Lions Eye Fall 2021 by Cyclion Bonaparte

The Lion’s Eye

volume 49 :: Fall 2021

beauty in the beast-nyc 2021 ayesha sultana

The Lion’s Eye Fall 2021 executive editor issue editor copy editor treasurer secretary publicist Assistant Issue Editor faculty advisor

Gianna Tyahla Filip Maziarz Cameron Foster Lauren Farrell Catherine Hom Megan Finan Madison Flynn David Venturo

staff :: Elizabeth Klein, Amy Reznik, Jess Gronikowski, Abigail Alvarez, Madison Flynn, Brendan Meriney, Emma Weniger, Greta Soos

“ Still ‘round the corner there may wait a new road or secret gate... ” — J.R.R. Tolkien

contents poetry and prose Gianna Tyahla

The First Look

Julianna August

That Day on the Water

Jess Gronikowski

An Ode to My Dinosaurs

Filip Maziarz

To Live with Yourself

Angie Tamayo-Leon

Convenience, Not Love

Madison Flynn

Self Portraits

Megan Miller Jayleen Rolon Renee Mianowski

Little One

Anisa Lateef

Tangerine Tranquility

Ann Mulligan

Simply Complex

Filip Maziarz

Quiet Wars in a Wild Sunset

Maia Franco

Tonight

Sarah adamo

To The One Who Stays

Javaree Gordon

Radar for Men

Sarah Knapik

Just Like You

Sabrina Ciaravino

Butterflies

Brendan Meriney

Clock in the Mist

Emma Weniger

The Bees’ Keeper

Filip Maziarz

Head In The Clouds

Sarah Adamo

It’s Not You, It’s Him

Elizabeth Klein

Won’t You Be My Love?

Filip Maziarz

Lust for Winter, Halloween

Ann Mulligan

Slipping

Emma Weniger

Finding a Way Home

Avina Sharma

The Hidden Key of Identity

Abigail Alvarez 4

16-17 To Do or Do Not See The Truth 17 Masked

Madison Flynn

38-39 Intricacies of Earth 41 Noise Complaints

Lauren Farrell

42-43 Ignorance Tea

contents poetry and prose Madison Flynn

Megan Finan

46-47

Filip Maziarz

Gianna Tyahla

48-50

Edwina Joe-Kamara

Funeral My Sweater The Frogs and I Like Rain More Life is Beautiful: Più Vita è Bella Epilogue Cacophony of Silence

Lysa Legros

52-53

Avina Shama

Balloon

Lilly Ward

Playing Possum

Maia Franco

Voodoo Doll

Michael Pedowitz

57-59

Paintings

Abigail Alvarez

Little Pebbles

Alexia Guzman

Matriarch/Martyr

Elizabeth Klein

Love Is

Emma Weniger

The Laughter of the World

Haley Cino

The Stifling Shadow

Lilly Ward

64-65

In the Cafe

Elizabeth Klein

Iridescent

Elizabeth Klein

I and You

Emma Weniger

Warnings from the Feywilds

Jordan Valiquette

The Exact Middle

Maia Franco

Gem

Anisa Lateef

Sudsy

Anisa Lateef

Cosmic Crash

Ayesha Sultana

She’s Choking Out

Isabel Smith

An Apology to the Little Girl I Once Was

Elizabeth Klein

Room for You

Filip Maziarz

The Last Look 5

contents art and photography Gianna Tyahla

(cover)

Ayesha Sultana

(masthead)

In My Head Beauty in the Beast-NYC 2021

Gabrielle McLean

Highway Sky

Gabrielle McLean

Flowers

Gabrielle McLean

Autumnal Landscape

Megan Dunn

Fluidity: Are You Me, I Am You?

Lilly Ward

“Draw Me Like One of Your French Croissants”

Sammie Zhu

The Sun’s Graze

Gianna Tyahla

Don’t Leave. It’s Just a Dream

Isabel Smith

Standing Still

Lilly Ward

“I Just Want to Feel Whole”

Megan Dunn

Virgo

Megan Dunn

Marceline/Glowing Orb/And Space Suit

Megan Dunn

That Feeling When You Turn Your Head: Run Kid

Chloe Yadav

Skeleton Clique

Gianna Tyahla

A Story

Amanda Harding

TCNJ Fountain

Ravenna Gemignani

Dream of Jealousy

Isabel Smith

The Beauty in Isolation

Isabel Smith

(untitled)

Gabrielle McLean

Autumn Morning

Ayesha Sultana

(back cover)

Tender Touch

highway sky gabrielle mclean

the first look

a note from the executive editor Dear Readers, Fall of 2021 annnnndd we’re back! Zoom University has finally come to an end, after over a year of online instruction, and we have returned to in-person instruction and college life. Back and better than ever! Despite the masks, despite the distance, and despite the restrictions, we have certainly made the first semester, post pandemic, extremely worthwhile. Most importantly, we did it together. I am extremely grateful to have met so many talented writers, photographers, and artists this semester. Our meetings were lively and was something I looked forward to every week. We created a positive environment to review, critique, and appreciate everyone’s work and I’m so grateful that the Lions Eye served as a creative outlet for so many amazing students and I was given the privilege to lead everyone. I have been truly moved and inspired by so many of you. So, to everyone who made the most out of the meetings and showed up every week, thank you. I extend my utmost gratitude to all of you who made these meetings possible and enjoyable. I would like to send a special thanks to Megan, Lauren, and Catherine, my fellow E-board members, who showed up every week and were constantly working to make this club function as it did. It has certainly been an adjustment and you all collaborated gracefully and efficiently and supported me along the way, through all the bumps and challenges. Again, thank you. Everything you have done has been recognized and appreciated by me. Everyone who has worked so beautifully this semester and has transitioned so gracefully, you are amazing. I know everyone will continue to inspire each other and create more amazing work that I cannot wait to see! You all should be so proud. I know I am.

Sincerely,

Gianna Tyahla Executive Editor

flowers gabrielle mclean

julianna august

that day on the water

There is something freeing about a poem with no line breaks. Like a ship sailing along an ocean on a sunny day, no wind or stanzas or formalities. Just you. Just you with your hair like a burning house, and the ocean of poetry to put it out, and your smile as you leaned over the edge of the boat. The way your irises glistened, like your feet ingested the waves and they crashed over your eyes. The way you smiled at me, brighter than the sun. The way I’d write a million poems about you without even caring about the line breaks. We were little kids, laughing in the hush of the night. We were elderly, reminiscing in a nursing home. We were 17 and we were 71, mortal and immortal, we were gods, we were humans, we were everything, and we were nothing, because it didn’t matter who we were. It didn’t matter like it did at your funeral, when the water travelled from your closed lids and your still lips to my toes, and the waves crashed over my eyes – no, it didn’t matter back then. We were just two people on a sunny day, no wind or stanzas or formalities. The way I wish I had bottled that feeling and kept it on my shelf. The way I wish I had been brave like the ocean breeze, brave enough to run my fingers through your hair. The way I’d write a million poems about you without even caring about the line breaks, just to feel that freedom again. And I wouldn’t care about wind or stanzas or formalities. Just you. I promise.

autumnal landscape gabrielle mclean 11

jess gronikowski

an ode to my dinosaurs

it started as a joke with some old friends, in a dimly lit field, all those years ago when I picked up a little, turquoise dinosaur from a festival; he cost two dollars, beginning an obsession of dinosaurs. such terrifying creatures, reimagined, cute, soft, plush, little monsters. when the festival returned next year, I bought another dinosaur, brown and stout and continued my obsession of dinosaurs. keychains and stickers, singing dinosaurs and one lit up like a Christmas tree in the dark of night, a monstrous flowerpot, big and small, gifts from my best friends, so many aspects to my obsession of dinosaurs. over many years of gathering, spending bits of money here and there, I’ve created a priceless collection, something much more than a joke, something, so wondrous, my obsession of dinosaurs. names given and forgotten, for every monster, you were there for me when I needed a shoulder to cry on, someone warm to hug silently reassuring, silently understanding, reaffirming my obsession of dinosaurs. why did you beckon me, all those years ago, a little turquoise dinosaur, dark and lovely? why did the spotlight fall on you? I search for answers to that question, why you started my obsession of dinosaurs. maybe out of fear of growing up, I needed something to ground me, something to remind me, it’s okay to be a quiet little kid, without direction or aim, it’s okay to have an obsession of dinosaurs. 12

filip maziarz

to live with yourself in the house of life—between vivid, pulsing walls of blood, reprieve is a little room held behind lock: and key, in the hands of a guest to whom invitations prove oblique.

the guest become sadful, gummy, and sick; with distant hands unseen and atrophied, speaks mantra of grip: to inhibit release; from the one who stole solace, the guest revokes peace. reprieve as a mercy, forgiveness of guilt, is twofold a practice, four-handed a hilt. so this elysium returns to unknown, as life-walls around you transform into stone, a house once abundant, now sorry and cold; far, far: a meadow.

angie tamayo-leon

convenience, not love A temporary fulfillment -- that’s what I was to you A quick fix Good enough to fuck around with but not good enough to stay with The person you wanted was not interested did that make me clearance? placed between the aisles of the cashier and the door? a “might-as-well” after thought Was it fun playing with a heart you didn’t care about breaking? I’m so tired of missing you Missing your laugh, your smile, your warmth You miss my absence My replaceability When you speak your native tongue in an effort to impress the next girl who’s smile do you think of? You create the same memories with new girls Recycled words dispersed to different girls Pain is proof that I loved Peace is proof that you didn’t 13

fluidity: are you me, i am you? megan dunn

madison flynn

self portraits self in the mirror, can’t decide if i like what i see or if i don’t because it changes minute by minute. baby hairs curl at the edges as anxious hands with scabbed fingers work to push them back. but the freckle under my eye remains the one constant keeps me connected to the light; to the light that i see in others, it shines within me too. because while i stare in the mirror the freckle twinkles and sways me closer to the mirror, hazel eyes wondering if they could see the freckle, too if they could see this burning light, too.

megan miller

to do or do not see the truth Henceforth, what am I going to remember? Onward we go, in wonder The rain has frozen Wide Speeding, slipping Breathing sharp and stinging A puzzle forced to finish with a piece missing An empty valley in the cavity of my chest, but my mind is whole What must I leave behind to keep going forward? Just a girl, daunted by the whole world I am a mindless being Like a dog, rolling Exposing my belly to the world I’m lain open so obscenely I proclaim! How can trust exist without vulnerability? How can bravery exist without fear? Sing! loudly my accolades Shout, scream from the topmost point in Fairy Glen like a siren Preaching her stories Eyes closed and far away my voice carries... I’m earnestly spoken, narcissistic and thoughtful The Envy of scholars and men Perfection, yes perfection There are so many exceptions to the lesson of perfection. I hold all the words in the palm of my hand Tell me, who will reach salvation? Who will be damned? Don’t look too close or it will devour you Beauty, not because nor despite the horror I’m an admirer, anew Subdue the conscious through the slaughter And though I am afraid, I am not brave

You’re not kids anymore We’re 18 now they’ll send us off to war And— hey what are you doing? Don’t embrace it, it’s a disgrace It... it’s futile isn’t it? When even standing on the edge you peer and hardly feel a whisper of fear. Here. Can’t we just go back to the bookstore? It’s our safe place. I don’t want to be here, what for? I’m sorry that this is the way the world is. Tell me, when the evening falls under smoky grey, with none of the warmth Say when you wake everyday as the person who tried to kill you, Tell me— Do you honestly like being the victim all the time? Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit

jayleen rolon

masked They can’t see me smiling, or singing, or laughing, or biting my lip when I’m thinking. They can’t see the way a smile slowly grows on my lips, or laugh at that stubborn piece of spinach that now lives in my teeth. They can’t be intimidated by my resting bitch face, or stare too long at the nose passed down on an island torn to shreds. All they get is my eyes, & that’s not even my best feature.

renee mianowski

little one

I wonder what the little one Dreams of As she falls Into a deep sleep On her cotton candy pillow. Maybe of lambs and sweet treasures, Of colorful memories yet to come. She enters into a dreamland, A place of quiet tenderness. A sort of peace and serenity. A Secret Place where Little ones Can only hope to imagine.

anisa lateef

tangerine tranquility Ever since the sweet sixteen when all her mind could do was tremble she’d find herself en route to the dairy queen tapping at her thigh, praying they weren’t out of tangerine sherbert scooped & stuffed into a coned waffle. Ever since the sweet sixteen and her fingertips matched the color of her indigo jeans in the chicago blizzards three layers below awful she’d find herself en route to the dairy queen. Just before her thoughts began to intervene convinced to wrestle with her heart muscle ever since the sweet sixteen the director would yell “scene!” and her breaths would scatter and dawdle she’d find herself en route to the dairy queen because tangerine was a tranquil daydream that never packed their yells into an unzipped duffle. So ever since her sweet sixteen she’d find herself en route to that dairy queen.

“draw me like one of your french croissants” lilly ward

ann mulligan

simply complex

They say the simplest things in life Are the best things in life.

I’m sorry to have taken something so simple, And turned it into something so complex. I would blame my anxiety, But that would be entirely irresponsible. The simplest things in life are the best, Then why did I turn something so Blissful, Kind, Cheerful... Into something so Complex, Awful, Distasteful? Explanations, apologizing, and worrying Will never cease.

filip maziarz

quiet wars in a wild sunset

I’m sorry you saw me break for the slightest of seconds. The mask fell and you saw my true shell: An anxiety-ridden person, who will never stop saying sorry. I’m sorry I ruined something so simple, And made it so complex.

a trio of teens, troublemakers by tradition, whom gentle by nature rest upon the hotel patio, one to a seat a scout, a dill, and again, of sorts, In their unwritten sequel: Where the Mockingbirds Flew.

to the river overlook, shaded from the golden west, sharing thoughts, a splitting heart: two boyish brutes, in contest apart, silently, through shallow boasts warring for the female’s favor– the tomboy, tourist, in fail-friend terror: freckles, sun-dress, white and red. perhaps, instead, she’s an early Brett, in her centerpoint spinoff: The Sun Always Sets.

the sun’s graze sammie zhu 21

maia franco

tonight I don’t want to feel like a dried up houseplant tonight But I’ll drink anything that isn’t your water. I don’t want to be so cold tonight But I don’t want to be wrapped up in your cherry sheets. I don’t want to be so afraid of the dark tonight But I don’t want you to be my night light. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight But I’ll break my back if I sleep on your futon full of holes. I don’t want to stay in and sober tonight But I’ll vomit if I drink from your cart of cheap liquor. I don’t want to stop dancing tonight But I can’t twirl under your chipped disco ball. I don’t want to need something sweet tonight But I’d rather choke than eat from your box of candies. I don’t want to miss your warmth tonight But I won’t go back to a place that turned cold.

sarah adamo

to the one who stays His love surpasses all oratory, For rhetoric is trite, But his eyes betray an earnest wonder When I command his sight. He commits always to sideways glances, Like leaving room for flight, Yet he answers me in ungodly hours To be my candlelight. He begs pardon for his artless beauty, As if it turns me blind. How emboldened he would be if I read The opus in his mind! He entertains no semi-truth, for he Beholds the naked frame. And, lo, when there is every cause to run, He stays the very same. Age has sobered my thirst for fairytales, But this I know is true; All I hold dear in this cruel, dying world, I find alive in you.

javaree gordon

radar for men My best friend said I was a radar for men She said I was lucky She said she was jealous She said… She said, she said, she said, she said. Please stop talking Make the whispers go away. I’ve been catcalled since I was 10 My body has been stained My body has been used They peeled away my innocence Stripped me of my virtue They took a fruit that wasn’t ripe Forced womanhood on an unsuspecting child They broke my spirit and stole my shine Told me love was equal to having a good time My best friend said I was a slut She said I was lucky She said she was jealous She told me not to talk to her She said, she said, she said, she said. Please can you explain Make her understand. I was only 17 when he touched me But it was my hair My hair, my hair, my hair, my hair He said he only touched my hair A friend of the family My father calls him brother Yet he gave what I didn’t request And took what I didn’t offer I couldn’t talk It was so much to bear. Yet my best friend said I was a whore She said I was lucky She said she was jealous She said she wanted to be me She said, she said, she said, she said. 23

dont leave. it’s just a dream gianna tyahla

sarah knapik

just like you I’ve seen Aphrodite, She’s got Blue Orchid eyes. Every part of her’s heavenly, she’s the perfect size. She smells peachy and lovely, grace paints her stride. I long to be with her, to stay by her side. Skin soft and milky, smooth and sweet. Her features are flawless, pretty and neat. Her lips are rose-hued, soft and plush. They smirk at me lovingly, and I have to blush. Because she’s perfect, she’s golden, she holds my heart true. I met Aphrodite once, She looks just like you.

standing still isabel smith

sabrina ciaravino

butterflies A little flutter of tiny wings move inside my stomach And months go by, I push it down, It’s fine. A soft voice calls out to me and eyes look into mine, Why is his voice so fucking soft. Butterflies butterflies butterflies butterflies. I push it down, it’s fine I said. And lovely laughter echoes through the halls like a song and suddenly afternoon thoughts become night time dreams and night time dreams become dizzy mornings Bruises on his soft hips and soft shoulders like angry storm clouds In lovely blues and purples and reds and BUTTERFLIES BUTTERFLIES BUTTERFLIES BUTTERFLIES. Confused, he takes up all my time even when he isn’t here, God above Help me I think im inBUTTERFLIES But soft skin and softer voices and softer brown eyes and there are so many butterflies.

Relative to the beholder a clock echoes in the mist, To our Sun, it is but a low hum barely perceptible in the ether. To you or me it is a steady pulse, A reminder of the ultimate resource. Evaporating away with every passing second, Sand through an hourglass, A mosquito buzzing in our ear, Sapping our precious life blood, The clock ticks mercilessly on. To Abreham, the stars marked the passing year, To Pocahontas, the moon the passing day, Galileo had a sundial to mark the fleeting hour, Edison, a pocket watch ever ticking away. We try with haste to quantify the passing Sun, We try in vain, the passing Sun an illusion to our monkey brains, As our brains attempt to make sense of our hurtle around the equilibrium dance of the Sun, We race unprotected through uncharted space, Being hurled away from the epicenter of spacetime itself, Who’s echoes casted in the radiological map of space, Who’s infinite state can be observed. The human race but a blip in geologic term, Our eyes open to the ancient light of our ever expanding universe, Our first breath held as we peer into the scopes of the past, We cry out as the future is illuminated before us, Mother Earth comforts and quiets us as we stare off into the blinding light of potential and promise. We look up into her heart warming eyes, We laugh and giggle and play, clutching to her breast, Pulling at her flowing hair, She wipes the drool from our chin, She lays us down in our cradle and we close our eyes. The clock in the mist draws near, its ticking, Reverberating in our skull, Bouncing around, feeding itself, Growing ever present. The mist clears as the clock stops, Through the clouds rays of light shine down. Climbing we ascend, this is where the tale must end. The tale ends here, but the journey continues beyond, Beyond that which our monkey brains can comprehend, Try we might no-one truly knows, But that’s the adventure in the end. 28

brendan meriney

the clock in the mist

emma weniger

the bees’ keeper The thrum of wings as one. All towards their hive home. To protect their queen, and what is theirs. Little brownies, Little brownies, Your master is dead. The flick and whisk of white, Enclosing those inside. For the keeper had heaved their last breath. Little brownies, Little brownies, Your master is dead. The words are whispered, One bee to another, Communicated through wing. Little brownies, Little brownies, Your master is dead. The humming has faded. All but a whisper, As word reaches the queen. Little brownies Little brownies We are finally free.

filip maziarz

head in the clouds The first words of exchange by the window seat on a plane may follow: “The clouds are nice.” “I agree, they’re quite nice.” “I would like to take a bite of them, like a slice of cloud pie.” “Yes, I agree.” 29

“i just want to feel whole” lilly ward

sarah adamo

it’s not you, it’s him

Every day I kiss you With chapped lips Feels so numb I almost wish I didn’t have you Wrapped around my thumb Because it will be hard enough When you soon discover It’s not just that I feel nothing with you But I feel everything for another

elizabeth klein

won’t you be my love? Won’t you be my love? Kiss me under the stars and surrounded in the morning air Run your fingers through my hair I won’t even mind if you undo the curls Hold me close to you please Let me listen to your heartbeat and put me at ease I’ll match my breath to be in time with yours Stroke my cheek and tickle my nose Leave your scent on all my clothes I’ll breathe it in when I miss you Make me smile and make me laugh Break my heart and keep one half I won’t need it again if you leave Hold my hand and massage my shoulders Grow with me as we grow older My love My love Oh won’t you be my love?

virgo megan dunn 32

filip maziarz

lust for winter, halloween a cold wind strikes as i step between the arching lengths of autumn’s first dead boughs. as the breeze buffets me again, laden dense with moisture grey, and smell of leaves primed to decay; saliva starts to coat my tongue and shivers jitter up my bones. in wake of today morning’s storm, where ice blew in foreshadowing, a chilling glee is born in me and follows every walk i see. my viólence ensnares the air and touches those along my way, the deer, in moonlit shade, watch me, some skins–they flee beyond my reach. a moment passes where my thoughts become the sentience sole in space; the windbeat has become my heart, all thinking things have hid from me. i shroud myself within a glade— sweet woods made sinister in dark— and wait amid the churning leaves: my prey is just a stretch away...

ann mulligan Slipping— Slowly, Stedfully, Slipping.

slipping

While asleep, Something is submerged, Further and further, Each time. Almost as if, Someone comes and pushes The memory of you away From me. Causing it to slip, Slowly Stedfully, Slipping further and further Each time. And maybe that is why, I wake up each night; Clinging the memory of you close to my chest. So I won’t lose it. But every morning, I wake up, With your smile Slipping, Slowly, Slipping further and further, Each time.

marceline/glowing orb/and space suit megan dunn 35

emma weniger

finding a way home

Walk with me, Through the trees, Over mossy stones, And through brush.

It is a fairy stone. Peer inside, See their world, What is hidden to our eyes.

Pulling out thorns, Those grappling fingers, Feel the pain of, Reality, Of adventure.

Watch them flit and float. On wings of stained glass. Giggle along with them, At the small toad, With a raspberry hat.

Come sit. There is a mossy seat. It is meant for you. Enjoy the bubbling brook.

Hum along, With the cricket chorus. See one play, A tiny violin.

Dip your toes in the crisp, Clear, Clean water. Wiggle your toes. Feel alive.

See the homes, Nestled in trees. Little folk, Riding leaves On the wind.

Pick up stones. Cast them back. Let them bathe. Be washed of the past.

Fairies with wings, Of butterflies, And ladybirds. Talking to a toadstool.

Find a stone that calls to you, A curious one with a hole, It makes you feel safe, Cupped in your hand. Nestled perfectly.

Keep the stone safe. Unbroken. For if it is, The door to their world, Will remain, Forever closed.

the hidden key of identity avina sharma

abigail alvarez

intricacies of earth

i believe in the small things. the importance of finding life in the intricacies of earth. for my existence alone remains in the hands of this world, at the tips of this universe, on the surface of this dimension. i feel every embrace in the evening atmosphere when the sunset mimics the vibrance of your eyes. world dripping in gold, i begin to count the blades of grass tickling my ankles. for each one, i write a love letter dedicated to this delicate life. i believe in subtle smiles. gazing in awe, i watch happiness bloom on your face like rosebuds in the spring. the tone of your laughter reverberates through my mind, a song that sings all our worries away. something tells me we are all hedonists at heart; soul searching in the midst of July. together we conquer the world with technicolor dreams until surrealism becomes our vivid reality. holding hands, never to abandon the wondrous extents of imagination. our happiness breaks the boundaries of time.

i believe in drifting clouds. there is something about the way they waltz with breeze and play with the sun. softly blushing, warm light kisses my porcelain cheeks. time itself gets seduced by the vastness of the blue sky. for a moment i ponder whether there are more drops in the ocean than seconds to spare. waves of wonder cascade over me. will i ever get the know the depths of sea or is that discovery only for my soul? before the moon wanes away, i want to know every atom by name.

i believe in red stop lights. the only moment in which the city that never sleeps takes a quick nap, dreaming of its next destination. in this place, i listen to the writing on the walls, i join the art on the streets. something inside me shouts! count the seconds between every step because

in the end you will appreciate the eternity between every mile. i love it: the way i wander in the sonder of this city. perhaps time is not just measured with a clock, but the endless number of memories hidden in the alleyways. i believe in soft pillows. even though i am fifteen, i admit here and now, that my mother still tucks me in each and every night. the lullaby of her three simple words embraces me into sleep. i make friends with my dreams and enemies with nightmares. the feelings that find themselves in the ethereal passion. the feelings that lose themselves in the mundane apathy. yet, here i am. at home in my mind. to this day, i cannot fathom the beauty of the brain; the way in which we value our priceless aspirations as if we had all the time in the world. i believe in long car rides. ears craving to hear the light tones of guitar strings dancing through the open windows. lungs yearning to breathe in the words of the air. there lies comfort in not living by the inhale but living by the exhale through moments that borrow the life right from our lips. each road sign guides the confused thoughts racing through my head. a journey to nowhere is the only place i will ever want to be. i believe in the small things. i believe they lead to big questions. do you remember the last time you hugged your grandfather? time is ticking down. can you hear God’s whisper anymore? time is ticking down. what were the last words that made you laugh? time is ticking down. when did the days become longer? time is ticking down. why do you wish on dandelion? time is ticking down. wait i never got to tell you how― i believe… time’s up. 39

that feeling when you turn your head: run kid megan dunn

madison flynn

noise complaints loud was the sound of laced up saddle shoes black and white slapping on the blacktop where i scraped my knee through my tights during recess

knees k n o c k i n g and ears r i n g i n g with applause simply because we had survived what they deemed “childhood”

but i didn’t have time to stop the bleeding

but it was just l o u d.

because it was l o u d and i hurried back inside up the carpeted stairs surrounded by voices propelled forward to reach the top and the days kept moving as pigtails grew into locks and jumpers into jeans and coloring pages into essays it was l o u d as we talked over each other for a chance to speak and no one took us seriously and the days blurred together

and now it was finally our turn. my turn. except now it was quiet and people ask me questions but now there’s nothing i can’t remember what i had to say now there’s nothing but quiet and it’s quiet and it’s my turn.

as the figment of childhood began to fade and suddenly one by one we walked across a stage 41

lauren farrell

ignorance tea It is raining outside today, a November day, icy early. Inside the water boils in the tea kettle on the stove. The sun shines most days but there’s rain, sometimes-- there has to be. The weather mimics winter, but it is still a novice, still new, not yet fully-convinced to be cruel. January February March are cruel. November is still learning. No, no, November is youthful. November is thankful. It shows it through beauty gold orange red. November smiles when it meets new company, it shakes your hand with its cool breeze. November, you have a strong grip, I’m surprised. Pick up the sticks. Rake the leaves. Make a pile and jump in. Swim in leaves. Drown in leaves. Ignore it. Make apple pie pumpkin pie cranberry sauce turkey a change: vote. Create chaotic lists of things to do. Remember loves lost. Promise not to fight with the family across the table this year. Take the kettle off the stove and make green tea. I met you and you surprised me. You like to play, can’t make up your mind on the weather, so I make hot tea you make cold rain. November is still learning, November is a quick learner. Wasn’t summer so recent? The rain is so cold. The kettle is so hot. It screams to let me know. And with horror, I understand. I ignore it. Is anyone else confused? I ignore it. November smiles and its teeth are still growing in but they slice the rain. November has claws that pull at the wind. It is thankful to meet me. Summer never left because I didn’t want it to. November eats it and it is gone. The kettle screams. I should take it off the burner so it will stop screaming. Quiet. Quiet would be nice. The wind at the window is so loud. 42

I ignore it. But I understand the kettle’s language when it yells in its metallic tongue, when it cries that youth is never gold orange red. There is no green except my tea my tea is green. Rake the sticks. Pick up the leaves. Swim a pile and drown in it. Promise apple pie pumpkin pie voices votes change memories fights loss. Create a family who doesn’t love. Take the kettle off the stove. Red Orange Gold Green Tea Tea Tea Tea Ignorance makes my tea taste sweeter when my kettle is as cold as is as cruel as November. The rain strikes the pavement and evaporates instantly. It is fire outside today. The water boiling in the tea kettle freezes solid. It is winter in the fall but summer never left. It is November, ancient as ever. It is downpouring flame and inside I drink ice.

skeleton clique chloe yadav 44

madison flynn

funeral with a flip of a tassel and the flash of a camera the hearse drives away, turns the corner, carrying the remains of the past, never to be seen again? and the group around me chatters pleasantly, and i remain silent, clutching a piece of paper, rolled up tight, holding it like a remembrance candle.

i’m grappling to understand, grasping the roots of a tree that has sprouted too early for my liking, shooting up far too high, and far, far, far, from the me i used to know, and just like that a child loses childhood.

at the funeral service no one is sad and i think to myself how can someone surrender so easily? lying their crayons on top of the casket, and burying their stuffed animals, and leaving the cemetery, packing a box abandoning the walls that housed them with barely a blink of an eye? i am left behind, stranded in the swirl of sadness, standing by my lonesome, in the empty cemetery, clutching remnants of the past, while grief clutches my throat, no one else’s but mine.

megan finan

my sweater You said you liked my sweater. Innocuously, innocently. You might as well have pissed all over it. Marked your territory like a dog and a hydrant. Because your words bounce up and up and down my brain like beads in a maraca and they won’t stop sHaKiNg, raTTling, fucking with me. they send waves of anxiety through my chest until it’s tight because i don’t know if you like the sweater or what’s under or me and i don’t know which one i hope for… So the piss-stained sweater is now yours; shall I strip bare in class and hand it over? i love the sweater though and i don’t want it ruined because it’s pink and soft and i’ve had it for years and i’ve never had a bad memory attached to it like a wine-colored piss stain and now it’s ruined forever and i don’t want it to be ruined forever because i love it it’s so soft so… Fuck my brain. Let it shake and rattle and fuck with me, 46

You don’t get to take the clothes off my back, strip me bare class.

in the middle of

There’s soap and water and Oxyclean for a reason. You can get my thoughts, my obsessions, but you don’t get my damn soft pink sweater.

filip maziarz

the frogs and i like rain this night it drizzles like a light sea mist, with cries of aqueous beasts piercing the false-light-browned suburban sky; that word for smell so often used, for acrid, bitter, black, confused: petrichor, in its manner sweet, which sweetens as the sea persists.

gianna tyahla

more life is beautiful Più Vita è Bella

Along the golden countryside of peaceful Toscana, Italia, a small home in the outskirts of Lucca overlooks a vast sunflower field. This is a story of Girasole, or sunflower, whose inner strength and beauty, in the darkness and isolation, warms the heart of another. Broken and helplessly alone, Girasole weeps. The breeze punches the top of her head and a light wind wisp becomes her new tune. Her back aches with terminal scoliosis and a posture her mother would condemn. She has been neglected and silenced by the dark twisted nebula haunting her mind, which has also overcome the sky. This was abnormal weather for July, a time when all sunflowers are supposed to thrive. I want to feel alive. She cries. No one is around; no one to find. Stand tall, she remembers her mother’s voice, but her arm was limp and shriveled. Her salad days, gone, simply out of mind. Vibrant, I was, she yearns for the rays. But now, Girasole is only left with the dew of her eyes, what she remembers, and seemingly not much time. She reminisces of her ignorance. Taking for granted the community and the togetherness. Hundreds of us, living in pure and ignorant bliss. Why me? Why this? She was ripped by the youthful hand of her admirer, Giulia. Picked against her will, and placed in an isolated, sparkling, glass mason jar on a cold, lonesome, window sill. Absorbing the everlasting rays of Him. Ultraviolet kisses that made her strong and tall. She recalls pirouetting for His love; extending and changing her inclination during the days. Grateful for the life He gives, from the time He rises, early in the morn, to the time He sets, Girasole was always there. He is my world. He gave me life. He makes us all feel special. Billions of sunflowers follow Him throughout each and every day. He rises. We worship. We follow. I am nothing without you. 48

I am His child. I reflect Him. Girasole is my name. When will I see you again? Only strong enough to pray, she bows her head in shame. I was only enthralled with you that I forgot to share my happiness with the others around. I am punished. I am alone. Alone without my God; My Sun. Her golden mane falls limp. Thirsty, hungry, and abandoned by the one who constantly gives. You are my sunflower, his voice still echoes. Her tanned, golden, summer derma lacks the vibrance that she once owned. There is a myth about her species. That sunflowers turn towards each other for comfort in The Sun’s absence. We only live for Him and soak up His glory, turning in His direction, whichever that may be. We never turn to each other. We all lived for ourselves, that we forgot to live in harmony. It is only that they are gone that I know what I have lost. Her strong green body which once stood tall and stiff, is now soft and limp. A brown pigment ombre overcomes her fuzzy green skin. This is it. A woman’s voice yells: “Giulia! Basta! Stop picking the sunflowers, they are not going to live!” Spinning the firm and freshly picked, Clizia, Giulia’s rosey cheeks blushed. In a mini pot she bought from “Mercato,” Giulia places Clizia next to Girasole. “Ma, mamma! Sunflowers get lonely. They need more life to survive! Più vita! Più vita!” “Look, this one is already dying, you shouldn’t have picked them on such a cloudy day!” Girasole peaked to see her newly arrived sister. She watched her sister fold up in the small brick colored pot. Girasole came alive. Expanding her heart, Saluta, are you well? Va bene? 49

Dov’è? Where is He? The Sun? Il Sole? Clizia cried. Gone. I feel weak. Debole. Don’t become like me, we have each other at least. Girasole’s spine strengthened, and her scoliosis gone. That was how she came alive. Through her grace to believe, and in her darkest hour, she helped her sister grow. So, upon the return of The Sun from behind the dark cloud overhead, they were open to fully take in His warmth to enhance their own lives with each other. The Sun was always there, looking down at His children. Even if He was hidden, even if they could not see Him peeking through the tumultuous clouds, He was always there. Girasole realizes that there must have been a lesson He was teaching them. Although it is said a myth, the sunflowers turn towards each other and is the sentiment all beings must live. It should not take isolation or despair to realize that we need each other to grow. We need each other to be alive. Girasole extends her arm for the tin watering can beside her, and blesses her sister. More life is beautiful, Girasole whispers.

Più vita è bella, was echoed.

edwina joe-kamara

epilogue

In the short time I’ve spent watching the sun humbly bow before the moon and rise to succession day after day, I’ve come to an epiphany: simple words have an incomparable density compared to anything else this universe holds. A stern “no” has eviscerated worlds into oblivion, and a whispered “yes” has sent stars into the depths of the unknown to shine their brightest, to feel their best. I hold the power of these simple words on my tongue. We all do. We, who just happen to have the capabilities of commanding chaos and watering the gardens within us, bring the palpable to life. Yet, for so many of my days where I planted my feet in the soil, let my soul wander with the heavy spring winds, listened to the ocean’s melancholy song, I still chose to destroy myself. When no one is there to hold a helping hand out to your addled mind or rest their forehead on your weeping heart, it’s easy for you to tear yourself apart. And I did. Flaying at my layers, revealing that underneath all of my flesh lies, hatred, and pain. I tore, poked, chewed away until I lay raw, bleeding.

with the wind that my soul escaped with long before, and this air found its way into my lungs. It wasn’t so hard to breathe anymore. I could lie and say that sickness had stopped plaguing me from that moment on, but what good would that do? It took a long time to speak well of myself, to cauterize the wounds I’d caused with sweet words solely meant to heal. I tell you these things, not to grab at the sympathy you dangle about my eyes I say this to you– you seeking answers where there seems to be everything but– carefully consider your speech. With each breath comes a word that drives the universe into action, awakens the cosmos above to move to your cry. There is dominion cradled by the tongue, it’s easy to mindlessly poison one’s self. It’s hard to strip away such a habit. It’s even harder to salivate goodness and purity instead. But the harder a challenge is to overcome, the better the outcome. Hope tends to be the last twinkle of light in a sea of iniquity. Swim to it and hold it close to your body so it might melt into you and loosen the bonds of affliction. You’re going to be okay. We all are.

On one of my final evenings, waiting for all of me to slip away in the night I spoke aloud one last small plea for help. At that moment, a cold front came in

lysa legros

cacophony of silence The worst part of being an only child is the silence. The loneliness that settles in and fills itself with its own presence. I’m an eternal loop of self-cannibalization, the self simultaneously expanding and shrinking. Mom, when we talk, says that I’m dramatic, that I’m too much, so she bought me this notebook in the hopes of psyching me out. She handed this to me on my birthday saying “It must be burdensome to keep so much locked in.” It shouldn’t make sense, to be both too dramatic and too self-contained. But somehow this compressed spring blossoming into vociferous ego does. Maybe it’s a phase, like Trish says it is. A “puberty driven mood.” Trish shared this with me over oranges in the dining room “You’re only thirteen,” she said, unravelling her fruit in a single sweep. But this isn’t a feeling that suddenly swept over me two month ago – this lonely-hunger has accumulated for years and years. Developing within me, to consume and become. Is the difference between 15 and 13 so vast? I glanced at my pile of orange peels, and then her elegant loop. I shouldn’t have said so much when she and her parents came over to visit my dad. When after I handed her an orange, she asked, “How are you?” And I answered honestly. I shouldn’t have spilled so much when she asked what I meant. But I wanted to, I just didn’t want the embarrassment that would follow.

*** I’m still not sure why mom left. I mean I shouldn’t be surprised that they split – they might have shared a home, but they lived separate lives. Separate hours, separate bedrooms, different past times – her and her highways, him and his VCR tapes. Their union was composed of tense arguments and scathing silences. And now there’s only silence – the aftermath of some great calamity. We move quietly, passed each other. Him, to his office, me to my room and my Hastune Miku voice bank.

When they argued, they never said what they meant. Except that last time. “I don’t want to be complicit in your lie,” she said. And left. I wonder what that makes me.

*** The new school is strange – it’s bigger than my old one, a middle and high school combined. It’s old too – built in 1922, in the gothic revival style that boomed in the 1920s. It’s grand and uninviting, a glorious set of square and sharp elements reaching out towards the sky and sprawling across the campus.

My classmate, Gabriella, a girl with dark hair and hot pink tips, told me that it had been a mansion once. A large estate with a fraught history that its inheritors wanted to distance themselves from. She advised going to the bathroom in pairs, strange things happen to people who go alone.

*** The day of the mile walk was hot – parched – the air was dry and stale and it heaved like we would have if we were required to run. Gabriella and I shared a phys-ed period with the sophomores, and somewhere along the maroon track loop, Trish joined us. We discussed superpowers we’d like to have. Trish said she’d like to be invisible – she’d enjoy the freedom of being unseen and discovering how people behave when they think no one is watching. Gabriella said she wanted to fly. I said I wanted to read minds. “Wouldn’t it get tiring?” Trish asked, “Like, what would be the limits on that? Imagine how awful it would be to hear everyone’s thoughts within like a mile radius or something.” “How about controlled mind reading?” I suggested. “I could choose whose mind I read.” “Whose mind would you want to read?” Gabriella asked, twirling a piece of pink hair along her finger. I shrugged – theirs, my parents, most people really. “It’d depend on the situation.” I imagined what it would be like to put this power in motion – if I could connect Trish’s yawn to anything more than the oppressive sun, if I could climb through the vortex of Gabriella’s eyes to figure out if she really cared.

*** I admit that I’m not always as smart as I’d like to make people think I am – after all, why did I get myself a Japanese voice bank when I don’t speak or read Japanese? Heck, I barely know anything about music. And yet, I waste time, trying to fit the Japanese vowels into English words, attempting to remold the musical alphabet into one that I can understand. I listen to a lot of Mitchie M, and a lot of MCR. I manage to make Miku breathe. “Hi Michelle! How are you” Mom exclaims over the phone. “I’m good. How are you?” When dad’s out, the music that pulses in my headphones spills into my room. The words clatter onto a page, and Miku screams. 53

balloon avina sharma 54

lilly ward

playing possum I’ve become quite quite good at playing possum It’s possible to perfect This involuntary vanishing act From some place within myself That has yet to be located I am just barely seen But do not see Am heard, But do not hear And now I’m speaking But not really saying anything My eyes are open wide I am looking, Am watching, Without seeing My limbs My feet Are lifted The descent a Soft collision Between pavement and dead leaves I’ve slipped out of my own skin under the witness But below the notice Of the others around me Under the eyes of strangers whose glances bounce off My face A smooth, blank, featureless surface of a tinted windshield Their eyes Insects inadvertently hitting this surface

So unassuming as to remain below the radar of danger Until with a microscopic thud There’s a quiet ricochet of no consequence These strangers Who may as well be shadows Are passing through an episode of my life But I am just another extra Their presence reminds me of the time My foot slipped out of my sneaker In the grocery store Just as I have slipped outside of myself now It was a place untouched by sun And The strangers they walked around me like they would a spill Something that they do not have the patience to wait for it to evaporate Some taking care to go around Others forging straight ahead as if they Didn’t notice or maybe just didn’t care. I had lifted the unarmored foot from the ground resisting the Glide of floor incompatible with a foot left suddenly vulnerable Encased in soft material not made for the outside world A creature abruptly pulled from its shell. I had stood there desperately trying to return my foot to the familiar. And I stand here now trying to return my mind to my body.

maia franco

voodoo doll

You left your voodoo doll on the bar next to the empty glass you just drank your gin from. I know

mine is around here somewhere, but I haven’t seen it since we kissed on the dancefloor. The doll’s short hairs were wet from the condensation of your glass, and the little stitched up face had raised eyebrows that made the suggestion, Let’s play a game. I placed the doll in the small alcove above the racks of wine glasses, where no one would disturb it unless they were looking. I walked towards the open door of the bar and felt the cool wind rushing past my face, until the breeze halted, and I was back at that bar stool with the empty glass and perfumed air that reminded me of you. I rose from the stool and walked quickly towards the door once again, just to experience the wicked halt of the breeze as I felt my ass land back into the same barstool. Why can’t I leave? It has to be that damned voodoo doll you left me. Game on. I picked up the doll and shoved it into my pocket, running now as I raced out of the doors and finally out into the December night. I kept running, straight to your place, where I knew the key would be above the door frame. I saw you reach for it last night while we were tangled up outside your door. My doll is sitting in a little birdcage in your living room like your pet. I snatch it from its cage and place it on the gold chain around my neck. I locked the door behind me, placed the key where you left it, and headed back to the bar. Let’s play.

michael pedowitz

paintings Mr. Kingston wanted to refuse the box of old paintings, but he knew it would be rude to deny the bequest from his former business partner, Mr. Hearse. When he returned home from the funeral on that cloudy winter day, he set the musty cardboard crate on a wooden chair, and eyed it contemplatively. There was no request to sign for the paintings, or even a note attached — just the name “Kingston” scribbled on the side of the box. Especially toward the end, Mr. Kingston hadn’t cared particularly much for his former partner. Hearse was a bitter old man who blamed Mr. Kingston for their firm’s financial ruin. While Mr. Kingston had managed to secure his own private investments that kept him prosperous, Mr. Hearse’s prospects went down with the firm. Years later, they hardly spoke to each other at all, but when Mr. Kingston heard of his partner’s stroke from a former colleague, he couldn’t help but feel victorious at having outmatched Hearse in finance and in years. Even after the funeral service, though, all Mr. Hearse meant to Mr. Kingston was a box of paintings. Mr. Kingston looked around his drab old house — the walls were a depressing shade of hazel, and adorned only with a wooden trim. He gazed down at the box of canvases, and sifted through six oil paintings — there were only six, but they were breathtakingly detailed renditions of varying picturesque landscapes. Deciding his place needed the sprucing up, Mr. Kingston nailed the paintings up around the large house. He placed each painting in a different room, definitively interrupting the monotone color scheme throughout his house. Although those vibrant pictures initially struck the reserved old banker as somewhat too ostentatious, Mr. Kingston chose to keep them up due to the newfound vivacity they brought to his lonely mansion. Collectively, the paintings detailed both faraway destinations and nearby nature alike, and despite their mere two-by-three dimensions, were like gateways into the landscapes themselves. He was particularly fond of the picture of a beach — a serene, beautiful shore filled with color. The water was a glistening turquoise, and the sand was devoid of anything save for a couple of starfish. This one reminded Mr. Kingston of his days in the firm at Manchester-by-the-Sea, and he smiled at the memory of walking through the tall grasses by the shore during his lunch breaks. He hung up the photo right in the main atrium of the house, ensuring the few visitors he did have would see it. After supper, Mr. Kingston decided to check in for an early night, and so once in his nightclothes, he made his way across the atrium to his bedroom. His journey was interrupted, however, as something new about his painting caught his eye. On the oil shore, inches from the water, a young girl in a white sundress gazed out into the ocean, her brown hair windswept by a gentle breeze. Mr. Kingston wiped his glasses, sure he was mistaken — but he put them back on to find the girl there, staring at the quiet sea. He chuckled at himself for not noticing her before. Surely, he needed to rest his eyes. He retired into his master bedroom, and admired the painting sitting right above his mantle. It was of a large manor sitting underneath a beautiful sunset, with the dark blue walls finely juxtaposed against columns bathed in pink rays. It reminded him somewhat of his own mansion atop a grove-enclosed hill, and he enjoyed the cozy, secure feeling that the spacious abode provided him. A well-earned reward for a hard-worked man, Mr. Kingston thought, and he tucked himself under his covers.

After a long rest, Mr. Kingston woke to find himself eager to study his paintings once again. Seeing all of the beautiful landscapes nested about the house gave the place a liveliness it hadn’t had before, and the former banker felt excited to enjoy them. In the serene light of the beautiful morning, as the sunshine illuminated his house, Mr. Kingston didn’t pay any thought to the previous day’s funeral. After fetching the newspaper from the door’s mail slot, he sat at the kitchen table with a warm coffee. He opened up the paper, and sighed at the headline. A girl of eleven had been pulled into a riptide the other day, and had drowned. Mr. Kingston shook his head solemnly, and perused the rest of the paper while finishing his drink. As he passed the atrium on his way to the library, he examined the lovely details of his painted beach, but avoided staring at the pastel girl for too long. The old banker sat down in his library, and admired a different painting. It was a serene portrait of the Grand Canyon — the rusty mountainscape seemed to demand his attention, the tall cliffs beckoning his gaze. He’d never visited in person, but his mother would talk about the place ad nauseum when he was young. He’d always wanted to stand atop the majestic peaks and look down at the Colorado River, and made a mental note to take a future trip there. That night, as Mr. Kingston prepared for bed, he decided he would take a book with him to read. He had no desire to watch the news channel, so he picked up a fantasy from among the rows and rows of leather-bound novels, and made his way out of the library. On his way out, he wondered if his vision was getting even worse, for he swore he saw a young man scaling the wall of the oily Arizona peaks. The following morning, he greeted the delivery boy personally as he dropped off a package. The boy was rather talkative, but Mr. Kingston was in a pleasant mood, so he entertained him for a few minutes. The boy looked over Mr. Kingston’s shoulder into the library, and grew visibly shy. When the banker pressed him for a reason, the boy looked down at his shoes, and simply said tersely that his cousin had died the other day. Fell to his death off the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Mr. Kingston practically slammed the door on the boy, beginning to sweat. He didn’t even look at his library, but studied the other three oil paintings hung up in his dining room. One was a portrait of the American Grasslands, complete with sprawling buffalo and tall green grass. The other was a picture of Stonehenge beneath a bright blue sky. The third was a magnificent image of the highest reaches of Mount Everest. Not a human soul was present in any of them. Mr. Kingston studied the images for the better part of an hour, making certain that no one was there. Mr. Kingston decided, finally, that it was a mere coincidence. He was a logical man; two tragedies certainly had nothing to do with the paintings he’d hung, and even less so with whatever tricks his eyes were playing on him. After relaxing himself with this affirmation, he thought that he ought to connect with the rest of the outside world, and switched on the television. He flipped over to the local news station. That afternoon, an old woman was found dead from heat exhaustion in the Midwestern prairies. A middle-aged man was shot dead in a brutal gunfight at a historic site in Wiltshire, England. And a Nepal base camp had lost contact with an expedition group climbing Everest. Mr. Kingston ran through his large house to the dining room. Sure enough and clear as day, an elderly lady was hunched over in the grassland. A seething man stood in front of the rock formation, brandishing a pistol in his hand. And an equipment-bearing group of ten could just be made out halfway up the snowy mountain.

Mr. Kingston cried out, and tore down the three paintings. The nails left gaping tears in his hazel wall trim, but he didn’t care. He ran into his atrium and library, and ripped off those pictures as well. With all the strength he could conjure, he hurled the paintings out the front door, and their thin canvases crunched as they landed on the driveway pavement and rolled down his pitched lawn into the surrounding forest. Mr. Kingston ran to his kitchen sink, and washed his hands until they were raw, until he was convinced that every semblance of the cursed objects was off of him. Out of his house. Still, he sat up late that night, scanning the rooms, scanning his lawn, scanning everything, for traces of anything amiss. He found nothing. Unsettling coincidence, Mr. Kingston told himself, was the source of all this. He was a banker by trade — a logical man — and nothing was really wrong. It was stress, or perhaps his age, that caused him to overreact. That’s right, he knew, overreact. Once he’d had a good night’s sleep, he’d regain his strength, and he’d see that everything was okay. Maybe he would even recover his paintings; with new frames, they’ll be good as new, he thought. He decided that he shouldn’t have discarded them so hastily. His mind was simply playing tricks on him that day — that was all. With this comforting notion, around midnight Mr. Kingston settled into bed. He hadn’t eaten anything that evening, but after a drink of water, was comfortable as he laid down in his bed and snuggled under the warm embrace of his covers. As he rested his head deeper into his pillow, his gaze climbed its way up to the large mantle across the room. Mr. Kingston would have slept much better that night if it weren’t for the ornate portrait of a manor engulfed in flames, and the old banker lying on its porch.

a story gianna tyahla

abigail alvarez

little pebbles There is something daunting about hearing your own tears hit the pavement, stopping to listen as they fill up potholes & mix with week-old rainwater, forming a hot soup, all salty & stale, but bringing warmth to the air on this frigid November afternoon. Today, I parade down Ferris Street mid-panic attack, stomping around in my 5-inch platform boots to scare away all the scrawny teenage boys as I march to the chaotic rhythm of broken breathes until suburbia slinks away to hide behind its pristine white picket fences.

I need to escape this place. Maybe home is a cracking curbside or a crumbling driveway. I feel nothing. Yet, my body vibrates like little pebbles scattering as a car rumbles down a deteriorating road. My dignity clings to those days when we would hold these skies, these sidewalks, these streets in the moments of comfortable silence and prolonged eye contact. This neighborhood will never love me— neither will you.

Fear me the way I fear myself. Amongst the water bills and property taxes you will find me lurking in the back of your mailbox with my mouth open mid-scream to drown in the echoes that reverberate along these metal walls.

alexia guzman

matriarch/martyr

a woman is just a womb to hold cups overflowing with poisoned water.

enmeshed and entrenched, i am the rice in the salt shaker. absorbent and porous, i am the amalgamation of collective discontent. disregard the exit signs, dive into the deep end, float in the ether and let your pain enter a makeshift respite from a center that cannot hold. shape shifting and malleable, hips stretched beyond emotional breadth. forced to birth something beautiful from the chaos, coerced into coping with malcontent. alienated by the institution of the body, a woman is just parts of a whole, a vessel, a hole; burdened to conceive the genesis of the end

elizabeth klein

love is

Love is ruthless Fairy lights fade Fresh laundry becomes dirty once more Bubbles pop Love is beautiful You learn and you grow You stop and you go You know when you know Love is tragic Trees fall Clear waters become murky with mud Lightning strikes

Love, A broken heart trying to heal

emma weniger

the laughter of the world Waking to thunder and rain, Never bothered me. The booms, The clashes, All hold a kind of comfort. The world lighting up, If only for a second, When it should be shrouded in shadow. My love of storms, Is from my mother. Before I could walk, She would cradle me. While the world was rattled by the sky.

haley cino

the stifling shadow

She told me how thunder, Was the world laughing, An invitation to laugh with it. Lightning was its clapping, Knee slapping, Outright joy.

A hollow street muffled by the encroaching grip of night, The prime characteristics ensconced in shadows, All of the words swallowed up as they are shouted into the abyss, The only sliver of hope a moon so very, very far away, A dog troops down the road, seeking out its master, its companion, But cannot find him.

So we would laugh too. Join the chorus of noise, And the pounding rain.

A cloud passes over the moon, further impressing a dark silence upon the street, Where a miniscule bug flits above the concrete, unnoticed by the lamplights, All of the words laying dormant beneath a turmoil of inky darkness, Clinging to the promise of light seeping through and awakening the street, A stranger presses up against the shop’s glass, hoping for a meal, But in the night he hears no response. A brilliant street empowered by the soothing hug of light, The people strolling together through the well-lit thoroughfare, All of the words spilling out and mixing into a strange melody, A single shadow remains in an alleyway cradled by two buildings, Occupied by a single girl watching silently as people easily converse, Wondering why does that solitude...that quietness… for her remain as dark turns into light?

lilly ward

in the cafe I take a bite of this Soft brick spongy and sweet Maybe this will absorb the insanity in my stomach My body is moving in small quiet unseen ways The inner workings of a ticking clock My mind is loud Shut up. Shut UP. SHUT Up. SHUT UP. Shut up. An endless chastising is the price I am willing to pay For a small mistake Here’s the receipt It curls to the floor An evening of commentary and criticism I prepare the slide and the microscope Lets flatten a small piece of experience between two tiny panes of glass To see what is wrong I’ll be working late at the lab tonight Tonight I sit in a cafeI use the WiFi hotspot from my phone It flickers like a dying flame. In a place where people come for free WiFi. But I don’t have Don’t know The magic combination to unlock the things I want What is their secret? The secret of the people who take free samples at the grocery store? The secret of people who ask for the WiFi password? The people who are seen? And are heard. And are not me. 64

I prefer to pay and walk past I am afraid of the sound of my own voice I am afraid to make a ripple in the serene surface of a silence. So where does the energy go? It’s falling off in waves now. It’s the coffee. The chai latte, The ADHD, It’s the green tea, My anxiety My helplessness to help myself stop sipping From a cup filled to the brim with bitterness Does it seep somewhere into The keyboard, The screen, The computer where I shop for overalls? The Kind an artist would wear. The Kind I can afford The Kind I can afford to see my body in Give the eyes enough BUT Not too much Of me. When I look in the mirror, I see It’s only green tea. It’s only dysfunctionI run best on I write best on

You can disagree. But I won’t talk to you again After this interaction. A cool screen and a distance of miles makes “goodbye” easy I don’t have to muster the sound of finality. My mind moves faster than my body. Two companions one on caffeine, The other on no sleep Is lagging behind My hands, they Tremble with energy that cannot be used There’s nowhere to drive to in a cul-de-sac Except in circles I beg for you to wait for me. I beg for you to stop. STOP Would you please Stop?

elizabeth klein

iridescent Iridescent Your eyes shine like pearls in the sea How about you come talk to me Tell me your secrets I’ll tell you mine You can start by telling me how you get your eyes to shine So bright Brighter than two matches in the night A bird without wings That’s how you feel when you sing What if you were never meant to fly? Never meant to reach so high Never meant to touch the clouds Always meant To stay down You must wonder why Why why why Why can’t I soar like the other birds? Why have you given me these words That I can never sing Forget no wings Give me wings and break them I promise you I’ll take them Make them Into something that will take me high Something that will let me fly I will try. Try. Try. 65

elizabeth klein

i and you I don’t want to write to you I don’t want to give you any more of my energy You cracked me open like a statue of stone And you watched my soul seep out I tried to warn you but you wouldn’t have it I tried to love you but you wouldn’t let me You held me like a piece of glass And you told me it was all okay I thoughtI thought we were happy I thought you were everlasting and clocks be damned I thought my heart would be safe in your hands You showed me a care I’ll never forget And you emphasized that life has no guarantees I could tell that you made up your mind I could tell that you wanted the things i couldn’t give You held me one last time But you never told me how much you lied

emma weniger

warnings from the feywilds Tiptoe through the dewy grass. Wave to the mushrooms as you pass. Watch your step or you could be trapped. Be impolite and you could be attacked. Avoid the fairy rings at all costs. Or you will end up lost, Whisked away to the world of the Fey. Leaving will be hard, try as you may. Remember to never tell anyone your name. Or control over you is fair game. Never accept any food or drink. Be polite, but they are not as nice as you think. If you manage to leave never return, For the Fey can not be trusted, That much I’ve learned.

jordan valiquette

the exact middle sometimes it hits me that i think more often about the friends come and gone than the friends who stayed driving down familiar highways blasting music i’d been excited to discover the first time a taste of freedom and fresh air finally hit my tongue the first time i knew what hungry really felt like wondering what the words were that i’d held so tightly in my chest scared to let them out but now they’ve withered away drifted off on a breeze a fresh layer of soil packed on top covering what lies beneath becoming a new part of the whole slice through my stomach just so i can count the rings in the cross-section i used to think i was a mosaic a stained glass window but instead i’m a small and intimate garden slowly growing changing morphing a few trees have stood for decades but not everything can thrive or survive in here plants come and go some hang on until they slowly wilt and fall back into the ground and nurture the earth for new growth i don’t know who i am but i know i can find them somewhere between who i was and who i’m becoming

maia franco

gem

A pearl can not be beautiful until the shell is cracked. Beneath the ocean floor it waits for a diver Crack her open and take her soft, opalescent shimmer Diamonds are not beautiful until they are mined Emeralds and rubies are easier to find Forming beneath the Earth’s surface Growing up in the dark and lonesome place He held her sparkle up to his face, and shaped Into a ring to be kept around his finger Just to show the others a possession Kill her beauty softly with the exposure Love can not be this empty Moonstone glimmering softly in the cold apartment Nights are all spent at his address Only friends have walked away Pretty girls always end up this way Quartz held tightly in her pocket Rain wash her guilty conscious away Sapphire bring her back to the diamond she was Topaz give her the fortune she needs Under his thumb she can’t feel the power of the gems Vicious as he may have become When he is back in a cell she will be free X marks the spot from where he picked you Your sparkle was taken, steal it back Zirconia is all he will ever deserve

tcnj fountain amanda harding

anisa lateef

sudsy

I really don’t understand what is so difficult about following a schedule. Today is Tuesday. So yesterday was Monday. Amir is responsible for doing the dishes on Monday evenings and yet, he never does. Yesterday’s pile never fails to overflow into my dish-duty, transforming an already tedious task into an unbearable one. Utterly unbearable to be clear if it wasn’t for the window above the sink overlooking the front garden. Mama’s mint plant keeps me company by the windowsill and together, we photosynthesize under the midafternoon sun. My fingers begin to prune below the bubbly foams. 12 hour-macaroni and cheese residues are the w o r s t foods to let coagulate overnight, but I guess that never got through Amir’s thick skull. The sponge slowly gnaws at the pools of melted cheddar. The pink rose bush by the porch is on the cusp of blooming so I pretend to already be able to smell its sweet sugary song through the bug screen. It’s finally looking like spring is making her grand entrance over the calendar. The pollen and children are dancing and spinning around the neighborhood. This also means my older brother, Zain, is home visiting from university for spring break. He is studying architecture and is the sole Minhaj sibling responsible for the exponential growth in this Everest tower of dirtied dishes. Zain usually spends his afternoons and evenings on the asphalt along the front garden. He and Hasan, his friend from high school, go out after lunch to show off whatever new bike trick they’ve been practicing and gawking over at the moment. Those two can spend all weekend YouTubing fancy spin-jumps all more complicated than the previous before presenting them for judgement like they’re esteemed members of a motor derby circus. Once the sun sets, they then make their way to the basketball hoop for some late-night NBA imitations. My corner by the kitchen window serves as the perfect, nonchalant nook to watch the wind flutter through those little hazel curls past Hasan’s left ear. I can also count how quickly it takes for his mouth to rise into that toothy grin whenever Zain crashes anything (himself, a bike, the basketball) into the Khans’ trash bin from here. Layla told me that she read on this ~super~ reliable hub of information (TikTok) that the boys who play basketball for fun are never the bad boys. They’ll be the ones who when they hurt you, won’t even realize they’re hurting you because all they see is them helping you. There is no scientific proof of this correlation between basketball, the wiring of the brain and testosterone levels in young adult males yet (I’ve scoured PubMed already) but a person can dream throughout 2AM can’t they? Have you ever wanted to believe in something so badly that you ignore every possible speed bump in your path because you want so badly to escape from the state you’re in right now? It would just make things so much easier to just believe everything we hear. The way the dreamer in me believes in this head-over-heels wholeheartedly overwhelming maybe like a tattooed truth. It would just make things so much more cinematic and slo-mo: the swooning, smirks, eyelash & heart flutters…Oh to believe in life like this. So, I’ll gladly accentuate the blurs in my blindspots just to feel something, whether today that’s to be wanted, desired, adored.. just please anything besides lonely and alone, my dear universe. The sunlight bounces off of the silver butterfly necklace dangling across my chest. The reflection swipes across those tawny gems he insists are his eyes. Hasan turns and squints in my direction until his whole body is now facing mine in the kitchen. Here I am, grinning and recklessly excavating at my maybes with my sleeves scrunched and forearms floating in the sudsy sink, staring out the open window. 69

dream of jealousy ravenna gemignani

anisa lateef

cosmic crash In the realm of the heavens before the first strokes of time: we are floating portals of solid colors and shimmers, cosmically satisfied with the layers of the universe unfolding beneath us. Two bundles of pure energy saturated by the other’s presence soar through the galaxies like two shooting stars. She was lavender and she was a shade of deciduous canopy. Purple and green, united by the dollops of cerulean blue sky they both share. 13.8 billion years pass on: to a bustling college campus in central new jersey usa earth milky way. She paces out of her biology lab onto the lakeside bench. Her strips of lilac hair flutter in the fall time breeze as she unzips her backpack. By the bench adjacent to hers, she notices another girl photosynthesizing in army green cargo pants and matching crop top. She is laying on her back so her neck brushes the grass carpeting. Her right forearm swoops over her tanning forehead as a boney shield from the sun’s rays pouring down on them both. Then all at once, she feels this pull from the bench. As if a fishing hook shot out of the lake and snagged both of their attentions simultaneously, like the lake was playing divine Fisherman. And their eyes meet, slowly, entranced, glowing with bewildered familiarity. On this planet they are strangers, but they can sense that they have collided in a previous timeline. Against all conscious logic, they both know in their core that this can’t be the whole story. Her chest floods while the other heart empties. Their glittering interias pulse out of their bodies into waves that charge the lake with a vigorous momentum. They remind me of twin flames, that their souls were friends in the broader universe before entering their bodily forms. Familiar and safe. Serendipitously. And when their hands touch, embracing each other’s physical fleshy form for the first time, stardust sparks out of their fingertips. A familiar sensation neither of them can explain. They both begin to inhale the deepest force of consciousness below their rib-caged bones. She says, I feel like our souls have met in the realm of cosmos and Neptune fumes way before our eyes ever did.

ayesha sultana

she’s choking out She hears them out But nobody hears her Because she screams in verse Not even those most near her Her eyes shout They don’t understand That she’s choking out The last bit of love Left in her heart Her eyes long dried Because her pens bleed Thoughts her soul cried Her every plea and need Surrounded by air Still gasping to breathe Shrapnel unseen Soul shattered underneath Only God understood How she’s grieved From reliving falsehood That her heart received In the name of sainthood She was again deceived What pleasure is derived From teasing soft souls Is their fall really worth The fire that was fueled

Outwardly, a beacon of hope and light For every soul she touches They praise her strength and raise her to heights If only they knew, deep inside Is a broken girl Struggling to win an unspoken fight Still, she refuses to frown Her dimples are her crown She sees a bleeding world That she just can’t let down So behind locked doors She smiles in the mirror Rehearses her laugh Pulls herself together Because in the morning she knows She has to straighten her act Hearts need healing With every open wound, she’s sealing Only God knows how Her heart soars Her wings grow Shedding her past She yearns to fly at last

the beauty in isolation isabel smith

isabel smith

an apology to the little girl i once was “The desolation consumed her, Breathing in as much air that a whisper could carry Shadows left behind the carcasses of regrets And she learned to run faster than they could follow Cloudy skies in hand, never looking back Everloving eyes staring back at her They were my own But she had not realized that before Warm spots of honey hidden Gravel beneath her Elevating to the highest heights Forgiveness brought this relief. Timeless. The airless thoughts of giving Became so easy to feel And the smaller hand in mine never faltered I was her, we were the same in every way time could allow Lessons of grief came easier to me than her Grabbing at my coat Being asked to never leave again But I was right there with her The picture in my wallet The hand on my heart The voice in my head Never leaving ever again.”

(untitled) isabel smith 75

autumn morning gabrielle mclean

elizabeth klein

room for you

I’ll always make room for you When I’m sitting under a tree I’ll pat the grass next to me I’ll let you scootch in and cuddle close ‘Cause you’re the one I love the most There will always be room for you In my heart and in my mind That’s where you’ll be all the time You’ll say that you’re here to stay And I wouldn’t have it any other way I’ll always have room for you When you’re crying and need me there Or if you’re full of joy and want to share You can cry on my shoulder if you wish And on your head I’ll place a kiss No matter what surrounds me No matter what may be No matter where, No matter when No matter how, you’ll have a friend No matter who I am No matter what I do You’ll always be welcomed I’ll always be here There will always be room for you

the last look

a note from the issue editor And so, my friends, we reach the end of this issue of The Lion’s Eye. I sincerely hope you’ve enjoyed reading through this semester’s collection of student work, and that in the future you find yourself going back to reread certain poems, reflect on certain photos or arts, share certain proses with others, or any combination of those nouns and verbs. It’s been a pleasure putting them all together for you to read! On the note of process, for those who may find it interesting, this is, as some of you might know, my first and last semester working as the Issue Editor. In the interest of staying involved with the magazine while I partook in Student Teaching, I temporarily stepped down from being Executive Editor so that everything might run smoothly in my absence. As it turns out, Student Teaching is about as intense as it’s hyped up to be, and so it was difficult to find moments of free time where working on the magazine was not in some way encroaching on my ability to work on lesson planning. But, with this I say, there is a certain peace that comes with putting together a literary magazine. The consideration that goes into which pieces fit best where; which poem may complement the art it is to appear besides; which poems may be tonally similar, but binarily opposed? It is a sort of craft for matching crafts, and although I am inexperienced in the proper subtlety it doubtless takes to create a compelling and well-compiled reading experience, I had a good time putting it all together in spite of my time crunch, and I hope, again, that you had a good time reading it. Some credit where credit is due. First and foremost, there is always the Executive Board to thank: Gianna, Lauren, Megan, Catherine, and Cam. I myself was unable to attend any meetings this semester, but I am nonetheless grateful for the work you all put into organizing and running meetings, ensuring we were properly funded, and putting us out there as an organization. I would also like to thank our first (to my knowledge) Assistant Issue Editor, “Apprentice” Maddie Flynn, for the enthusiasm, input, and good company she brought to her study of InDesign and putting together an issue for The Lion’s Eye. Additionally, thank you to the General Board and everyone who chose to engage with our organization both this semester and in semesters passed. I said it in last year’s issue, and I’ll say it again: without your support this magazine would not exist, and it is truly to you that we owe everything. I hope that the fruit of everyone’s labor in the form of this magazine is an ample return for your contributions and your generous opportunity to help us continue growing. Outside of The Lion’s Eye, I would like to thank Melissa Kozell for always being my biggest supporter. There is much that can be said, but I will simply say: I would be nowhere without you. And to close, a big thank you to my cooperating teacher, Ani McHugh, for being so understanding and supportive during my student teaching, and always helping everything go as smoothly as it possibly could have for me this semester. Next place you see me will be back in the First Look: huzzah! In the meantime, enjoy the winter: it’s nowhere near so bad a season as it’s made out to be; and I always find it to be one of the best times to reflect on yourself, reflect on your surroundings, and write! Ta-ta for now! Warmest Regards,

Filip Maziarz Issue Editor

ABOUT US ::

The Lion’s Eye is published biannually by the students of The College of New Jersey with funding from the Student Finance Board. The magazine provides an outlet for creative expression, publishing student short fiction, poetry, prose, photography, illustrations, graphic art, and more. To learn more about The Lion’s Eye visit our Facebook page, TCNJ Lion’s Eye Literary Magazine. The Lion’s Eye is co-sponsored by the Alpha Epsilon Alpha chapter of Sigma Tau Delta, the National English Honor Society, at The College of New Jersey.

SUBMISSIONS ::

Although the deadline for our next issue has not yet been decided, submissions are currently being accepted. Please send all submissions via e-mail to lionseye@tcnj.edu

PRINTER ::

Bill’s Printing Service - 2829 South Broad Street - Trenton, NJ - 08610

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