curran Jeffrey Roman Samantha Zimbler Helen Carey Helen Carey

Organ Themed Spread 24 System 25 Doctoring Haiku 26 To My Sweetheart, Oppressive Arm

Caroline Bachmann Cynthia Ritter Keesean Moore Jessica Baker Caroline Bachmann

28 29 31 32 35 36

Corey Drake Mary Dwyer Caroline Bachmann Dan Zampini Jeffrey Roman Nicole Priestner

Scraping Skies If It’s In Me Dead Dogs Scribbling I Will Not Issue Editor’s Letter

Table of Contents Artwork Cover 1 2-3 5 7 10 12-13 14 17 18 19 21 22

Candlelight Contest Winning Lion Doodles Wrist Cramp In Remembrance Doodle Illustrations Music La Basilica... Kiwi Tolkein, On The Ex... And So It Goes Who Are We? Doodle Time To Move On

Philip Stevens Anonymous Danna Wolf Philip Stevens Katie Pucci Danna Wolf Jessica Baker Meghan Bruce Jessica Baker Meghan Bruce Jessica Baker Nicole Priestner Rachel Razza Danna Wolf Jessica Baker

Organ Themed Spread 24 Illustration Jessica Baker 25 Indigenous Narratives Rachel Razza 27 Illustration Jessica Baker 31 32 34 35 Back

Doodle Doodle Petra and Flowers A Small Caravan Doodle Lost Dog Lionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eye

Danna Wolf Danna Wolf Philip Stevens Philip Stevens Danna Wolf Rachel Razza Jessica Baker

the first look A Letter from the Executive Editor Reader, You passively lay your eyes on the page to skim through the letter from the editor but are struck with a realization. It hits you like that stop sign you roll through everyday; you see it standing there, glaring that angry red glare, staring you in the face with its capital, bold-faced font, simultaneously commanding you to care, daring you to disregard, and most obviously, ordering you with all its might to stop. And of course you do not. You forge onward instead, forcing your mind to roll past it, coolly--you don’t want to stop completely lest you be played as a fool, a prudish illiterate...an uncultured buffoon, a square, but you take note of it, casually...You raise your eyebrows slightly. “Yes, yes that’ll do - amusement is a proper response” you think as you glance up to see if anyone is watching. “Surely shock would have been too much,” you dubiously determine, “would have proven me to have been thrilled by this cheap, cad stunt.” “And smiling! Oh goodness, no. After all, who but a sensationalist hack would write in second person?” you scoff to yourself. Glancing up one more time you realize, “ah that’s what it is,” and you read on. The words feed thoughts into your head and it swells with...”what is this?” Your mind answers automatically: “self-awareness.” The Christmas tree lights in your brain start to glisten; its lightness, its effortlessness charms you. It feels new - and...urgent...”urgent!” - and as soon as you think it you know it to be true - the end nears. You tear your eyes from the current line to check how much time you have left. The realization - “not much” - sears into your head. Sour blossoms of fear flourish in your chest and drop bitter bombs of panic in your stomach. “What happens when I finish reading? What do I do?” Your eyes claw at the page for an answer, but it stares back at you mutely, its cool rectangular whiteness showing no remorse. You feel the desire to close your eyes, to make it last just a little longer. Regrets rap on your skull, “Why didn’t I chuckle? Get some kind of enjoyment from this? I knew I should have paused to share this.” You try to fight the trepidation that fills your every limb, that builds higher and higher, climbing within you until you feel it will pour out of your every orifice, that wills you to slow yourself down, to take it all in, but you cannot stop; you try to jam on your brakes, but the inertia forces you onward; words, letters, punctuation become indecipherable from one another as you anticipate the end, and all at once-It is over. And you carry on with your reading of this semester’s edition of The Lion’s Eye, feeling the desire to stop to ponder each work of art created for and by the best that TCNJ has to offer. This would not be possible without the dedication and ardor of our wonderful staff and club members: Danna Wolf, whose endless patience and wholehearted commitment to the Lion’s Eye and its wild characters cannot be commended enough; Katie Pucci, whose support and fulfillment of her treasury duties and so much more are indispensable to the club and to myself personally; Nicole Priestner, whose insight cannot be beat and who painstakingly formatted every point of punctuation and blot of ink of every page of this magazine; Cynthia Ritter, whose hard work is the very glue that holds together nearly every English or education-related club on campus and whose secretarial skills cannot be beat, Jess Baker, whose creativity and quirky, sometimes frightening, sense of humor knows no bounds, Sam Zimbler, who is so literary that it is often difficult to tell where she ends and her poetry begins and who embodies grammatical correctness from sun-up to sun-down; of course our token male officer (and replacement for Matt), Saagar Trivedi, whose acuity and articulateness is impeccable and whose wit charms us all weekly in email and during meetings; and many more, both members and contributors, whose devotion to and fervor for literature and art has made The Lion’s Eye what it is today. It has been a pleasure working with all of you, and I‘m looking forward to another semester of hard fun. Reader, thank you for picking up this semester’s Lion’s Eye, and if nothing else, I hope you find something on these pages that makes you stop and think...

Caroline Bachmann Executive Editor

Wrist Cramp by Philip Stevens

Down Sun by Rebecca Abrams

Indigo inking dusk. Fly, indigo night, indigo doves spreading wings over sky. Symphonic reach of fingers fray stray rays of Indigo light, lengthening, shadows pulling, Vibrating beige into blue, All earth folding together. Octagon of indigo essence, Deepest point farthest in, small sharp cold cut caught sides Turned nonchalant in blurring outwards, compromise Into evening, darker every inch There in the eye.

Cypress by Corey Drake

Tonight, I sit below the cypress and clutch my dreams to my chest. They wander aimlessly through dark alleyways, Down forgotten corridors To dead ends which matter less than specks of cosmic dust My thoughts swarm like gnats, A fury of the inane, confusion perpetuated, Drifting ever closer to a small brick wall tavern That I once called home, Where the scent of vermouth and coffee pervade the air, And orange flames dance in the hearth To the sound of shot glasses slammed against the bar top, Where old men look around begrudgingly. That fire just wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t die When I tried to smother it seven years ago. Even if the whole world fell to ruin, the mantle would stand, Solemn as a gravestone. And here I sit, silent below the pensive cypress, My spirit worlds away My heart a sunken galleon Sleeping secluded in a trench Between the plates of the Atlantic. She cries, she cries; the moon in soundless reflection.

In Remem by Katie P

ucci

brance

Infestation Above A Pink Room by Samantha Zimbler

I remember when I brought the demons home with me; they clung to the space beneath my shadow until I locked myself in my box of a room and they lingered in the narrow space above my ceiling, in the attic I saw once but was scared of falling through. I heard them running in the summer nights as I trembled beneath the thick white canopy, on which I placed my collection of stuffed bears like amulets. But their stuffy faces and rocky eyes betrayed me. I remember the night the ferret got loose upstairs and wandered into my room but I knew it was Teddy, the oldest of the pack, with the broken ear and crusty sides, directing the haunt. And the people in the graying posters mocked me as I lay still on the floral quilted tomb that jutted from the bare wall, listening to the demons scratching in the walls, desperate to get out to get at me to end my childhood. And in the morning the leafy fingers of the trees would rouse themselves awake outside my two closed windows. A car, maybe two, would pass in a strange kind of silence on the empty road.

Beneath A Dream, by Mary Dwyer

The junkman travels lightly into the dark He’s really such a schemer, elegant silhouette in the negative space he’s bouncing off the slithering stuck butterfly wings and onto the back of the toilet where the grime spells out your name like a parking lot cat and his favorite potted plant to piss on The junkman knows my reverie and he probably has eight point five times as much sex as I. My ribs are shifting around today, my belly protruding in all its odd pregnancy Baby, I’m havin’ your honey get ready ‘cause the junkman don’t sleep and he don’t give gifts and he’s makin’ lots o’ noise with his pots and his pans and he’s makin’ lots o’ love with uncle sam and the Benzedrine clockwork brothers

I wanna feel those hands all up my thighs like jive talk acid rain and the junkman’s dreams up my dress to the conception, the conniption the implosion of a billion housewives and a million suns the ghost of a thousand rides home under dark next to train lights and shadows of the metal monster on the trees and the no man sittin’ in the backseat All I’ve got is the dark behind me All I’ve got is the technicolor glass and wood melting into hindsight like you talk like styrofoam, Clive gee I never noticed grandfather sandpaper old pipe smoke it’s all the same if you know how to dance The junkman sees my snapped cheekbones

The shrapnel seeds springing from my violent dream world I wish I could show you I wish I could see you I wish I could be you I planted a rose for you, junkman down on yonder train tracks You are the alpha and the omega Chewin’ that sweet salty salty fatty meat Rat a tat tat you’ve got me under a cup squirming around like God or somethin’ (cuz it must be an awful lotta pressure ownin the world and whatnot trapped in a kingdom as wonderful and large as a paper cup) Who knows where the junkman goes he’s a folk song, he’s an oil well he’s Jesus Christ on a bad day or the last day

he’s on and he’s off as swiftly as he came travellin’ travellin’ up my spine to kingdom come where he’s all the rage and all the romance the sunburn of my thoughts and the trickle down your stomach he plants himself and grows ‘til he’s on the paper and out your throat you’ll see. He travels lightly But packs heavy. Get ready Get steady He’s a comin’ round the mountain and (this time) he’s fixin’ to stay.

Honesty by Corey Drake

iusewordsidontknowthemeaningoficountpeoplesfingers andtoesjusttomakesuretheyreallthereiholdconversations withcompletestrangersaboutthingsiknownothingaboutiwill gooutofmywaytosteponadriedupleafithankpeoplefor theircomplimentsipassoffmypolishedwayofspeakingas commonplaceandrefusetotellthemofmyyearsofself empowermentandmotivationilaughwhenihearabout violentdeathsanddisturbingaccidentsyesthatdress makesyoulookfatyouhavelinesinyourmakeupmysmile isfakeidontknowthedifferencebetweenaffectandeffect butusethembothfrequentlyilietothoseclosesttomejustso theywillnevergetcloseenoughtotellmetheyknowanything ofmyexperiencesiamscaredpeoplewillspeakofmein thepasttensewhenidieandihopethereisahelljustsoeveryone whohasevertoldmetogotherecanfeelgoodaboutthemselves. I am the worst kind of person.

Why Canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Women Be Made of Peanut Butter? by Jeffery Harrison illustrated by Jessica Baker

When did peanut butter hijack my life with women? When did the taste become better than a soft kiss? If I could only retrace my steps from her apartment to the food store Maybe I could make some sense of it all When did the taste become better than a lingering kiss? If only I could figure out why it has such a hold on me, Maybe I could make some sense of it all But right now, all I can think of is whether I want chunky or creamy If only I could figure out why it has such a hold on me, Perhaps I could go to therapy and win her back But right now, all I can think of is whether I want chunky or creamy The decision seems so vital to my existence Perhaps I could go to therapy and win her back But all I can talk about is which peanut butter brand is the best The decision seems so vital to my existence And the store is closing soon, the irate manager tells me But all I can talk about is which peanut butter brand is the best If I could only retrace my steps from her apartment to the food store But the store is now closed; the infuriated manager yells at me When did peanut butter hijack my life with women?

Ode To Fluff by Marisa Sanders illustrated by Jessica Baker

I hold Marc Sumer liable for my Fluff fixation, My marshmallow creme craving My “uncertain,” yet, “Unwrapped” favorite. Your ivory hue and sticky, creamy texture are just oh so savory in the candlelit lighting of my New Res dormitory. My allegiance to you, my number one spread, is so strong, that I’d embezzle you, kidnap you from the C-Store. I’d buy you, bootlegged, just to enjoy your sugary glory on a piece of freshly-toasted cinnamon raisin bread. I’d risk spending my mere existence within the fiery depths of prison for you, my Original Fudge. You are my pillar of hope, my dome of complete satisfaction. While some enjoy the tangy taste of wine to wet their whistle, I prefer you over all liquids, colloidal suspensions, and mixtures available to women. You are my goblet of fire, the mast upon which I suspend my blade of glory, with which I spread your creamy concoction. With you, Fluff, I mix nuts and cook orange-flavored delectable foods and create a medley of wondrous works Fluff-For you I live, for you I love-And I don’t hold this ode tongue-in-cheek

A letter to Nowaki by Alexa Baird

He saw you always in blue. Your fingers poised You were a different noise, a twist of holes Suspended: a choir Of elusive words. You saw him as a passing ship, a call To land. You understood the nature of anchors; Fleeting and far reaching Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s crush infinitely worse than its weight. You settled as fish do; the moon in your stomach, a beacon on dark days. He loved this mirror in you-his internal sun-how easily you stood in sloughs of your skin. To be dressed in light. He had you rendered in metal: the sun-lit steel reminded him of your scales, the curved bumps of your spine in brass knobs. He would press his hand and let his heat Fuse through your skin (your words a hymn, he loved the Shape of your mouth

Music by Meghan Bruce

when you said his name, A fish, glug-glug-glugging) You, a cold-blooded animal, forgot to flinch from it

Split by Samantha Zimbler

When we were born we just found each other that way. We didn’t have a choice to be anything else. And then when we arrived, cross-legged, jagged-brained, blowing out smoke on a stranger’s stoop, we had no choice, either. I didn’t know if we were something beautiful or not, something evil or not. I thought about how awful it must have seemed, the way we passed around the cigarette from one hand to the other, both of our hands, making two in all, stretching up arms that led to the same human torso. We were skilled at being one, but knew in our hearts that we were two. I had never seen our mother before, only knew her. I knew the plotting, shrieking, ugly thing inside her but never the outside. Born blind and split, I was. Couldn’t see. Not whole. And she reminded us. Reminded me so bad that it made me happy that I could make my whole world invisible. I would never know how evil we looked. Reminded me so much that we cried every night until she couldn’t take the wet tears, the dripping sniffling dirty tears anymore and drove us away. Far. And we were scared and I couldn’t see where I was. We found a stoop, rough and large. And the first thing we did was pray. We knelt down together, in sync like clouds, and touched together our shivering hands to make a whole pair. We sent up silent words. Words that would hit somewhere

and reverberate, echo and send a response. Words that would propel something toward us, to save us. Save us. We huddled ourselves tightly in our loose sweatshirt that had stringy holes on the ribs. I tried to imagine what it would be like to see us there, to see us at all, then to see anything but us. All I saw was the empty space; my body’s doing. It had done many unforgivable things; it made me the way I was. What was a man then? A dark voice, a long body. I had heard that a man was defined by a grin. I had never seen a grin but the word sounded dark. I had felt the course baby hairs on a man’s hand before. He was older, stronger, by the weight of his palm. He was something called my father, all those years ago. But I heard your voice like soft clay molding delicately, like soft clay gathering dust. You were a man. A man walking down a street with a jumbled shuffle. The dusty winter voice in you told us we were divine. You called us pretty. You said you wanted us. Wanted to have us. To keep us in a basement and do things to us. You told us not to be afraid. And you grazed my bulging cheek with your hand and I felt the baby hairs of what they called my father who was a man and you were a man and it felt good and I just -We said no. I didn’t, at least. The other part of me, the more reserved part, the part that kept quiet until it needed to be stern, the part of me that could see, declined you. That part of me said you grinned at her and shuffled on. A drunkard, she called you. And I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to stand up right then so she would have to stand, too, and I wanted to yell. I wanted to chase you down the street, wrap my arms

around you, and tell you you could have me and my hideous body because it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t going anywhere else. It was wretched; it was stranded, mutilated, cut in half, alone, ditched, defunct. And you wanted it. And I wanted you to want it. But I remember that you just grinned and walked away and that I should have known my place. So I sat in silence. I heard your uneven footsteps grow softer and softer and vanish. There was no sky for me, I felt the material things. I felt the rough concrete on my palms. I felt my half of my body aching with hunger. I knew no one was going to come save us. I heard a million people walk by us. I heard them gasp. The cool dusk voice lingered in my ears and I felt the want in it. And I remember how beautiful I felt then.

La Basilica di San Pietro by Jessica Baker

KIWI

by Meghan Bruce

Tolkein, on the Exploration of the HumAN form by Jessica Baker

And So It Goes by Nicole Priestner

Who Are We? by Rachel Razza

Railing

by Marico Curran

You always have long conversations with your brother on the phone on the train on the way on my mind. Your voice dips and flattens, grinds the asphalt filling the space between us, rings high above the wall. I will never raise my eyes to where the sleek black cords – endless stretching subway tracks – whip and tug and where, every so often, honey skitters down slightly crowded white stairs, syrup sheen on the metro grind grime but I will close them and surrender as I lie on the tracks, unnoticed and in bliss, your voicewords barreling over me in a rush to get elsewhere

Journey

by Jeffrey Roman

A map was presented to a high-ranking official from the king. “Go and see this uncharted world for me,” he said. So the officer did, and returned with tales of murder, savages, and famine. “Go and see this uncharted world for me,” the sentence echoed. So the officer did, and returned a Western man.

self-portrait by Samantha Zimbler

Cobwebbed sociopath drinking sour ink broke all her fingers and made a life for herself in a foul, anxious room. Her brain became a square that clunked in its rotation. Have the freckled lights of this squat land driven you to something greater? The rivers have resisted convergence for you. Have the papers, squirming under your emasculated palms, been concealing my name? The days have been good to you. Have the angry hours begun to rope your eyes away from each other? There is a demon under my bed waiting for you. How long will you continue to tickle this clock, to excite it forward into time? How long will he have to wait? I want to crush pale pills into your teeth and bathe in the bits of stars that shatter out of them. I want to take the gun out of your hand and plant green flowers there. I want to feel something more than an illusion, an allusion. I want the celestial sphere to break and to rid my clothing of these holographic stains.

THE PROSPECTOR

by Helen Carey

When I was little I would always poke a finger into the silver sticky rectangular chamber carved out of the lower right hand side of payphones and see if anyone had left a nickel or a dime or maybe even a quarter. My dad told me that he used to do the same thing when he was a boy and I thought how much more exciting it must have been back then, to feel that cold hard surface of coin resting, waiting patiently for the searching reach of by Jessica Baker warm young hands. But they’re not around much anymore, the payphones—they all got taken out by people who never felt the prospector’s rush of finding money stashed away, hidden from the city in dark rusty pockets of grit and slime, just empty spaces left on sidewalks where they used to be, and the ones that are left

Time to Move On

donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even get the respect of having a booth encircled around them and look stark and solitary against the white winter sky. But there was one booth out on Rt. 33 in my hometown and it stood next to a gas station across from a snow-covered field and one time I slipped a dime past its icy metal door on the way out of town and hoped that someone would find it.

48 HOURS HOME by Helen Carey

I can think how I think around you, she said, turning over the dead wet leaf in her hand, balancing a cigarette between her fingers in the other while we sat on back deck staring up at the stars, blowing smoke out into the greedy heir of last season-the ivory air of early October that finally ended the slow stumbling fall of summer, an Indian summer that even we couldn't enjoy, its sweet corn having been gone since September, its reserves of heat steam and sun having been exhausted since July, and we, the seasonal inhabitants, having been re-dispersed around the map since August, boundaries blurred and state lines worn from years of coming and going, tracing and retracing steps, back and forth on trains and planes and cars and obligatory bars along the way, watching the smoke as we always watch the smoke, circling around our heads and slowly disappearing above us into the waning weekend tide.

system

by Caroline Bachmann illustrated by Jessica Baker

my brain is a mendacious slave driver, all smiles and nods with fingers crossed the bastard sits atop an ivory column of bone, an ostentatious watchtower fashioned out of the very flesh of his vertebrate underlings and there, coerces the rest of my great mass ceaselessly onward. he goads them to action with a network of tentacles, broadcasting husk syllables of praise and compassion into their ears. yes, yes, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a good liver yes, stomach, churn chuuuurrrn mmmm good, good, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a real patriot for you they comply with gusto because they know no other way; they will work themselves to the bone, propelling the fucker to higher and higher brackets of abstraction, using an invisible staircase wrought of decaying tissue and excrement.

until one day after one organ finally busts or fails or deteriorates and the system comes to rest and we find that we all enjoy the silence.

Indigenous Narratives by Rachel Razza

doctoring sterilely by Cynthia Ritter my body my latest attempt to improve the Design but now They harp on the stitches

Doctoring

Haiku

by Keesean Moore

It smelled too sterile, Too much like hospitals, now. Deceptively sweet.

To my sweetheart, by Jessica Baker

I love you with my whole pancreas. Your laughter like a Lockhart piano drives my pancreas insane with insulin. It secretes salvation in illuminated, bilious hues when you touch my goose bumps. The head deep in my duodenum, you seduce me with moon-shaped kisses. In the cosmos that Pan creates, his lyre leaves me greased in your saliva. We will procreate music, we will make merry tonight.

oppressive arm by Caroline Bachmann

oppressive arm like a tree fallen onto my chest, constricting my lungs, restricting my sleep the individuals: haphazard the pressure: resolved, deliberate, blind play possum; restrain my twitch-

y heart; my sti -fled breathing. ache with wait. wait! —what’s that?— lumber finally slumbering? sawing, gnawing, buzzing snores? hm, yes, buzzing—humming—like a hornet... dormancy, can it be? it’s certainly not sleep —each nerve’s a proboscis on duty, probing me, sucking up information, sensation, my soul? no, just teaching me to mimic sleep and to despise being buzzed i tell myself it’ll all be over if i can just avoid the stinger

Scraping Skies by Corey Drake

In me there used to be a fire, An almighty furnace of pure incinerating human fury And I was immortal. I wore the claws and teeth of bears, I laughed at tigers Prowling on the edge of my vision And I was a rocket Tearing my way across the horizon, Scraping the skies to try And hold the universe in my hands. On a collision course with the sun, I wanted to see what it would be like To spit on a god. But now, now I’m all second-hand smoke And tweezers extracting shrapnel From tattered flesh. I am the sound of broken glass And blood splatter on the pavement. But this is me wishing I was a mountain-An immovable mass of expressionless stone, Because that’s what I was told to strive for, That’s what I was told to live and die for, But I’ve yet to find a reason To exist merely as a colossal grave marker. I’m not stone. I bear the exit wounds of a too fast existence And I wear my scars like badges of honor. And I refuse to apologize. I refuse to regret, forget Or change my ways, Because I would rather die a rocket Breaking up in the atmosphere Than to see eternity Slowly growing moss.

If it’s in mE By Mary Dwyer

The lilies grow mercilessly, spreading thickly about my knees, up my arms to a crumble. They’re all across the planked moonbeams, under every serenade, growing and dying like lost cherubs in carved walls I’ve longed for with each increment of ache. I would like to cut a clear line down my left breast and my right palm for you I would like to lie down with the exhaust of the sea and plead for help when the spider queen of hearts scuttles across my eye and into the hidden corners. I haven’t felt the moon for years now; the stars must be made of paper this time. It’s going to be a long time. I’m lost to the rose beds the dead heads that flake into the morning mist

I should have pressed them into some book with papyrus pages or tenderly placed them in a tin box. But I didn’t because I couldn’t Because growing and dying is too much to remember and when I feel the rose beds swelling with their spring joy, the blackbirds catching their melancholy songs under cloudlight, I remember there is a moon, ageless and giving, spilling forth its milk like some scarred virgin mother filled with relentless love. Someday, I will spill forth my softest light for you (if it’s in me) so that it may fill your eyes and wash the dampened dreams you’ve steeped in under tonic rivers and paper stars I will bathe you in this aching light, these milky, clouded tears, this lemondrop of sea and wounded moon I will kneel when you crumble; drop delicately to the earth when your ashen petals cling to my cradled arms. It’s a lonesome spot,

it’s a lonesome solace; If it’s in me, I will lie with the waves like a gull and watch the gardens, place your eyes behind the moon; bury half of you in the rose beds, the other under my rough left wing.

Dead Dogs

by Carline Bachmann illustrated by Jessica Baker

What can be said about dead dogs? You only know how much they mean when you get that phone call while you’re worlds away — in your college dorm or maybe behind a desk in a tweed suit-jacket—and you suddenly find yourself clawing at reality, dangling from the very body you always thought you occupied, digging your fingers into the edge of an era just trying to keep your childhood from falling out. Or sometimes you realize in a restaurant, weeks later, when a memory catches up to you and punctures a hole out of your side like some unruly, jail-broken swordfish, and you find yourself slurping a breath back in, just trying to reel the thought back in

so you can plug it all back up, only to find those slippery memories pouring out of you by the bucket-load and gasping for water down on the industrial floor.

Scribbling by Dan Zampini

The glare of the television blinks across the marbled, probably fake, granite surface of the counter-top, and as I watch the uneaten bits of broth soaked carrot in the bottom of my soup bowl I can’t help but wonder why I come back to this place. The waitress brings the rest of my food - it sure as hell isn’t the french fries. Too greasy, not enough salt. If I’m going to clog up my veins, at least give a guy some salt. I know they just fill up the plate with fries to distract you from the questionable portion size of your sandwich, but I finish them anyway. Bastards. That’s what I’m here for, right? I wish they would shut the fuck up. The table in the corner. Fucking drunks. Have I written this before? Wouldn’t be surprised. I’ve certainly done this enough times. Probably on this same stool at this same counter smearing the same grease across my notebook. “Four more hours.” The familiar old waitress, optimistic as always. This may take all night. I really, really wish they would shut up. It’s always words. How much time do we spend everyday saying things we don’t mean? Things we do? Does it make a difference? I’d like to think it does. I’m surrounded by unassuming, commonplace bigots. Men and women who think in red, white, and blue (and green) and speak in fourth of July fireworks. Each one defending a lifetime of words, few really their own.

It starts with words like nigger and faggot. Then more people with the same words. Then the same words louder. Louder. LOUDER. Next thing you know they find a body in the woods with a .357 inch hole in its skull or at the bottom of a bridge, broken. Then come words like tragedy, tolerance, and shame. Important sounding words that make important sounding people feel better. I leave a large tip because the old waitress never rushes me no matter how long I sit at the counter, scribbling. She’s sixty-four and still works the night shift, serving food to frat boys and off duty cops. One time she asked me if I was writing a book. I told her that I’d know when I was finished. The parking lot is cold and the roads are empty at this time of night. The moon is a slice of blood orange, and I can’t remember ever having seen it that color before. I feel the urge to walk into the middle of the road, press my ear against the cool asphalt, and listen. After a while I’d scream, just yell my head off until the people in the diner came running out to see what’s wrong. And I’d look them right in the eyes, every last one of them, and keep on screaming. It makes as much sense as anything else does. I wish you could see me now, Jordan. I’ve come a long way from that scrawny, nervous kid who smoked weed for the first time in your living room and tried to act cool, lighting your cigarette for you, trying to be James Dean. Now I drink Irish whiskey and write stories late at night when I can’t sleep. I wear combat boots and torn shirts and read Bukowski. Yea, I’m a real piece of work. You were a part of it. You made me realize something important that I should’ve accepted years ago. That it doesn’t matter what I do because I’m not like the those motherfuckers and I never will be. They could smell it on me, I think. Did you know they

used to push me into lockers when I was a kid? Steal my books? Taunt me with words they couldn't begin to understand? They tried to crush it out of me, and it worked for a while. I made myself into a joke to spare them the trouble. I dressed like them, and cut my hair like they did, and listened to their songs. They knew I was dangerous so they tried to make me one of them. Make me accept a spot at the bottom of their little world and feel grateful for the opportunity. But I’m stronger now and that will never happen again. I can’t let it, because it only takes one slip and they’ll eat you alive. You’ll wake up one day with a closet full of navy suits and yellow ties, a diploma on the wall of your office, a fresh divorce, and a knot in your stomach. Is today the day they let you go? I have to thank you. That night we danced to your favorite songs and I learned more about love than I had in every previous night put together. That morning we sat down at the diner, hungover with bloodshot eyes. I thought they were all staring at you and your pink hair and your crazy clothes. Then I realized, they were staring at us. It hasn’t been the same since.

Petra and Flowers by Philip Stevens

A Small Caravan by Philip Stevens

I Will Not by Jeffrey Roman

I will not place my body in that tomb. That line of drones that fight for the right. I will not place a check on that tablet. They can go on without me. My right, remember? I will not become a stat for rats. Those who tally will not tally my innocent hands. I will refuse it. I will say, “Never.” They’ll say, “But you must.” And I’ll say, “But you mustn’t.”

the Final Note A Letter from the Issue Editor Dear Reader, Emily Dickinson once wrote “If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can warm me, I know that it is poetry.” Although Dickinson certainly has a point, I also believe that if I read any literary work and it floods my whole body with a thousand emotions all at once, then I know that it is true literature relating to the human experience we call life. Humans are a passionate race and if words can capture this unique trait, then these words become so much more than words; they are mirrors. In this issue of The Lion’s Eye, you won’t find anything less than a thousand mirrors and a thousand different passions. Lest you miss it, here are a few things you should know, upon reading, about yourself and about humanity: We can look at a sunset – something that has become so average and expected – and still be in awe of the things that surround us. Parts of us may die – perhaps, even, our hearts, but we can still make our dreams rise. The greatest fear we have is of the unknown and of each other. We fear that if we let others in, they will betray us, they will ruin us, but we let them in anyway because we want them. We want them so badly that we ignore the screaming of our fears often to find them come true in the end. But we keep trying, hoping that we’ll be wrong…someday. We like to laugh, even if there is nothing to laugh about. Laughter can heal. At the same time, we can be the most ignorant, vengeful, pompous, selfish things in the world. But sometimes, we are willing to admit it. Other times we just have to breathe. Most of all, we just want to know who we are. And most of the time, we think that the answer is somewhere out there. But if we find ourselves, that will not be enough. We will not settle for clarity, there must be more. What will ever be enough? We find the universe to be indifferent and the reality of the matter scares us simply because we always felt that someone owed us something. And when we find out they don’t, our fate rests on our own shoulders and we aren’t sure if we can manage it. The past always catches up to us. Most of the time, it is something we don’t want to remember, but we do anyway because we can’t control our thoughts. Sometimes we live with regrets, but they shape the way we walk into the future. We survive because we have to. And after all we’ve been through, it actually doesn’t seem so hard anymore. You may not realize the amount of work and dedication it takes to create a literary magazine - or perhaps you do. Regardless, I’d like you to know that the staff of The Lion’s Eye is a truly dedicated one - Caroline, you are one of the most creative people I know. Please, keep writing. Katie – I’m so glad our paths decided to cross. We’ve seen so much on our many adventures and we continue to venture as we work with The Lion’s Eye. Samantha – your critical eye is extraordinary. Jessica, you are so creative and wonderful. I feel honored to work with you and I already have some ideas for next year. Get excited! Dana – you’re sincere words and insight are always valued and appreciated. Saagar, you’re the heart of this club, whether you realize it or not. And Cynthia, you are the backbone. I don’t know if we could ever manage without you. And to everyone else, Corey, Brett, Dan, Jeff, Yale, Eric, Rebecca, Ellen, Jessica, Christine, Courtney, Kaitlyn, Marico, Matthew, Keerthana, Sam, and Catherine – you are the dream team. I’d also like to give a special thanks to Corey and Catherine. Your creativity and insight into new and frightening technologies (at least to me) is refreshing. I can’t wait to get a head start on the next issue with both of you. There are two more people that I need to thank that do not come from The Lion’s Eye, but whose work is present throughout this issue: Rich Cabalar and Sam DeWys. Rich, you’re always there for me to give a helping hand in anything I do. It’s no surprise that you were there, once again. You never cease to amaze me. And Sam, you are going to change the world someday. I don’t think you know that, but someday I hope you do. And I hope I’m there to celebrate with you. Now, Reader, as I come to a close, I’d like to leave you with this last insight: Next time you feel sickened by the mundane and you crave more than what you see, flip through these pages and smile - because life is filled with passions and is anything but mundane.

All the Best,

36 Nicole M. Priestner Issue Editor

Lost Dog by Rachel Razza