The Lion’s Eye volume 43 :: fall 2018
compiègne jolie shave
The Lion’s Eye Fall 2018 executive editor issue editor copy editor treasurer secretary publicist faculty advisor
Alyssa Doyle Lily Firth Dara Kushnir Kelly Vena Jamie Csimbok Kevyn Teape David Venturo
staff :: Silas Jones, Filip Maziarz, Meagan Scherer, Julia Duggan, Gabriella Son, Jessica Shek, Samantha Colditz, Ine’a Smith
“ poetry is what gets lost in translation. ” — robert frost
contents poetry and prose alyssa doyle
8
The First Look
emily miller
10
Angels
kelly vena
11
Broken Steps
filip maziarz
12
Character
filip maziarz
12
Cinnamon Eyes
ambar grullon
15
Colonize
16-17
Blueprints
corinne petersen
18
Coup d’etat
thomas daley
20
Frustration
jessica shek
22-23
michelle lesniak
25
Doorway
filip maziarz
25
Harvest
jessica shek
27
Hey
emily zbyszynski
28
Historical Work
ambar grullon
29
Marianismo
alyssa mullarkey
30
My Optical Illusion
kevyn teape
31
Petrichor
thomas daley
32
The Cost of Depression
corinne petersen
33
Painting
danielle bruno-arlequin
34-35
Skyscrapers..
kelly vena
37
Toothpaste
claire tuohy
37
Unfamiliar Spaces
38-39
There’s a Monster
samantha colditz
4
An Apology from a Girl with Curls
samantha colditz
jessica shek
41
Postcard from Andromeda
kelly vena
42
Blue Balloon
emily miller
43
The Present
kevyn teape
44-45
She Loves Me to Death
contents poetry and prose claire tuohy lily firth
46-47 48
Love Shmove The Last Look
“ I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?” — vincent van gogh
5
contents art and photography dara kushnir
Amedo
(masthead)
Compiegne
dara kushnir
7
Old Victoria
dara kushnir
9
Curiosity Met the Pony
swetha raju
13
Lion’s Spirit
dara kushnir
14
Deja-Visite
swetha raju
19
Intertwined
jolie shave
21
Self Portrait
dara kushnir
24
Amedo
swetha raju
26
A Way
jolie shave
30
Hushed
jolie shave
33
Night’s City Eye
jolie shave
36
In San Antonio
swetha raju
40
Paris
dara kushnir
(back cover)
jolie shave
6
(cover)
Deja-Visite
old victoria dara kushnir
7
the first look
a note from the executive editor I can’t believe the time has come for me to write this letter to you all. It feels just like yesterday that I attended my first Lion’s Eye meeting as a scared, little freshman, and now I’m a senior and the Executive Editor of this amazing organization. Having the chance to be part of the Lion’s Eye as a member, secretary, copy editor, and now president has been exceptionally rewarding, and I really have the Lion’s Eye to thank for shaping my college career. I want all of the amazing writers, artists, and photographers to know how much it means to us that you continue to submit your work to us every semester. We love reading your poetry, prose, and short stories, and looking at your inspiring artwork and photography. The talented individuals at TCNJ will never stop surprising me, so thank you for letting us into your world, even for a short moment, with every piece of writing and every work of art. Writing and creating is never an easy process. In fact, it might honestly be one of the most difficult things we ever have to do, but that is exactly why we must do it. If we can write a poem or story or craft a work of art that makes another human being feel something, anything at all, then we know we’ve done ourselves, and the artistic community, justice. In addition to the wonderful students who submitted to this magazine, I’d like to give a shout out to the Lion’s Eye Executive Board: our Issue Editor, Lily Firth, our Copy Editor, Dara Kushnir, our Treasurer, Kelly Vena, our Secretary, Jamie Csimbok, and our Publicist, Kevyn Teape. I appreciate everything you do, and the Lion’s Eye is amazing yet again because of all of your efforts. I’d also like to thank the Lion’s Eye general staff for coming to our meetings and sharing in our love for all things literature every week. Finally, I present you with the Lion’s Eye Fall 2018 Issue. I hope you enjoy your reading, and I hope you’ll share it with your friends and family, and maybe, just maybe, if you like it enough, I hope you’ll stop by a Lion’s Eye meeting next semester and join our Lion’s Eye family. Best,
Alyssa Doyle Executive Editor
8
curiosity met the pony dara kushnir
9
emily miller
angels
G-d brings people in, like angels, and has them leave just as fast. I got a few days of you, as wonderful as you could be, The smell of smoke in your hair reminded me of the earth and the grass and the single light in the field. We shared prayers in my car, once memorized, now almost forgotten, so we said amen before the fog melted the words we wrote on the windows with our ring fingers. You asked for more of me. I asked for more time. G-d gives us people we need. He knows how long we need them for, and you were not meant to stay on Earth with me.
10
kelly vena
broken steps I can see how much you’ve changed. My whole life you’ve made your house a home and always invited me inside, but you’re beaten down now, worn out and overused. You need help from top to bottom, chips and cracks lining every part of you. Your railing is wobbly, swaying from side to side until one of us can steady you. We can’t help you anymore, we don’t know what to do. We’re leading you into someone else’s hands so they can fix you, so they can help you. You need to make someone else’s house into a home.
11
filip maziarz
character I jogged home through the freezing dark, each breath of mine clinging to the air — i saw the pretty boy had a pretty girl; her smiles washed my face his zealous eyes served sorrowed mine. two beautiful faces interwoven; ice burning in my lungs.
filip maziarz
cinnamon eyes rolling over hills, gazing auburn — autumn dressed, the world smiles back.
12
lion’s spirit shwetha raju
13
déja-visité dara kushnir
14
ambar grullon
colonize When I was born, My mother claimed the parts of me that were hers: A wide nose and two-toned lips that didn’t quite fit Over my Caribbean gap. She marked my kinked hair and rice pudding hips as treasures to behold, An exoticism already learned, inherited. My father claimed that my feet were his— Narrow and arched, Tendons jutting across a soft plain, Index toes longer than the ever-chunked hallux. Those callouses spoke of dirt roads and crushed seashells, Yoruba mystic blessings echoed in the deep dark. My grandmother claimed that we were part of a browned cacophony, Thundering to Changó’s lightning beats. Yet our footsteps didn’t match; I walk now, Toes first with a hesitant heel hitting land. I’ve tried dancing with these feet, But I can’t match my rumble to the merengueros strumming Their palm tree tunes. So let’s search part of the island, Its white sand tucked in the crevices of my skin. Let me seek a history untouched And claim a narrative of my own.
15
jessica shek
blueprints We have this great affection that we don’t know what to do with. No, no, I can’t put that on you, I can’t insert that into your category of being, there are many code violations that would be broken, the size and length is too big, we are overloading maximum capacity as it is. Yes, I’m responsible for this and many things, but your property doesn’t have enough security for this shit. When my love walks in, hold up, why don’t you ask it for ID? ask it what business it has doing here? ask it like what kind of love it even is anyway? Because my security, for sure, would jump, tackle, and sniff you out if you showed yourself here. Gimme your passport, and if I ever let you in, first take off your shoes, and leave them on the doormat before you go through the metal detector and chemical shower. Also, let’s not forget the fact that my government of friends would shoot me on the spot if they knew that my great affection had trespassed on your property. Next thing I know I’ll be on the chopping block with a flashlight in my eyes, trying to answer how long we’ve been accomplices. History says this project will fail, history says this project always fails, the blueprints are written on your blood, on my blood, in my blood a soldier married a native, in my blood a type A married a type B and made a bastard concoction of great affection that I’m still trying to decipher, so you see, we don’t have the permits to construct this tower, and a warrant to put my love on you will not change the fact that this building will topple over one day and lives will be lost.
16
This is why I must police my own thoughts, rescue you from a certain death, like in that movie Minority Report, I’m the cop that makes the arrest before the crime happens. Just so you know, I’m not built for a person of your architecture anyway so, why are we even having this conversation? We are talking about this because, against all odds, against all laws of science and logic, I have set myself on fire for you and no amount of firemen or sprinklers can douse something I don’t even know what is.
17
corinne petersen
coup d’etat When did words hijack my mind-slip into the cracks, and fill sound with meaning? Their mischief is torment and wonder-muses collaborating both for and against me.
18
intertwined shwetha raju
19
thomas daley
frustration We just met and you want me to fight for you? Barking commands and giving me a cue You don’t care how I feel As you win with zest and zeal You don’t care if I crash and burn But don’t worry; you’ll get your turn With my hate for you, I attack Pretending I believe you’ve got my back I get chills every time I hear your voice Because I know I don’t have a choice When I fall, you’re a never-ending nightmare And for the life of me, I want you out of my hair Look me in the eye and see that I’m alive And tell me what it is for which you strive Can’t you see that I’m hurt? Of course, you can’t, even as I lie in the dirt Bound by command and obligation I am your slave and you, my frustration
20
self portrait jolie shave 21
samantha colditz
an apology from a girl with curls To all the women who have brushed my hair, I am sorry. Do you check under your beds at night? Not for a monster but for something much worse. Crazy. Cuban. Curls. I imagine you do after dealing with me. So this one is for all of you. To the students at cosmetology school. When you took on the job at some kid’s birthday party, Were you expecting someone like me? Multiple girls working on my hair. Finishing long after cake was served. To the woman at the mall. You were just doing your job. Until I came through the door. I heard what you said. “Did they give me her as a punishment?” I hope you don’t brush curly hair anymore. To all the women who tried straightening my hair. You tried your best. And I never saw anything wrong. But now when I look back. I see that you didn’t know how to handle it any other way. So instead you used a flat iron.
22
To the woman I’m currently seeing. I know how you envy my hair. Comparing it to yours every time I see you. And funny enough, I think that’s why you’re the best stylist I’ve ever had. So keep doing what you’re doing. To my mother. I know it wasn’t easy. But thank you for telling me about Miss Jessie’s Multicultural Curls. And for the years of brushing the knots out. My hair isn’t like yours. And yet you understand it better than anyone else. And finally, to myself. I’m sorry for keeping it long for so many years. And also, for wasting all the hot water while I combed through the curls. But most importantly, For never understanding how blessed I was, To have the hair I do.
23
amedo dara kushnir
24
michelle lesniak
doorway
after William Eggleston’s photo, “Untitled 26956” What a miracle is a day— as we blot out each other’s footprints, rushing in and out of the door, wrapped in the ghosts of those before us. Our thresholds don’t quite touch — the kitchen, the porch— but the rising steam of dinner and the wistful evening air still have a conversation through the window. The tiles of each hour are cemented in rows, then examined from a distance over supper. Colors, and shades of colors-- they inflate today’s balloon until it sinks.
filip maziarz
harvest Summer stems weave into waves. The whisper of the plains Strengthens with time As green pales to gold; Wizened stalks hoarse, their voices Aged, rasping wordless song. Earth is in the air, now; her Fragrance raw upon my tongue, Her dancing fingers lying Dead between my toes.
25
a way shwetha raju 26
jessica shek
hey hey. She calls me up late Tuesday night. hey b, wat up? She complains that mother is being a difficult child, again, and again, she is giving her love advice, at fifteen she knows everything, but an old dog can’t learn new tricks, she tells me: im like girl he’s doing all that stuff to get back w you and by takin it you get his hopes up. you said that to her? not that exactly, but a diluted respectful version of that. I love that she said it that way. It assures me that despite all this, she is growing up just fine. i miss you so much dawg i do too b. come back and we can chris mccandless our way the heck out of here yes. And shit, I’m just like— I want to pluck you from that house. Pick you up in grandpa’s old car and drive into the horizon, drive into the sun. I want to go to that football field and lay down on the turf and just fucking complain. Let our words float up into the night like smoke like exhaust. hey. let’s go.
27
emily zbyszynski
historical work “July 2, 1937” Static. That’s all that blared from the headset marked Leo Bellarts as he fumbled desperately with the dials and knobs at his fingertips. His colleagues’ efforts were as fruitless as his own. The same could be said for the hundred or so other tower operators across the globe, all working to locate the same pinprick in the overcast sky. Bellarts flickered his eyes up to the clock ticking dreadfully on the wall. 8:42 AM. An hour since the last somewhat coherent transmission that had revealed the aviators were flying blind-- or deaf, as it were. An hour, and nothing to bolster his hopes but the occasional teasing hint of a voice that would tear away from the static before being sucked back under. Bellarts fought the urge to drive his fist through the shiny new switchboard before him. All of this expensive, state-of-the-art equipment, and for what? What good was the new receiver if it didn’t work? 8:43 AM. The room was unbearably hot, getting warmer with each jolt of the clock’s hand. Nothing worked. Nothing they said was heard. It was like screaming into an abyss. Static howled gleefully from every speaker in this chromatic hell. Bellarts dropped his head into his hands. All of this goddamn equipment, he fretted. Then the electronic cackling stuttered to a halt, replaced by something so much sweeter. The room is thrown into disarray as the men clamor to amplify the sound. “... On the line 1-5-7 3-3-7… We will repeat… Message… Repeat this on 6210 kilocycles… Wait--” The sound cut out. Bellarts lunged back towards his station, hoping to latch on to the elusive traveller’s voice. 8:44 AM. “Mrs. Earhart, Mrs. Earhart…” 8:45 AM. “We are running on line north and south…” Bellarts eyed the coordinates as they came in, hoping to see that they were indeed on course. The final ping cried out six miles from the intended destination.
28
ambar grullon
marianismo The Angel says, “Hail Mary,” like a hymn. “While your sex teaches men that lust is love, You alone are praised among seraphim. So you sit white and pure as the first dove.” The little virgin smiles, consecrated. “Holy Mary, deny yourself the flesh. Find fulfillment in the consummated. Stay gentle and kind, like a flower, fresh. Women, do not refuse your husband’s way. You were created from man and for man. Be his compass and be fruitful: obey. Can you do this always, O Marianne?” Since justice makes history reconstructed, Say yes and nod as you were instructed.
29
alyssa mullarkey
my optical illusion You. How tall you stand, A body against a backdrop of Them. Or should it be stood? They. How insignificant they stood, A mass against the familiarity of You. Or should it have been tall? You are a blur, as they were. They shine, like you shone. How average you stand When lined among them. And I wonder, When did I lose you to them? Or should it be leave?
hushed jolie shave 30
kevyn teape
petrichor deluge. I don’t pray much. I’m not religious, a religious predator or a religion praying on the hopeless with fantastical fantasies of better times if you abide by certain principles. but I do pray. It’s not really faith or faith based, it’s kinda like glorified hope. And what I hope for is somewhat unique to me. My favorite season is spring. To me spring is the true season of giving as the gods allow us to sample the sweetest devine sensation of the heavens above more than any other time of the year. deluge. I don’t pray much. But when I do it’s for the debris and the breeze and passionate gusts and the cumulus eruptions of what might be the remains of Zeus’ dead fountains. Just like worms on the concrete I stand outside. Hooded always, always in the midst of the solemn mist. Waiting for the most generous blessing to drip down on the atmosphere like it did against my window when I was younger and my mom wouldn’t let me walk outside. but I do pray. I wish circles of Aphrodite’s pain cloak my yellow, moisture wicking coat. I reflect in the mighty oceans scattered above pavements in places and splattered upon thousands of millimeters of car windshields. I love that mystical, mysterious smell indescribable to my mouth but felt by my spirit. It’s warm, comforting, engulfing embracing just like a mother’s soft, playful affection personified rushing to cover you from the pollution and toxicity of the air around you. My favorite day is a rainy day. To me a rainy day is the most tranquil of all days. May Athens continue to let the downpour come and manifest itself accordingly every year. To this request I clasp my hands together, gaze at the grey sky above and whisper deluge.
31
thomas daley
the costs of depression Meeting with friends makes me smile Keeps me distracted for a while Using dopamine in the place of serotonin The blurry memories let me cherish where I’ve been Because of the anger, the agitation, the demon Upon myself I commit acts of treason Scars run deep and blood runs thick This life thing must have some sort of trick Hell is a place inside my head It makes me totally restless in my own bed The sadness leaves an empty haze As I count off the endless days As days turn to weeks, time somehow flies And I’ve gotten nowhere; surprise, surprise… I hate that “misery enjoys company” quip It shows other people are on this sinking ship These imbalances haunt like an evil twin Slow me down like weights under my skin I look in the mirror and see one who will always fail Maybe they’re right; maybe I am frail As I mature, my madness grows, too It takes root like a tree and hits like the flu Without even knowing, others can make it worse My mood isn’t a mere feeling; it is very much a curse For the life of me, I run and hide But they always find me, those urges of suicide Can’t remember where I’ve been, what I’ve done These are the costs of my depression
32
corinne petersen
painting I saw you in the rainy morning upon a misty street of grey where puddles glittered dark and black and only streetlamps knew the way. Upon a misty street of grey, your face hid underneath a hood and only streetlamps knew the way, although I’d follow if I could. Your face hid underneath a hood, your raincoat was a shining stone; although I’d follow if I could, I knew your path was not my own. Your raincoat was a shining stone, your eyes were silent as we passed. I knew your path was not my own, but still to you my heart held fast. Your eyes were silent as we passed, where puddles glittered dark and black; but still to you my heart held fast— and soon you disappeared at last.
night’s city eye jolie shave
33
danielle bruno-arlequin
skyscrapers.. Hey, I don’t think you know this but I’m Going To Be Somebody. I’m going to soar higher than engineered jetsEasily, seamlessly flawlessly no sweat LawlesslyLaws of gravity can’t hold me Laws of physics will support me Because I’m Going To Be Somebody. I’m going to win Golden State. I’m going to continue to win gold and State my goals from the Golden State To the EvergladesFrom the states to the Statements on my passport. India. Korea. Rome. Paris. Morocco. Tunisie avec les tunisiensI’m going to win Because I’m Going To Be Somebody. I’m going to be a Bill Gates type. My type of successYes, it’s financial but it’s so much more. I find it gross that some can Gross a million even a billion Without feeling compelled to shelve out A dollar to help even the children. My type of successIt’s being a role modelModel of Integrity and Getting involved with charityGiving back to the community Because I’m Going To Be Somebody Which means that I can help somebody. 34
I’m going to be a good fatherLoving, caring sharing Listening, imagining glistening With joy when I see my baby boy And young daughter Exhibit the values I’ve taught herNo! Not I but we, There’s no I in team Plus I’d be a lie if I didn’t give credit To my lovely wife who helped this man Turn his intangible dream Into a beautiful reality. I’ll tell everyone I know about the day She first told me I Was Going To Be Somebody. Hey, I don’t think you know this But you better take note of this. I’m going to be The Willis Tower The Shanghai Tower The Eiffel TowerMy reputation will one day Tower over the internet until My name has invaded every home and Household Intimate dinner conversation. I’m Going To Be Somebody. The Human World Trade Center! I refuse to settle because I know, That at my center, I have everything it takes to be a Skyscraper..
35
in san antonio jolie shave
36
kelly vena
toothpaste My insides were so full when we first met but then you kept squeezing and pushing me, using me till the very last drop was gone. Any excuse to touch your lips is okay by me, even if it means I am now empty.
claire tuohy
unfamiliar spaces Hi nice to Hi nice to meet you I’m Hi nice to meet you I’m lost. Lost in my own (as they say) home Lost in my own (it’s that way) thoughts Lost in all of the unfamiliar space that I occupy. Occupy, that’s all I seem to do. And I can’t help but feel (put in a work order) broken. And I can’t help but feel (join a club or two) misplaced. But In between the unfamiliar spaces I find people called (nice to meet you) home I find friends named (we can go together) understanding I find a familiar space to occupy. And I know that I’m And I know that I’m going to be Hi nice to Hi nice to meet you I’m Hi nice to meet you I’m going to be ok.
37
samantha colditz
there’s a monster There’s a monster in the town. She never talks to anyone. Never answers questions. Won’t play with the other children. Avoids any interaction she can. And the way she moves is uncanny. First, the children took offense. She was different and that was bad, Or, at least, that’s what the world had taught them. Rumors started up about her. Silly children’s tales. Some thought she was a siren. Others, an animal unable to speak “human”. The parents laughed at these antics, Dismissing it as jokes. That was, until, she had a breakdown. Children went running to their parents about the scene she made. Something had set her off and she went “crazy”. Screaming and covering her ears to a noise no one else could hear. That was when the parents got involved. Demanding the child be taken out of the school. She- no, it- was a distraction to the other children. And what if it hurts someone during its rampage, Or upsets the children. It was a week into this fiasco that a bitter teacher, Wanting to be rid of the child from his class, Spread rumors about it being at the top of its class. This drove many to claim it didn’t deserve such an honor. Their child was normal. Why should they be below this monster? By the end of the month, Tensions had risen high, But it was its parents that drove them to action. Saying they should be understanding of their child. That she could not help herself. So the angry parents began to blame them, That they had created this monster. It was their fault. One day, every parent knew, without even needing to say it. It was time to act. The hivemind marched to the monster’s house. 38
Clawing at the door, Breaking everything in sight, Screeching at the top of their lungs. Tearing limbs, skin, blood, human features. No human made it out that night. All that was left were the remnants of a family of three. And monsters, taking off their masks, Satisfied with what they had done.
39
paris shwetha raju 40
jessica shek
postcard from andromeda You are on the track to becoming a supernova, but first you were made from one, the consummate consumption of mass and gravity that made a light bright enough to be seen 700 light years away, only, what I can see of you is only you 700 years ago, time moves slower here on Earth and our feeble technology will never be able to catch up with a star growing so fast, so far away that we almost forgot about you. One day the sun will burn out and nobody will be here to see that but I can see you burning, out there in the cold dead sea of space particles, I am here witnessing the spectacle of you, of your molecules running out of mass, running out of fuel, lying on the floor and expanding and increasing and augmenting into a red giant, taking up a greedy amount of space, all the air or the absence of it now part of you. The statistics are there, some stars spin out of control, spin and spin and keep spinning, their centripetal forces keeping them from escaping their own tragic fate! But a few of them collapse in on themselves, sucking in the light around them until they themselves are consumed in their own consumption, becoming posterchildren for anti-substance abuse campaigns, we never wanted to be that, did we? Will you be the one that catches yourself? Who, after a while of this, after noticing, shrinks down into yourself until you are too small for trouble, cooling down deep so small that you give up and become a rock. Or, will you fly so hard, so high that you, in trying to reach the sky’s limit, reach the limit of yourself, fall out of a window and explode in a burst of red light that sticks to the walls, fills the air until it’s yet another supernova, star guts making way for more and more supernovas, with or without witnesses. For all I know you could shoot out a beam of radioactive angst into outerspace. But, quazar or not, it’s up to you. I knew you before all of this cosmic drama, before I left and before you grew up into some celestial object I thought was me but wasn’t. You are something entirely different. I miss you. But even if you fly home, by the time you returned, I’d be too old to know who you are, that’s just how it is, going, going, gone. I don’t know you but I know you, I trust you, you’re not just anything, you’re my star. And I know you’re going to be okay. Send me a postcard from Andromeda.
41
kelly vena
blue balloon We never wanted to let you go, but we knew it was inevitable. We tightened our grip around your smooth, white ribbon; a futile attempt to keep you with us just a few moments longer, even though you silently begged us to let you go. You were there to brighten up all our milestones— every birthday, every graduation, every wedding. These thoughts consumed our minds as we slowly relented, painfully and agonizingly loosened our grip on your long ribbon. You left us so gracefully, so gently— our eyes never left you as you defied gravity while we remained tethered to the ground.
42
The sun reflected off your shiny blue roundness, creating a small, quick flash of light— a wink or a smile, your final goodbye, a promise of reunion. We’ll think of you, a lot at first, and then from time to time, wondering where you ended up or if you found company in the sky, above the clouds. But we’ll know that letting you go was the right thing to do— you’re now liberated, completely and utterly free.
emily miller
the present If only you could spend your life in the present. You could stay hoisted, expectant, wandering from hour to hour. No ruminations on last week, for example. In the present you don’t have to feel, leaping between minutes that are glad to be using you with no regret. If we pretend the past never happened, it can still exist on some plane, like if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it it still makes a sound- just not for us. The trouble with my past is that it wants too much of my present. If you don’t stop yourself you could time travel on your couch. If you live in the past, what is your present? I understand what they mean when they say, “Enjoy it while you can”. When you try to live in the past your memories might steal your future.
43
kevyn teape
she loves me to death If you ever made the pilgrimage from Palm Springs to Joshua Tree in the dead of night under the empty promise of a new moon’s direction to lead the otherwise incoherent stars in the distant sky You know just how lonely this life can be. Blue Moon. double fisting on a friday late night, just like every Friday night. Sailor Moon. doppelgänging hero in a hoisted up throne, she sat next to me. Sharing drinks us drunkards began Sharing space we clumsily started Sharing spit together before recklessly Sharing intimates. She knew just how lonely this life could be; how dark the desert road could get when there is a new moon. Weekly visits to see friends, phone calls with family, comradery with my fraternity; it all had to end. I was an hourglass and to her belonged all my sand. Blue Moon. double the fists fisting every Friday morning, just like every morning now.
44
Moonshine. progressing heroin mouth over a gas station toilet, she positioned the same next to me. I contemplated sobriety but nonetheless she was an alcoholic’s addict; it became everclear that she wanted to escape her own loneliness as much as I wanted to escape the confines of my home’s emptiness. She didn’t want me to be sobermoreover pick up coloring on canvascandid to hear that I didn’t get a raisederanged as it seems she was this way because she worried I would leave her if I didn’t need her. so in her mind not one part of me could change for the better because she couldn’t fathom a world where if it did I would stay with her. She loves me to death, literally would rather watch my last breathe escape than for me to get better at the chance that we’ll separate. But I know how lonely this life could be. just how dark the desert road could get when there’s a new moon and so I stay. that’s just not a place I’d ever risk returning to.
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Love this, love that Peanut butter, jelly Baseball bat Asked on a date? Don’t got time! Broohaha, filler rhyme! Find a boyfriend and find him quick! make sure he has a big kidding, kidding, keep it PG! please Lord, find a man for me. check online, clutch my phone, Pray that I don’t die alone. Marriage by twenty-four? Too much pressure! Can’t take it anymore! Be super casual, Stay laidback, I am having a panic-attack. Word word. Rhyme rhyme. I hear it all of the time: “You’ll find the one! Just you wait! Love is awesome! Love is great!”
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claire tuohy
love shmove
Thanks Karen! Superb advice! Mary, Joseph, Jesus Christ. briefly think “What’s wrong with me!” remove myself from society.
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the last look
Dear Reader,
a note from the issue editor
Hello and thank you for picking up the latest edition of The Lion’s Eye! This magazine is an amazing way to show off the countless talent our students possess through their photography, poetry, prose, and artwork. It is weird to think that only a few semesters ago I was just starting to attend Lion’s Eye meetings, and now I’ve been the issue editor for three whole semesters. This magazine and organization has helped me grow tremendously, as well as the amazing Lion’s Eye eboard and club members that take time out of their busy week to help put the magazine together to its best potential. As always, I’d love to thank the Lion’s Eye family for their support and help, especially Alyssa Doyle, our executive editor, for helping me whenever I needed, and for Kelly Vena, our Treasurer, for always lending me a hand or a joke to encourage me to finish the magazine. Most of all, though, I’d love to thank our talented artists for submitting their creative pieces, as well as our readers for keeping this magazine alive. As a rising senior, I encourage everyone to submit whenever they can to learn and grow as an artist and more importantly, as a person, even if its scary to show your hardwork. Best wishes,
Lily Firth, Issue Editor
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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 tcnjlionseye@gmail.com.
PRINTER ::
Bill’s Printing Service - 2829 South Broad Street - Trenton, NJ - 08610
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Please kindly pass this magazine on or recycle it.