The Lion's Eye Fall 2019 Issue by Cyclion Bonaparte

The Lionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eye volume 45 :: fall 2019

freed shwetha raju

The Lion’s Eye Fall 2019 executive editor issue editor copy editor treasurer secretary publicist faculty advisor

Jamie Csimbok Jessica Shek Filip Maziarz Destiny Valerio Filip Maziarz Destiny Valerio David Venturo

staff :: Cameron Foster, Edwina Joe-Kamara, Gianna Tyala, Caroline Geoghegan, Dylan Sepulveda, Evan Lopez

“ poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the word and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar. ” — percy bysshe shelley

contents poetry and prose jamie csimbok cameron foster

8 10-11

The First Look Moving On

gwen bernick

Saint

marisa alvarez

Earth

amanda riccitelli

Freshly Mown Grass

angie tamayo

Someone You Knew

edwina joe-kamara

Terminal

gwen bernick

14-15

Still Born

anisa lateef

Nine Years Young

anisa lateef

Doomsday

filip maziarz

The Unwritten Future

edwina joe-kamara

Uncharacteristic

amanda riccitelli

Robert Frost at 4:30am

destiny valerio

The Gelid Man

maria maroko

A Little Room, Grey

emily miller

A House We Guess was Once a Farm

filip maziarz

Thinking, Never Doing

emily miller

Andy Warhol Lyric Essay

heather santiago

Miss Dior

jessica shek

The Lesbian

heather santiago

Machine Heart

cameron foster

30-31

Ms. Patty Faye Donahue

dylan sepulveda

32-33

THE DAY I REALIZED I WASNâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;T CUT OUT FOR JOURNALISM

gwen bernick

Pele (The Woman Who Devours the Land)

contents poetry and prose ambar grullon

36-37

Ewing after, “Lost Angeles”

gwen bernick

38-40

Saint Paul, In Parts

dylan sepulveda

HOW I WOULD EXPLAIN MY SUDDEN ANGER TO MY SON OVER A NEW SHOP IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD THAT SELLS SIX DOLLAR FLAX SEED SPOONS Deserted

david pridmore

42-43

david pridmore

Grandma’s Gift

jessica shek

The Alarm

angie tamayo

I’m Sure

caroline geoghegan

Flowers from Wolfe 9

dylan sepulveda

I LOVE YOU

angela mcentee

Love Letter Written by a Nerd

amanda riccitelli

Arsenic Summers

filip maziarz

Old New Bike Trail

alex baldino

For George, Who Thinks Salad is a Mouthful of Lettuce and a Shot of Ranch

jessica shek

The Last Look

“i have never started a poem yet whose end i knew. writing a poem is discovering” — robert frost 5

contents art and photography Real Lady Liberty

gianna tyala

(cover)

shwetha raju

(masthead)

shwetha raju

Trois Fleurs

caroline geoghegan

Darling Divine

edwina joe-kamara

Times Long Gone

gianna tyala

Be You

shwetha raju

The Rose

ellena farzaie

Iguana

edwina joe-kamara

For My Mother

cameron foster

“If Its a perfect match, why does it

Freed

stand alone?” jessica shek gianna tyala

53 (back cover)

Golden Ocean Unlimited

“art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” — pablo picasso

trois fleurs shwetha raju

the first look

a note from the executive editor I am truly grateful to have this opportunity to be writing to you all as Executive Editor. When I first joined Lion’s Eye, I was shy, awkward and doubtful of myself. I did not see myself being in this position. Over the years, I grew into myself due in no small part to this magazine. I am still awkward, I do not see that changing, but I can stand in front of a room with confidence, and I am not afraid of having my work being read and critiqued by others. It is my hope that this magazine can help you all the way it helped me. At every meeting I attend, I continue to be amazed by the talent TCNJ students have. I would like to thank everyone who submits to this magazine. Thank you for taking the time to paint that image in your head, to break down the wall of writer’s block, and for capturing these moments of time that may have gone unnoticed. If you were afraid of submitting your work, then I thank you for overcoming your fear. This magazine literally would not be possible without all your hard work. I would especially like to thank my most amazing Executive Board. To Jessica Shek, our Issue Editor, Filip Maziarz, our Copy Editor and Secretary, and Destiny Valerio, our Publicist and Treasurer, thank you for standing with me. Thank you for running around campus and staying up to make this magazine possible. I could not have hoped for a better E-board to help with this issue. At last, I present to you The Lion’s Eye’s Fall 2019 issue. The work created by you and your peers is something that should be shared. It is my hope that you share the funny, powerful, snarky, meaningful works you find in this magazine with your family, friends, etc. Even one connection to a work in this magazine can inspire others to create pieces of their own. Be sure to keep writing, painting, drawing, or whatever it is you do. Until the next issue… Best,

Jamie Csimbok Jamie Csimbok Executive Editor

darling divine caroline geoghegan

cameron foster

moving on My breath stiffens then quickens as you reach the top of the ridge and allow me to slide off your back. I wince while holding my side, and chastise myself as I realize you have earned your breathlessness in carrying me up the mountain. Your sun-ripened face glistens with perspiration from exertion; mine comes from the thousand pinpricks in my side. All I want is to rest, for I cannot manage another step, but you look down on me, smiling. “Thank you for carrying me,” I say. You respond with that smile, accompanied by a nod that causes your hair to flutter. “What is this place?” I gaze around, taking in the vicious greenery. Trees of emerald plumage line the path ahead on each side, providing blissful areas of shade against the radiant sun. “The entrance,” you reply. “The entrance to what?” I ask confused. My side stings and I grimace, hoping you don’t notice. “The next,” you answer. That smile does not leave your face, but it lessens in intensity. It becomes plaintive, peaceful. “The next what? Where does this path lead?” I look beyond you, trying to avoid the glistening of your taut forearms. Ahead, there is an opening bordered by two magnificent trees. I cannot make out what lies behind them. As I strain my eyes to see, my right leg buckles and I slump to the ground. You do not reach for me, but you keep that plaintive smile. It becomes knowing. “Onward,” you say. You bend your knees ever so gently and meet me on the ground. “It’s time,” you add. At that, I feel a loss of feeling in my limbs, a strength dissipating and a numbness overtaking. My breathing turns into raspy, guttural wisps of inhales and exhales. The pain in my side burns, and then the grimace on my face becomes knowing. I look behind me, unable to meet your golden face. The trail behind me and down the mountain is slick, streaked with the fluid of my journey thus far. My side moans at this loss. “I fought until the end,” I say, turning away from the scenery behind me and looking at you, looking ahead of me. “You did,” you confirm. You know this already. “And now it’s time to go?” I ask. “It is time,” you answer. “I need help.” Without hesitation, you rise and you stretch out your hands. I feel a slight return of strength in my arms, and I use it to latch onto yours. My side dully rings as you pull me to my feet; I am amazed at the lack of pain. But that moment of strength vanishes and I fall into you. You catch me, wrapping your arms around me, cocooning me. My face lands on your chest. You smell of roses and water from a freshwater spring.

“Don’t let go,” I whisper. “Come on,” you whisper gently back. My feet scuffle along the beaten path as you half-carry me forward. Each step saps my senses. My vision blurs, the oppressive trees focusing in and out, and your scent comes and goes. I don’t want it to. I am able to see enough to notice we have come upon the opening created by those two trees. It is dark, shrouded by the shadows of the dense brush. I am instantly frightened of what is beyond it. “I cannot go,” I say, my voice weakening. “You must,” you reply sweetly but sternly. “I am afraid to go alone. Will you please come-” My voice cuts out completely, but you finish the ending. “With you, I will.” You scoop me up into your arms, my body suspended in the air, and I rest my face against your chest once more. You take us forward, and together, we walk into the dark space that is now being broken through by the softest tendrils of light.

gwen bernick

saint the fullness of memory, bulging like the muscle in a racehorse’s thigh & trembling like the soft skin of a stomach. I stomach this fear for sanity’s sake, I paint myself a saint and run like I’m racing death or the quiet, shallow lapping of love at my ankles. love tries to ruin me, but I don’t let it. I don’t let up, let time swallow me like venus in the wood-panelled kitchen of a farmhouse. & the field of corn, its nitrous glare, outstretched and aside, grown in, a nail left unhinged, painless at depth though biting. I run like death is a memory, like love opens just as wide and I have known that wholeness, that muscle, that ebb & thrum.

marissa alvarez

earth impossibilities all meshed together in what is... a spectacular clod of land and of water and of impossible life, civilized and leeching. carelessly wounding the ancient skin of the blazing center hell. i know all, at every waking breath; i remember the infinite impossibilities that lotteried one after another; i remember the earth emerge from the womb of miraculous time and a terminal explosion, and i still breath in deeper at any hint of cigarette smoke. i leave my cup at a party to be tampered. and without thinking twice, i sip.

amanda riccitelli

freshly mown grass Heavy and cloying Filling and clinging To the inside of my nose Weighing down my Nostrils and thereby Damning me to Sneeze in the spring.

angie tamayo

someone you knew I don’t want to be someone you loved I don’t want to be someone you knew I don’t want to be a memory Stuck in your past Like a background character in your story Or a chapter in your life Or a mistake you outgrew Perhaps that would be better for you To look back and feel nothing But we both know that will never be true Because when you look back to this chapter My chapter I want it to be so painful that you want to look away But you won’t because I was not a mistake Call us what you want Mask it with “good friends” or “just this girl” But I have left a scar on your life. She may be your ending, but I was your beginning Your future still dangles in the fates of the universe But your past is tattooed with my name.

edwina joe-kamara

terminal Who would’ve known Loneliness, a place one can be shown by the depraved, sunken faced A rebound whose drunken kiss hinders broken hearts, you see filling up their worn suitcases to peacefully grieve Loneliness, a terminal to be passed through yet we mill around, infernal believing it our end, eternal queue

gwen bernick

still born & I remember being born: fruit bloomed in the night, shadowed and ripe and golden, the wet fold of some womb that a flashlight could tear straight through, bright red skin from tattered spine to naval. Unbeing in the morning, the light fractured across the counter, fruit rotted right there in white ceramic, blinds drawn, & mom always yelling, & the car always running. I want to drink myself till I don’t feel my skin like a warm, wet wall around my wicked head. I want to string words together even when they don’t make sense. I want to make it up as I go along. I want to wash my body apart, to hold you inside of me until you dissolve into blood beneath my heartbeating kidneys. I think this is what the world looks like when you’re not trying to be anything. Whole and ugly and cheated. Scraping plaque off of your teeth on the bus.

& so I drink my coffee through a little straw to burn my mouth a little slower, to feel it fill my body like a wet bag of red flesh. But I remember being born, the arms of the enemy cradling my mean, fragile head between her calloused breast. & nothing ever made sense until it was far too late for anything. How I reconcile freedom and flowering, the gasping breath of autonomy like a jailbird from my comfortable, miserable body, my tailpipe throat, stillborn every day I awake. The world didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t exist beside my selfish head until I needed it to feel small. Riding the bus through the morning, being human and insignificant. Being the kitchen floor, the breadth of hatred folded into the muffled, wet womb of silence. But I was sitting there in my folded cotton sheets, like a normal kid, flashlight to my palm â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;cause I liked to see it shine all the way through.

times long gone edwina joe-kamara 16

anisa lateef

nine years young blowing those iridescent bubbles through a floppy wand on the chalk graffitied driveway inflating baby-pink bubblegum spheres with our sugary lips and giddy secrets about pokemon cards and the baseball team tightrope-walking bare toes over a strip of shiny bubble wrap, we fill floors to ceilings with sound bubbles and unadulterated laughter because childhood is defined by bubbles because the song of childhood is serenaded by doves, cotton candy and unchoreographed butterflies delicate like a playdough castle in the midst of an invasion like a bucket of warm cinnamon glaze like a ballet in the center of the park dancing and spinning and twirling to the beat of bubbles

anisa lateef

doomsday Doomsday: a loose calendar date definition of when everything is scheduled to come crashing down. Doomsday Survival Kit as of October, 2019: –– Shovel (for digging tunnels under obstacles) –– Twitter account –– Wifi hotspot –– Inflatable raft and chemical buffers (to travel across acidic oceans) –– Combat boots (for stomping outdated policies into rubble) –– Poptarts and Cheez-Its (for sustenance) –– Battering ram (to break through walls, boundaries...) –– Lighter (for burning stereotypes to the ground) –– Spray paint (to paint everyone purple, thus ending racism) –– Printed wikiHow article on Morse Code –– Band aids (to heal bleeding wounds into scars) –– Garbage bag (to collect broken bones and futures) –– Flare (for attention) –– Megaphone (so voices can be heard in case the hotspot shuts down) –– Stress balls (to relieve conflict) –– Antibiotics (for epidemics, both mental and physical) –– Flashlight (to see through foggy policies) –– Duct tape (to cover up mouths so that there is silence for the first and last time) –– Tattoo ink (to color correct the world permanently)

filip maziarz

the unwritten future i had a dream of moving to the beach while walking amid the few, among trees, when you, of the few, ambled past me, and said not a word, passing me blind— glance kept unspared for the past left behind. and yet maybe you didn’t; maybe she wasn’t even you. from behind, watching your waves moving away and apart from me then receding back into the sea... i couldn’t tell the difference.

edwina joe-kamara

uncharacteristic What if I told you I couldn’t lift my soul as easily as I did yours I couldn’t walk a barren, lonely road without thinking I deserved to I couldn’t look in your eyes and not blame you for how I am I was worse off but couldn’t admit it What if I told you? You wouldn’t believe me, would you?

amanda riccitelli

robert frost at 4:30am Whose woods these are I think I know The boughs of the trees are laden with snow. The dark limbs reach for my soul to take And towards their sirenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s call I go. Between the woods and frozen lake There stretches a bridge without a gate Where a scream can echo without reaching an ear And my mortal form itches to break. The darkest evening of the year Is wrought with a sadness that sheds no tear While I trek over trees with nary a leap And my mind forgets there should be fear. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep Aloud I speak secrets I know theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll keep Beg for this restlessness from me they reap That dawn may rise without a peep. But I have promises to keep To those who do not know whence I creep And dump my soul on the snow in a heap. The walk back is quiet, without a weep. And miles to go before I sleep And miles to go before I sleep

destiny valerio

the gelid man In the darkest of darks, you might not be able to see anything past your own nose but I promise you that you will feel his icy tongue curling around your toes You’ll feel your feet numbing with each gooey and raw lick And when he’s about to bite you’ll smell rotting fish. You won’t be able to restrain yourself from a peek At the Gelid man snacking on your bear feet He crawls and twitches on all fours From the mountain caves outdoors He creeps with clicking nails through your window Like a hungry and soulless black widow He sniffs the air to find your sleeping breath That when you see him, thinking this is your death In the shadows, his skin becomes a brennera flame that you’re pleading for the cloud’s breath to tame. Though if it did, this birnbaumiis eyes would still glare as his 12-centimeter tongue wraps against your toe hair and his icicle teeth penetrates straight into your big one. You’ll scream as the man continues to have his fun. It is because of the Gelid man’s taste for meat that you must have blankets cover your feet.

be you gianna tyala

maria maroko

a little room, grey It’s ten at night, my eyes shut tight But wide awake, I dream Of thoughts erased, the aftertaste Of hot chocolate and cream. I’m uninspired, I’m sad and tired, And I’m the one to blame, But in my mind, the world is kind And you, my love, the same. An apple core, A filthy floor, And wrappers on the bed, Dreams make me ill, but I dream still And I revive the dead. There’s you, and me, and no one else The world melted away A rose in bloom, an open tomb And a little room, grey. There’s you, and me, and no one else And it will stay that way Bare walls, Bare floors, No clock, No doors And a little room, grey. A fantasy of what can’t be A future bare and bleak The fevered thoughts of one sickly Unlovable, and weak. It’s ten at night, my eyes shut tight But wide awake, I dream Of thoughts erased, the aftertaste Of hot chocolate and cream. I’m uninspired, I’m sad and tired, But dawn brings a new day I’ll dream of friends, of happy ends (And a little room, grey)

emily miller

a house we guess was once a farm The wood crumbles. There are holes in the roof. It stands alone. The water that gathers in the irrigation bubbles. Dead grass tries to fill in the missing space. The missing spaces in the ground no longer have purpose, but there are still cranberries in the dirt. The sky is grey with clouds. It wants to cry. The trees protect the borders they create. The birds in the water give new life, or add to the existing.

filip maziarz

thinking, never doing this is summer, then, second in turn, thin water in which the fire star burns; the forest in which away it hides and heats us still from the other side. i humor the world, who tends suggest: that i invite no other guest into his parlor where i’m kept unknowing of which truth’s correct. i think about the men of old steeling their backs ‘gainst waters cold— the pounding of rhythm, ocean waves, or river-fall crashing every day; nought but them and water, them and earth, their shoulders squared, spirits braced for birth; remoteness with purpose, blithe and bright– yet i’ve water against me, no water in sight.

emily miller

andy warhol lyric essay Once, I bought a used copy of “The Philosophy of Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again”. Inside the book, on the title page, someone wrote in pencil in the margin. “The ramblings of an idiot.” I think a lot about Mom’s framed Warhol autograph. It hangs on the wall of her art studio. She never met him, herself. She said an old boyfriend got it for her. I am not sure if the boyfriend met Andy Warhol, either. He bought it before the time of eBay. I assume he must have met him. Inside the frame, there is a 5x7 photo of Warhol. Underneath, on a white piece of paper under a grey matte, is the autograph. It looks enough like the iconic signature. Later in life, Andy Warhol began to hire people to dress up like him, wigs and all. He would send them out in public to pretend to be him. Behind the white wig and dark sunglasses, who was none the wiser? They would shop for him, make appearances at events, take photos. I think it was one of Warhol’s experiments speaking to society and fame. He was obsessed with the idea of celebrity. He also could have been too busy or too lazy to go outside himself. He also could have started to hate the idea of being a celebrity once he became one. I often wonder whether the autograph was written by one of these imposters. When I learned about Valerie Solanas, I thought she was wonderful. A radical feminist lesbian and The SCUM Manifesto. When I watched I Shot Andy Warhol, I found Valerie to be an unlikeable character. She wants him to make a film she wrote. In one scene, she finds Warhol and his friends in a restaurant. Warhol’s friends laugh at her. In that moment, I was not proud of Valerie’s Manifesto. I realized I would be one of Warhol’s friends, laughing at her. Valerie Solanas shot Andy Warhol; the martyr of misunderstood gays, taking down the entitled white man; honestly? Warhol did not die. I think he did not want to make her movie because it was just a bad script.

heather santiago

miss dior

mesmerized by the musical moments laced between choreo & coral colorings I sit & stare at

Natalie Portman in her montage for Miss Dior eau de parfum the one infused with Sia’s “Chandelier” backgrounding a spectra of moods of a modern woman: the raw & sweet the stubborn & angry lingering lust and desire of an innocence forgotten speedy pink cars desert donut swirls & cannonballs in chiffony dre$$e$ “And you” as she stares into your millennial pink soul with a vigor and grace that only a queen among men can control “What would you do for love?” because what your nose can’t smell through a screen your imagination can concoct beyond the camera: so live as if you’re selling a scent through pixels with an illusion of life: a fantasy an aroma rich with money bags & diamond beaches pink and soft like himalayan smoke.

jessica shek

the lesbian Abstract Scientists have discovered a new disease called “lesbianism.” They did a case study on a girl named Mary. They watched her grow up with the disease and they were there when she discovered that she had it. The tendrils of their scientific instruments were carefully hidden behind invisible panels. Information was carefully recorded and preserved. The team of scientists are pleased to present their findings to the scientific community. Introduction Mary sat in the nail salon while her mother got french fill-ins, eyeing the magazines and their interesting pictures. Her back slouched regularly and her mother scolded her for it, the sharpness of her voice straightening her. She closed her eyes and observed the scratching of files, the buzzing of beautying instruments, and the chatter of women’s mouths hovering in the air. Method At the beach, Mary sits on a damp towel. The salty sweat of the air blows over her face as she squints at the sunlight. Her friend asks her to come into the ocean with her, but she declines, and continues squinting. Suit yourself, she says, speckling the ground with her footprints as she heads into the water. Her friend is young as well, and has long brown hair, and dark brown eyebrows that croon over eyes that are even darker. Mary plays with a seashell, thinking about these eyes that make her shiver. The endless blur of crashing water fills her ears. A woman on her right, a few yards farther to the shore begins disrobing while her lover rubs sunscreen on her already darkened skin. She no longer squints. Completely invisible, Mary watches the woman’s legs. Invariably sheen, shaped humanely and not like a statue, curved and lightly twisting down to her toes as the woman dips them into the sand. Results One night when Mary is much older, she lies awake in her apartment, her eyes forcibly open. The sheets are cradled around her body, larger and longer now. The coo of the radiator, and murmur of the fridge swim around her, but that is not what is on her mind. The image of the woman at the beach from forever ago has been conjured again in her sleepless thoughts. She wonders why she does not just dream these things and then forget them. But this was not a dream. Discussion Mary was a young girl who did not know what she wanted. She looked and felt without testing herself, and now she has found that she does not know how to pass her own examination. Or she knows, but does not want to know. References Hours spent fingering the pages of a particular library book retrieved from a particular section that she was afraid to have been in. The pursed look of her mother, wavering on the edge of embarrassment or anger. Her hips in the mirror, wide and traversable, arches connecting things, plump and round up to rounds behind rounds behind rounds, political curves that protest the suffocating grip of belts, dresses, hands.

the rose shwetha raju

heather santiago

machine heart My heart is encased in a steel machine With pulleys and wires that connect to my face and my brain. My heart machine pulls my eyes downward along with the corners of my mouth as I pass a stranger. My heart machine sends signals along the wires to my brain, telling it to analyze every word, look and movement of every person. That steel case, the machine, perpetuates its own existence through its pulleys and wires that only make the steel stronger and stronger. When did it get there? It’s probable that it was built up slowly over time. Each tiny piece of steel added. When he would pull. When she confessed. When I was confused. When he died. When she left. When he never showed up. When she would yell. When he wouldn’t care. When he wouldn’t listen. When she wanted to die. When they chose her, however minutely, over me. Every time I thought I wasn’t good enough. Another piece would be cut and painted and soldered onto the box. Until it was finished in all its dirty shining glory. With its pulleys and wires. A metal parasite.

cameron foster

ms. patty faye donahue I had not had the time to compile a costume worthy of recognition this year, so this Halloween I swiped an extra sheet out of the linen closet, and cut two holes unevenly apart from the other. I let the sheet wash over me from head to toe, and I squirmed and wriggled until the holes settled over my eyes. Now I could see everyone and everything, but they would not see me. I think about this as I pause along my walk and linger outside of the house of Ms. Patty Faye Donahue. I had grown up learning that Ms. Patty Faye lived her life as a shut-in, never venturing out on any other day, except on Halloween. The reasons for her doing so were unclear, and of course the upperclassmen made up their own insane ideas. All I could be sure of was that amidst the buzz and excited candor of October 31st, Ms. Patty Faye Donahue made her annual debut with vigor. Peeking through the wrought iron fence surrounding the property for the first time, I see Ms. Patty Faye looking up from under the magnificent apple tree that dominated the front yard. When I passed by this morning on my way to class, the tree had been dotted with countless large blood-red apples. Now, in the dimming twilight, there was but one left dangling above Ms. Patty Faye. As I idled on the sidewalk, causing a group of chirping trick-or-treaters to swerve around me, Ms. Patty Faye caught my gaze. “Hello, dear,” she exclaimed with a friendly wave that returned to part a lock of salt and pepper hair away from her pale face. “There’s been so many kids coming by tonight that I’m almost out of apples!” She surveyed the undergrowth of the tree and huffed a laugh. “To think, all these years I’ve waited for this beauty to grow and bear fruit, and now that she has, it’s all gone in a day’s time. Oh well, it means so much to the children.” Before I could feign a reply, I shuddered when I noticed the ominous beast that was Ms. Patty Faye’s house had a candle flickering in every window. For the rest of the year, the dilapidated house always remained dark within, never offering a sign of life. But now on Halloween, it was reborn, glowing and heating up from the inside. Just looking at the house made me feel warm under my sheet. Then, I see one of the curtains behind the window shift as if someone was fixing it, and a candle was lit by the stroke of a phantom hand. “Ah, yes, I wanted to give the place some character today. That way the kids would know to come here and receive their treat.” Ms. Patty Faye spoke as she placed a handful of fallen apple tree leaves into a larger pile that had already been started. I continued to stare at that same window, perplexed at who could have lit the candle. Ms. Patty Faye Donahue was believed to live alone; she had no children or lover that any one knew of or had ever spoken of. And the woman herself stood right in front of me. The banging and creaking of her front door interrupted my thoughts. I looked towards the main entrance of her house, and watched the wind blow the wooden door in and out, back and forth. Or was it the wind? I had not felt a gust strong enough to manipulate the door like that all day. Nosily, I strained my eyes to see the insides of Ms. Patty Faye’s house, but could not make out anything beyond the shadows of the entryway.

“That blasted door needs its hinges replaced. I’m keeping the door going to let the children know they’re invited in for cider as well. Not all the apples went to them, you know?” Ms. Patty Faye winked at me, a smile spreading across her cracked lips. What was causing the door to swing back and forth so violently? Was it the phantom hand of the second person working from within? “My sweet, you’ve been awfully quiet. Would you care for a cup of cider?” Ms. Patty Faye took a few tentative steps out from under the tree, stepping into the last shreds of sunlight. She smiled kindly, but did not wait for my reply. “Better yet, how would you like the last apple of my tree?” I nodded from under the protection of my sheet, as the images of the window, the hand, and the door had thoroughly throttled my sense of disbelief. The last apple from this beautiful tree indeed sounded like a treat. Ms. Patty Faye reached up over her head and plucked the last apple with a satisfactory grunt. She walked over to me, but stopped just short of holding out her hand through the fence. “I want to see the face that hides under the sheet first. Eventually, my pet, the mask must come off and the veil must be lifted,” Ms. Patty Faye conditioned to me. She smiled encouragingly, and clutched the apple in her hand, huffing another laugh. “It’s truly the most beautiful apple I’ve seen all day. Perhaps you should plant its seeds and grow a sister tree.” Feeling unsettled from all I had seen, I lifted both hands and grabbed a fistful each of the sheet. I pulled away my mask, the veil that was my crude costume, and I breathed unfiltered air. I am left standing in the dark. The house was once again a void, the candles all extinguished. The front door was bolted in place, and visibly rotting from the outside. The limbs of the apple trees were bare, no leaves of any kind rustled across the lawn. And Ms. Patty Faye Donahue was gone, and only the beautiful blood-red apple that rested at my feet served as a reminder of what was.

dylan sepulveda

the day i realized i wasn’t cut out for journalism The first thing I notice about her is her lips. Bright orange like two koi swimming around her mouth. Her lips seemed naturally orange, as if she came like this and slept like this and if I examined her martini glass I would not see any lipstick smears. Her grin is orange. Her teeth are white. I make sure my tape recorder is on. I see my reflection in her tortoiseshell sunglasses and notice how my leg bounces up and down like I’m a drummer frantically trying to keep tempo with her bebop voice. “STOP READING THIS TITLE AND GET ON WITH WHAT YOU CAME HERE FOR, that’s the title. That’s the title of my book. My manifesto I suppose is what it is. After a title like that, they’d have to keep reading, wouldn’t they? A title, sure, what a marvelous thing, good for the morning news. Good for shiny squeaky people to drop into conversations hoping that they’ll mention the right book to the right girl to get the right kinda response.” Her vocal chords are like an uncared for road after a hard winter. Her words, hapless workers in shitty used cars trying to commute from her diaphragm to the air, loudly clunking in the potholes. “Fuck em, I want a certain kind of people. I want people who know their salvation ain’t gonna be in a title. People who can still be saved.” Her teeth threaten to glue themselves together with how long she holds that grin. She puts out her cigarette, realizing it would only distract her from speaking. “I’m on Wikipedia a lot. Beautiful. You know I never cared that it could be fake. Fake. What’s fake? In China they don’t talk about Tiananmen Square, they completely fudge the numbers over there. Say it was just all disorderly conduct. Now there’s over a billion people living in a new timeline where Tiananmen Square just never happened, but that’s their reality. Is that fake? Is it fake if you live it? Fake if you make it real enough for a billion people to participate in it? You know, there’s a Wikipedia page-” She cuts herself off and pulls a carton of Pall Malls from inside her suit jacket pocket, her entire ensemble is like staring into a glass of merlot at three am, and I am filled with the deep purple of regret. She slaps the carton and finds it empty. She lifts the flap just to be sure, and then again for good measure. “Right yeah, there’s a Wikipedia page titled ‘List of People who Claimed to be Jesus’. It’s in chronological order. You know who’s at the top of the list?” She extends and curls her fingers at the second knuckle, kneading the air, prepping it for the yeast in her words to make her ideas rise. “Jesus. JeeeeeeSUS!! The first faker. The first fraud! After him no one comes around until the seventeen hundreds when a Russian man named Kondratiy Selivanov decides that he’s Jesus now. After him it’s Ann Lee. She decided she would be the next Jesus. Decided it was her turn! She started a religious group called the Shakers and they would all shake and writhe about during sermons.”

I want to open my mouth, but my lips had been cemented together. I’m supposed to be asking questions. I’m supposed to be ripping frauds like her apart. My lips disappear into my mouth, my tongue falls down my throat, and I silently choke. “A common theme. Between these Jesus imposters I mean. A common theme. Lots of violence, and sex, and government. Big fan of two out of the three.” She does not laugh at her joke. I dare not laugh either for fear that it’s not a joke. I imagine her laugh wears a big yellow suit and comes out of her belly with a haphazard stride. “Know about Waco? Way-co? Read about it. Reeeeeeead about it. It’s a city in Texas. There was a big compound there made by a religious sect called the Branch Davidians. They created their own Eden. The ATF botched a raid on the compound and torched them all alive in their own Eden. Their leader was a man called David Koresh, he was another guy who claimed to be Jesus. David was Jesus and the Government killed him. One Nation Under God where we kill God’s son time and time again.” I have pins and needles in my legs. My years of education fizzle into dandelion fluff. “The most recent big person to claim they were Jesus, Oscar Ramiro Ortega-Hernandez, now there’s a Jesus. He thought Obama was the anti-christ and tried to kill him.” She drums her fingernails against the faux woodgrain bar. She’s chewing on her inside lip, I wonder if it’s bleeding. I wonder if she can bleed. “Yes sir. We’ve all been Jesus, and I’m next.” She stops drumming her nails, and drags them along the bar. She finds my tape recorder, pops the tape out, and in one sweeping motion, drops it onto the floor. Her boot quickly mercy kills the tape. The tape sputters out of it’s plastic shell, like a lower intestine out of a Branch Davidian. “I’m next.” She leaves. Her lipstick is orange orange orange.

iguana ellena farzaie

gwen bernick

pele (the woman who devours the land) six pairs of swollen knees in the dark, sweat hanging in our breath, blood dripping a path back on the gravel. the golden glow, a horde of something unearthly-- or, perhaps, most earth-like in its aching. the cry of something bloody, someone dying, the gaping mouth of mother nature, her seething tongue chaotic. and nothing is how we left it. the silver of the coffee pot scuffed, the leather of your fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s boots weathered. nothing is how we meant it. fear like a cricketâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s chirp, like hands you cannot escape in nightmares remembered, like the thick, wet sludge of night pounding at your window. the glass spider-webbed already. when the lights go out, we all drop. my hands flat on the rock, Orion a beacon or a search light. a hillside scramble. a fistfight. a battle of love and fear, of life and weariness. leaves in a dream or a book or a rotted dinner table snapped underfoot and ankles twisted-- the snap, the shotgun backfire, the bruised chest of love undone.

ambar grullon

ewing, after “los angeles” If conversation was currency, Pia felt bankrupt. She sat in the wood-paneled room, her thighs hanging slightly over the seat of her chair. A girl with three puka shell necklaces sat across the room, her legs draped over her boyfriend’s as she took a hit from her juul. Her mouth still hung open, the black cavern of her throat begging for closure. A scrawny boy crouched into the corner and his eyes darted between the door and the bud on the table. The girl next to her lounged on the rocker, its high-pitched creak striking the room. Pia clutched her drink and stared at her thighs. They were especially full today and she regretted not going to the gym that morning. Her inner thighs were sponges, eager to soak any oils it absorbed. She crossed her legs and sucked her stomach inward, gently pulling her top to cover the fleshy spill. As she moved strategically, to prevent any recognition of her body’s fat, she concentrated on tightening her neck and lifting her chin to achieve a pinched look. It was difficult, she thought, manipulating the natural hills to instead form valleys. God wasn’t quite the artist her mother made Him to be. “Fuck,” the girl with the puka shell necklaces hissed, startling Pia. “I’m literally so tired.” She stretched her form, her exposed rib cage jutting forward. Pia stared at the expanse of white skin. Her mother once told her that the more a woman’s rib cage protruded, the sexier her silhouette could be. She straightened her posture and imagined that her bottom ribs were rose petals hanging against a glass vase. It was an uncomfortable beauty and she couldn’t take the stress of sitting anymore, so she stood up and placed her drink on the table. It oddly completed the clutter of bud and rolling papers. “I’m going to the bathroom,” Pia announced, almost expecting a nod of recognition or an awkwardly composed smile. The room remained as it was, the cool smoke drifting in tune with the creaky rocker. She walked past the kitchen and leaned against the living room wall. Boys with long curls and coveralls shouted at the TV, a nature program inexplicably playing. Christmas lights and salt rock lamps glittered on the windowsills. Dimly, she remembered that it was a birthday party but she could not find the birthday boy in question. She hitched her pants up coyly, looking around to make sure that no one had watched her, with the hopes that someone would walk over and catch her intimate act. Not that she was looking for attention—on the contrary, she had promised herself that this semester was strictly limited to “falling in love with herself.” It was a corny desire and one that she had verbalized several times to her friends. She wanted so desperately to be her own best friend, but the urge to seek outside approval in the form of a rendezvous, well. Who could deny that hope, to be an individual in a community of nonconformity and still fit in? A boy with a septum ring and various ear piercings approached her. Not quite her type, but Pia leaned backward and cocked her head. He stood in front of her, gazing across the top of his drink.

“I haven’t watched the movie,” he said. “You know, Mean Girls.” He gestured at his shirt: an illustration featuring the gay best friend in that iconic hoodie. “How quirky of you. Is that a line?” Pia quipped. Maybe this stimulation would drift into revitalizing territory. “It’s definitely a conversation starter.” “Have you made it your mission to avoid the movie?” Pia cringed. It was incredibly uncomfortable to crave conversation and unsettling to realize that she was unequipped to even continue the most mundane of those options. The boy sipped his drink thoughtfully. “I mean, they played it in one of my high school classes or some bullshit like that.” “So you have seen it.” A liar. Not quite a creative one, either. “I, like, didn’t not see it.” They both paused. “How very un-quirky of you,” Pia responded. She imagined, in the moment that their eyes met, he’d proceed to ask her name and opinion on his other un-quirky habits. Maybe they would talk about politics, the lack of sustainable efforts held by the college’s administration, or even the overwhelming stench of vapid conversation that dulled the party. He would tuck his arm around her waist and she wouldn’t concentrate on her stocky torso, but just the warmth of his fingers. He did her a favor: he walked away. When she finally left the party, when she had listened to the nagging feeling in her stomach and dumped her second drink and stopped leaning against the wall expectantly, she thought about constructing the night for her friends. The puka shell necklaces to ridicule. The sudden fog of juuls pervading the kitchen. The black jeans that would cut into her stomach as she sat. The bits of conversation: about a boy with a septum ring and a penchant for the unpopular, ready for the transaction that comes from an empty night.

gwen bernick

saint paul, in parts 1. The back door latched to the siding when it was open, so that you’d have to go outside in order to be fully alone back there. I’d drive through town just to stop for pedestrians, to the bank just to see the teller. I ate when I was not hungry, peeled clementines piece by piece until their nakedness rang unnatural. I was playing a life I remembered, somewhere, but did not belong to. What is the rule about apology for thoughtless acts? I didn’t mean to, and if I had known I never would’ve, and is this an apology? Does it have to be? 2. I love the people who I do not know. A father lifting his curly-haired daughter to his shoulders, stopping on the sidewalk so she could admire stalks of flowers spilling from a hanging basket. Here, I cross the Mississippi, here, I cross the street, here, I press the button to return. You and your truck a river away, smoking weed in your driveway where everyone can see, driving by the shore where you could almost, almost miss me too, if you squint, if you hadn’t broken your glasses. I was scared of it all, but we weren’t. 3. I was drunk in the backseat when I thought about your car unfettered in the driveway next year and me so, so, far from your passenger seat. I go outside and forget all about the latch, the river, the city smell of pot and my bare feet. I sit cross-legged on the pavement the way we used to, scratch my initials into the soft summer tar, the way we used to. 38

4. After this, I will drive past the basketball court and the library, all the way through to Virginia and back. Reckless, reckless, old laws and my new brakes. Oh, wear me out, pound my heart, break bottles beneath my car ‘til even the back door won’t keep me alone. Your tires squealing, loose gravel and fresh oil, this is how we replace a need. I peel two clementines and leave the rinds in a neat pile on the picnic table. I wake up still drunk, still in the backseat, oh, still alone. 5. Something you said and cannot repeat. A moment and I couldn’t stop staring at your shoulders, the way they curved and turned under the weight of it all, my gaze. The river is right here, so thick and green you could almost believe you’d float if only you dove. In a dream, I ask you to swim with me, across the Mississippi, back to some time where I could find everything I needed in the thick summer air, the wide rims on my car. Back when I didn’t know the mean face of your truck, its deep grills, or you shirtless behind the wheel, the windows always open, even in the winter. 6. I like to think of you talking about me, right at the beginning. I like to invent a self that you still talk about. I like to ride the bus to New York City, I like to put the hazards on my car and drive slow until I can stop crying. I like to get drunk and call you. You know this. I like the hair under my arms and I liked chemistry class. I like talking about you and I liked being lied to, too. I am only what you make me, and you are making me naive, inevitable, making me eternal and shattered and crazy.

7. Last summer I wore the greedy face of a girl who did not know you. My initials in the tar. I drive Sisyphus switchback up a mountain just to fall back down again, a beetle escaping an eagleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cruel, toothless grin. The sun shines on every word in a letter I wrote to you, but then I folded it in thirds, face down, and put it in an envelope. PO box, zip code, return address and return to sender. You loved me better in a dream, I mean. 8. I am loving you here in the alleyway where no one has yet. I am loving you in my birkenstocks, I am loving you on the bus to the city, I am loving you retroactively, picking berries last year as a girl you didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know. Now I am picking berries, alive in a line drawing, a day I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t quite remember, play-acting this scene. I am still miles from the river, your passenger seat. Still high, still unknowing, deep in inevitability. This year is not last year. This breath is not yours. 9. Here is the thing I am trying to say. I will be 28, but I already know I will not be alone. Here I am missing you, here is the Mississippi, here is my heart, here is your truck and here is my life, a series of model train pieces strung together with red yarn, cardboard-boxed, chasmed. Here is love, here is fear, here is hopeless, here is failure, and here is me, still alive and dissected. Still full.

dylan sepulveda

how i would explain my sudden anger to my son over a new shop in the neighbhorhood that sells six dollar flax seed spoons I would grab him where his sleeve lays his elbow naked to me textured with hairs that are only felt now and not yet seen dragging him thinly to where the rivers once were Using his arm as my own Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d show him what my eyes remember seeing pointing his unbitten finger and tracing lines where gullys ran deep through asphalt with riverbeds at once so dry and then at all with sudden gaping flood where Colts ran wild down the banks to chase the gore away at rent money a second a public surgery blood transfusion through veins charred with constant wild bandolier fire Then a neatly packaged man defined on the exclusivity of his bar soap wipes his shoes on our old operating table

david pridmore

deserted I asked the master of the tent how far the Ayahuasca would carry me. He said as far as my ego would allow. So, with that in mind I meditated before taking the drug. I wanted myself out of the way, so that I could explore myself freely. The smoke was harsh out of the wooden pipe and my eyes teared as the room vanished. My vision doubled and kept dividing exponentially until I had no sight at all. I closed my eyes and saw a machine. It reminded me of a picture I had seen from the industrial revolution where a migrant woman slaved over a silk press. As I closed my eyes deeper, I saw that it was me manning the machine. But at the same time, it couldn’t be me because I was watching him? He smiled and began pressing his foot and creating piles of silk. My mirror smiled maniacally as his foot hit the floor at a more accelerated rate. As his foot sped up more and more silk began to fill my mind. The patterns were all the colors of the rainbow and more. I blinked and all was gone again. When I opened my eyes, I was alone in a desert. The winds of my mind blew sand in every which direction. I looked toward the horizon and I saw myself run into a temple untouched by modern exploration. I followed myself in as sand rained down on the stone floors. The walls featured myriad hieroglyphics that all made sense to me even though they were in a language I surely could not speak. Each symbol seemed to have a different message for me; they seemed to be showing me where to go. Countless doors and hallways meandered through my mind, inviting me to discover their ancient wisdom. Suddenly I heard a voice and remembered what had brought me here. I heard my twin laugh, assuring me that it was safe to follow. It had been awhile since I had followed myself anywhere. Sandstone steps revolved around the inside of the stone structure and lined the walls in every which direction. I could no longer see myself and had to follow the laughter. “Hehe” I heard myself teasing in a voice that’s been raised an octave. I caught a glimpse of his back as he floated up the steps. It appeared with every step he was losing years. I worried that if I followed him long enough, he would vanish entirely. I heard a familiar voice but could not place it. I had lost all sense of direction and intention. I no longer knew up from down or myself from my doppelgänger. I followed his voice up the step and paused. The absence of sandstone in the pyramid lead directly into the 1960’s ranch that I grew up in. I peered my head in and saw my giggly friend and my father sitting in the tv room of the old house. My young self was telling my dad all about what he had learned in school that day. There was an enthusiasm in his voice that had left mine years ago. My Dad’s eyes never left the tv as he nodded absently. I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed for my friend. I stepped into the room and our eyes met like mirrors; I could see myself clearer in his eyes. “How was school Bud?” I tried to say, choking back tears, as I saw the excitement rise in him.

My mind was blank at that point. The only thing that I wanted both of us to know was that I was listening. I closed my eyes again and opened them. My doppelgänger was gone, and I could see that my brother had taken his place. He was wearing the same New York Knicks Jersey and smile that he is in the framed picture that I have of him on my desk. I began to feel my mouth moving. My brother was in front of me, listening to me as I told him all about my day at school “And then we played music outside because it was such a nice day!” When I finally stopped talking and looked up, I could see that he was taking in every word, his mind blank, just wanting me to know that he was listening.

david pridmore

grandma’s gift “Honey you’ve got mail” I barely hear my Mom’s words through my gaming headset and when I do, it’s hard to make sense of them. Who sends mail to a 12-year-old kid? My birthdays not for another three months so it can’t be grandma sending me money. Unless she’s finally hit that point of senility where she thinks it’s my birthday multiple times a year. Wow, I would never have to work a day in my life if she lived to be one hundred and fifty and sent me birthday money every day. She usually sends me one hundred dollars and its tax free too. So, let’s see 100 dollars a day, there’s 7 days in a week and 52 weeks in a year. That’s roughly $37,000 a year. I mean, I could easily live off of that. It may be difficult to support a family but if I meet a beautiful woman whose grandmother happens to be doing the same thing and if we save well, we should be able to live a pretty comfortable life, maybe even send our kids to college. It will be hard to save money with both of us knowing that the very next day there will be another $200 dollars coming. But in twenty years when we’re moving out of the condo we rent, and into our dream home, so that both of our sons can have their own bedroom, we’ll smile at each other and thank ourselves for being so prudent. I quit my Fortnite game early and float out of my gaming chair. It’s time to get the mail and receive the first installment of my pension. My Mom already opened the mail and the contents are hanging on a magnet on the fridge. A smiling tooth glares down at me, his belly reads “Hi David, it’s been almost a year since you have had a cleaning!”

jessica shek

the alarm Then, there was no alarm. My father was the alarm, a door opened, our eyes torn from sleep to see the orange animal consuming our windows, large and tall and so bright, the room was filled with its sound, how wood cackles, how glass shrinks and whines under heat, all in one moment there was running, we leaped from childrenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beds and removed ourselves, the sound and the orange ending at that door but the smoke spilling out from the seams, one second of breath like a painful web over your throat, the air is poison, grab what you can, but what can you take with you? My heart was leaping, bursting, I grabbed a big blue blanket from the living room and left. I did not know I would never come back. We made that home. The apartment was an outline. A blueprint of pencil lines tracing the shape of the kitchen and the crevices in between. Shadows marking the borders of imagined windows. We filled this space, built it. The nails were my sisterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gymnastics medal, the electric piano where I practiced the sonatinas, the steamy dinners of drunken noodles, and my father pulling us away from our rooms to have them. We painted pathways with our feet, peopling the living room, peopling the air with the sweet and sour and warm smell of living. We built our own beds frames with semantic screws, but the real building was sleeping in them, us two girls in bunk beds, moving and shifting the covers slightly during the night. My mother lost something once. Some years ago in an ancient time, she owns a convenience store in the city. One night, the alarm blares. A brick, a crash. Bags, taking what they can. She rushes over in her car, hears their scuffling, but they are gone. So many things missing, broken glass crunching underneath her steps. My father arrives, she screams and cries, angry, so angry she beats his chest. Money on her mind, plunging down and gone. And why. Why in her fists, why in her shoes, beating the floor. He holds her hands and wraps them around him. They sit down on the linoleum, back against an empty fridge, her head in his lap, talking. He twirls her hair with his finger. She grasps his hand tight. They watch the aisles run down the store and dream. They lay there till morning.

angie tamayo

i’m sure I’m sure my mother didn’t see herself leaving to a foreign country at the age of 36 I’m sure my mother didn’t see herself alone in the airport clutching the hands of her two children I’m sure my mother didn’t see herself chasing after a man across the world -Who would then leave her I’m sure my mother didn’t want this ending for us I’m sure my mother didn’t want to live under her brother’s roof for six years - To then become astray with one another I’m sure my mother didn’t want the three of us to live in a ten feet by ten feet room I’m sure my mother didn’t plan to live like this at all I’m sure my mother tried her best I’m sure my mother doesn’t want to work cleaning houses for people I’m sure that wasn’t her dreams at the age of eighteen I’m sure she wanted to become a professional seamstress and designer I’m sure she never lets go of that dream, no matter how dim the light shines I’m sure this was worse for her than it was for us I’m sure she hates the English language because she doesn’t know it I’m sure she misses her family back home I’m sure the only place of comfort is on a telephone listening to her mother’s voice I’m sure this country will never be home for her I’m sure she thought part two would be better I’m sure she thought he was a good man I’m sure she believed he was a prince on a rescue mission - After all men like that have perfected their facades I’m sure she didn’t know he would be abusive I’m sure she regrets marrying him I’m sure she hopes my brother and I do better I’m sure she means it when she says “I love you” I’m sure she tried her best to be our mother I’m sure she isn’t done trying to get her happy ending.

for my mother edwina joe-kamara 46

caroline geoghegan

flowers from wolfe 9 What kind of college freshman leaves bustles of yarrow At their window? Whether to scream or stare They are the neon babes Drifting down the murky rivers Of my mottled brick They are the sunlightâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s charge The bolt pistol To my sheepish grin The leaves to weep At such untimely slaughter. Yet on second squint Their wilt stills and sizzles away Their petals only paper My window a mere mirror So I am left to find my yellow In yet another dumpster

dylan sepulveda

i love you (comma) man. That word at the end hangs from the back of my throat. A coagulating postnasal drip, the emotions in the word itself must be squished against the roof of my mouth like stale chewing gum and left there to fester. A consonant laden canker sore that I must refrain to lick but do so anyways during meals. I Love You (half breath) bro. when we say I Love You, it must come with an asterisk with a disclaimer with terms and conditions that must be thumbtacked to our vocal cords at a young age a reminder that if we are to make our throats vibrate this way make them sing those words that we must follow them with a modifier. Conjugate our love. There is a sheepishness to the words a fear that we sheep in wolf â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s clothing will be found out by the boy who cries for us.

I Love You (now now) dude. When we hug it must be because we shook hands first had that contest of dominance before smashing our chests against each other quickly not letting our hearts hear one another softly thumping for each other. No big open hugs just slanted sideways tackles aggressive charging batteries that slack wind from diaphragms. A lucid fear that if we hug brazenly, bodies against one another, if our waists touch my heart may beneath its cage hear yours hear the base drum in your orchestral body and long to synchronize

â&#x20AC;&#x153;if its a perfect match, why does it stand alone?â&#x20AC;? cameron foster 49

angela mcentee

a love letter written by a nerd i don’t know if you are important to my story or if you are just presented as a side character. an extra to add drama. a character who will be killed off by the next chapter and was never heard from again. maybe you are just here to be the beautiful person the author doesn’t have time to fully create or lost interest in. but maybe if i allow myself to read further you’re actually the main supporting character to mine. you will be in future chapters with full length paragraphs of blushing speech granted to you. the readers will fall in love just as quickly as me and they will root for you to be present on the page. no one will want you to leave. they will scream if the author ever decided to kill you off. and then s l o w l y my story will become yours. we’ll split the chapters from different perspectives and finish each other’s sentences. we’ll live on the same page breathing the same commas and periods and embracing the same white space. you came into my story an unexpected character. but i’m begging the author to keep you around. i’m begging him to give you a purpose in my life. a good purpose not one that leaves me wishing you were never written.

amanda riccitelli

arsenic summers The sun broods up high away Bright and hot and angry, While we replace the clouds With the smoke from our lungs In a sky as dull as our eyes. We’ve filled the ocean with liquor And swapped the sand for cocaine. Why try to tan when we can burn Until our skin is red and poisoned. Our radios play only swears and static, And our bathing suits reek Of booze, weed, and sex, Even though our towels sit only one. One hand clutches a sweating bottle While the other fiddles with a cigarette. And we revel in the self destruction.

filip maziarz

old new bike trail spurts of something per lengths of nothing: aspirated starts for exasperated heart. two wheels through a secret woods, unknown, unspoken; crumbling home. highway soars above the river— on the muddied road below i pass. forever by the wall of faded paints with words too out of shape to read, sits the dragon-fish destined to sing: you are the smell before the rain. long lives he, the crocus king– with death upon the meadow vole.

alex baldino

for george, who thinks salad is a mouthful of lettuce and a shot of ranch To start, get grade A eggs, begin to beat, Like an 80’s powerlifter chug that. Or fry them in a pan with too much heat Until breakfast tastes just like a bar mat Salad? bite a head of lettuce and squirt The dressing directly into your mouth. Sandwich? Grab Wonder Bread and then insert Canned Spam and cheese a la trap of the mouse. Dinner will be a can of old tuna, Served with a side of Chinese leftovers Indulge yourself with candy and a spoon of Miracle Whip gone green as an ogre. Or hey, maybe just once let’s take our time And cook a meal that doesn’t taste like slime

golden ocean jessica shek

the last look

Dear Reader,

a note from the issue editor

This is my first semester as Issue Editor. Hard to tell, right? Anyway, like most of my predecessors, I began as a wee Lion’s Eye Member and never thought I would be the one making the mags I loved to read each semester. Now, being inside of it all, it’s been so cool to have a backstage pass to all the creative work going on at TCNJ. During the whole process, I really felt like I was writing my own narrative, piecing together a story through the stories of others. The order of the magazine pairs pieces that are in conversation with each other, and I have had the priviledge to take the work of you, the individual, and create a community. As an aspiring writer, I deeply understand the process you took to get here. From notebook page, or diary, or napkin, to a computer doc you hope no one will see, the work in this mag went through its own pilgrimage, just to arrive here, in your hands. Submitting to Lion’s Eye, and showing anyone your work is both scary and quite brave. And I’m glad you took the leap. Working on the mag has taught me a lot about time management skills, in that, I don’t have any. But after many late nights at the AIMM building, lost USBs, and a whole bunch of other shenanigans, I’m finally done. Thanks to the Lions Eye staff for helping shape the culture of this mag and making our critiques hilarious and fun this semester. Thanks to Jamie, Filip, and Destiny, for supporting me through this whole process. After this particular semester, we’ve really been through everything the world could throw at us. And finally, thanks to you, for picking up a copy of TCNJ’s best student work. Best wishes,

Jessica Shek, 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 tcnjlionseye@gmail.com.

PRINTER ::

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

Please kindly pass this magazine on or recycle it.