o每e The Literary Magazine 0 -"-h ,o 垄"9_. t'每
C Literary Magazine
Editor-in-Chief Kristie Sobeck Selection Committee L.J. Atieh, Jennifer Bellardini, Melissa Druehl, Matthew Grant, Ann Kovall, Suzanne Mahle, Elinor Nelson, Meagan McSweeney, Lauren O'Leary, Claudia Osterich, Belinda Russell, Shannon Sousa, Merrill Young
Editing Committee Ann Kovall, Suzanne Mahle, Meagan McSweeney, Elinor Nelson, Belinda Russell, Shannon Sousa, Merrill Young
Public Relations Melissa Druehl & Merrill Young
Faculty Advisor Patricia Comitini
o每je The Literary Magazine O
Table of Contents
Ctaudia Ostojic Kristie Sobeck
Her Army Soldier Hercules
Lindsay Ann Brauer
Mental Games of the Socially Challenged The Bathroom Blues
Chris Si[berbauer Matthew Grant
6 7 8
Pearls o[ Tomorrow
Be[ore We Got Old Bride
Lingering Dusk Untitled Warrior of Assumption Slippery Stomach I Would Water
Suzanne Mahte Lauren O'Leary
Me[issa Drueh[ Kristie Sobeck Suzanne Mahle
Claudia Ostojic Allison Mansfield
10 14 16 17 18 19 2O 21 22 23 24
Literary Magazine Letter from the Editor-in-Chief My involvement with Montage started in my sophomore year when rumor of a university literary magazine drifted to my ear. Wanting to continue my editing experience from high school, I sought out Montage to refine my skills. However, all ! found was a magazine left in
shambles after its last publication in 1998. Clearly deserving a revival, it became my mission to see Montage published once again. This task sounded much easier than it became in reality. However, Quinnipiac
needed a literary magazine that represented the artistry and creativity of students at the University. I wanted it to demonstrate to the University community the quality work of our talented students. Most importantly, I wantedit to be run by the students themselves, to empower them with full creative reign over a magazine that captures a moment in this tumultuous, but exciting time in our lives. After many trials and tribulations, and quite a bit more work than I expected, the magazine
was published in the spring of 2001 for the first time in three years. While rewarding, the publication of Montage has not always been a smooth process. To be honest, it has been nothing but arduous and stressful at times. However, it has been an unforgettable experience that has left me with innumerable memories I will never forget: the hours spent confined to my office, the madness of endless meetings,
and the laughter of my staff as they saved me from delirium, are all memories I would relive time and again if given the chance. If ! had it to do all over again, the only thing I would change is that I would have picked up this project much sooner. This year, my mission has been to broaden the scope of the magazine, to expand its format and style and to work on establishing it as a
literary tradition at Quinnipiac University. The perpetuation of this project is vital to the creative goals of many students here. I can only
hope that I have satisfactorily completed my goal. With this in mind, I proudly present to you the Spring 2002 publication of Montage. I would like to take the time to say an enormous thank you to my staff for traveling down this road with me, without expectation. A special thanks to our advisor, Patricia Comitini, for her endless support of the magazine and my artistic visions. To the contributors, thank you for sharing your work with the University community. Without all of you, my efforts to revive the magazine would not have been as successful. Again, I hope you are as proud of this year's Montage as I am. Sincerely,
Kristie Sobeck Editor-in-Chief
HER ARMY SOLDIER Sitting on the couch In iris army greens He took her hands And said it's not what it seems. I've got to go, But I want you to know ....
I'll write when I can And when things get rough I'll remember your smile
That he'll write when he can And when things get rough
And it won't seem so tough.
And it won't seem so tough.
He'll remember her smile
Soon enough I'll be home,
Soon enough he'll be home,
And we won't be alone...
And they won't be alone...
So he told her he'd miss her And to keep holding out For the love of her army soldier.
She knows that he misses her And she keeps holding out For the love of her army soldier.
She cried for a while Till the tears ran out Cursed him for leaving her Holding back the need to shout. Remembering how far away this day seemed W每en he had to go,
Sitting on the couch In his army greens He takes her hands
But in her heart she knows...
It's important you know...
She'll write when she can And when things get rough She'll remember his smile
You wrote when you could And when times got rough I remembered your smile And it didn't seem so tough.
And it won't seem so tough. And she won't be alone...
And says it's everything she's dreamed. I'm home for good now.
But even though I had to go
But now I'm home,
Remembering he misses her
We'll never again be alone.
She keeps holding out
It's all over, he told her All because you held out And loved your army soldier.
For the love of her army soldier. The months creep by She remembers his touch Plagued by the heartache She needs him so much.
God, this is harder than it seemed. But he had to go, In her heart she knows...
-- -- Kristie Sobeck.-- --3-
Your eyes are darker in the morning Your lips are softer in the night Even if the sun decides not to come out
Everything will be all right And I like the way you tease me And I like the way you care And I like the memories I can pull from you As I gaze into your stare So let me lay you down softly I know the day has worn you thin And in your eyes I find the power that you carry within And then I'll tell you why I find you so Beautiful to me Although my love has worn you away Although my love has pushed you away
--MENTAL GAMES OF THE SOCIALLY CHALLENGED--There is that lonesome wandering man. He travels the route daily with no remorse. The slow pace dragging feet along the walk With head hung low until the checkpoint is passed. Then down he sits to watch daily friends. His one way acquaintances of dreams never met.
A life unlived survived on others tracks. Some come and go never to be seen again,
But in clockwork familiar faces saunter by. Relief comes in the slightest of grins. Traces of fulfillment can be seen boldly Flaring up in his wasted weary eyes, A sole survivor on a common routes divide.
-- -- Chris Silberbauer---
-- --Craig March.-- --
IMPERFECTION Uncanny httle fool are you. Unnerve my confidence and send my heartbeats soaring.
Sinister slits of eyes, Always watching, always waiting. For your chance to become real - more than my illusion, Oh how you seduce me in my vision.
You choke me in awkward moments and slither into my arms. 'Embrace me' you sputter, anxiously.
As if I could forget your dynamic personality. I turn my other cheek - watch particles of dust float by. You linger just too long and fade against my shadow as it grows. A sick and twisted likeness of myself. I watch you yawn, yet conspicuously a laugh escapes, High-pitched and mocking, undoubtedly thick with ridicule. What makes you so might? So grand and untouchable? The answer all too often is your disrespectful silence. Cannot you not speak? Not think? Pathetic wretch, how dare you live? --
Without drowning in your pool of self-pity And your pit of evasive reasons you feel no guilt for being An insignificant scrap to be tossed aside. Know when you are beaten and retreat I say.
Take your judgments and your laugh and leave. You are fooling no one but yourself.
--- Lauren O'Leary -- --
Adjusting his overpowering belt buckle
Smiling slyly, He spits, nearly missing my foot, Trying not to choke on his wad of chew And begs the question: So, when can I break in your horse? The wanna be domesticgoddess Who can't distinguish the stove from her computer (There's no port for cooking appliances?) But she's proud of her education And ability to stand on her own. Marking her calendar She smiles sarcastically, Trying not to be discouraged At the thought of yet another date And one more possibility down As she begs the question: So, will he be my Mr. Right? Kristie Sobeck--
-- ---Craig March.-- --
-- --Doc Rogers--- --
The basketball Hoop Approaches, Closer And closer. Our screams
By the Second,
--BEFOR WE GOT OLD-The leaves haven't turned yet and the sun still glows in the west. Maybe we could go get some coffee, or something. I say it's okay if you spend all my money, and I'll say it's okay if you want to stay out late, and I'll say it's okay if you still would stay with me, let's not move another muscle tonight.. Let's lie here with the cold outside and the wind rapping the dusty shades against the window. The kids next door had a little too much to drink, perhaps. We say we'l! get the work done, yet somehow never do, because nothing comes close to
better than lying here with you. The hours slide and the minutes fall through thne, we'll never see those precious moments again tmtil we dream it, we'll see. I never thought I'd write a song for you, can't say I ever wil!, because words can't explain what you've done for me these
past couple days. Days? Seems like years or months, close to an eternity. Keep on pushing through, keep on pushing through. Yesterdays lead to tomorrow, but where will tomorrow take us to? I need to stop thinking and talking and sleeping. I need to get some rest or maybe some work done. I need to write a novel. I need to write a love
song. I need to visit my uncle in Chicago. And I'm still talking, rambling, as I look across this dimly lit table; you do your work, golden locks dusting the pages of your book. I try to look away, leave this crush behind, get to work, but I can't tear myself from your enrapturing hold. It's getting cold, cold, cold, yes it is. When did I grow up, start feeling so old? I think we should stay here and never leave this town; everyone would leave us alone because they know
they can't have what we do. We won't work or get jobs, just iay around naked all day and stay up after hours 'till the stars die away. So, if this never works or we take different roads to our goals, just know how I felt on this day before we got old.
-- -- DGB -- --
LEYGE G DUSK Air-brushed orange and hazy green
The murky swamp of dusk The creamy richness tipped from the bottom Of the glass vial of day. Spilling languidly down the canvas sky Trickling into pockets Partially shrouded by puffy charcoal smears. Like a dark pair of women's stockings Soft and elastic Flung haphazardly across the horizon
Letting flecks of light modestly illuminate The dense foliage of traffic below.
And behind that the inkblot images Of a city now blinking softly With the smattering of glittering pixies Splashed across the landscape High up toward the tiny, silver crest of moon. I stand upon the hilltop far above the world And am witness to all this. To the fading of the sun and of the shadows Etched into the earth. To the tantalizing, newborn stars That strike the sky's cool, placid surface With gentle glory. Now there lies a kind of hush across the world An eloquent silence An emotion-packed calm.
High in the reaches of the night Eternity pauses To savor the melting strands of Dusk.
-- -- Lauren O'Leary -- --
P WARRIOR OF ASSUMP-FION He sits before me A warrior contemplating his youth Wandering through assumed enlightenment. Trying to make sense of the truth. Begotten, not made One in being with... He forgot.
Castrated by society He wonders out loud Stand tall, assumed warrior Pretend to be proud. Simon says...
Recite the lines you know so well You took the oath, now assume the part.
Recite the lines That missed the heart. The Father, Through Him...
Was anything made? Or was it at the right hand Of the climactic dust that filled the air. We'll skip that part. As if his fellow sinners care.
He will come again in glory To judge...
The sinful and the saved. Take a ticket. Wait your turn To receive your promised damnation.
You joined the crowd and failed your mission. You lived as human, gave into temptation. Simon says, Stand up proud warrior. Take a bow.
You are the Enlightened one. You know all now.
-- -- Kristie Sobeck -- --21-
I WOULD-If I were the wind, I would swoop from the hills, down to the fields below. With the leaves I would dance, on the water I'd prance, â€˘
and through beckoning sails I would blow. I would carry a lark upon my back, Send its songs through an open door, I would cool reddened faces with a kiss, I would help a baby bird soar. If I were the wind, I'd give snowflakes a whirl before they touched the ground. I would flow through a flute, ruffle a curl,
and fill all the poplars with sound. If I were the wind, I would brush your hair, and blow your troubles away.
I would sing in the trees, and laugh in my breeze, If I were the wind, I would. ----Claudia Ostojic---
-- --Marisa Pilek--- --23-
F they knew as Chuck nodded numbly and handed his friend the gun, not missing the cold weight in his hands at all. 每e other man nodded slowly and placed the gun on the table next to the water. Chuck turned and strolled out of the beach house, stepping outside into the chili night air. A crisp wind was blowing off of the water and he walked slowly onto the sand, not feeling the cold, not even feeling the sand as it spilled into his dress shoes. He stuck his hands into his pants pockets, staring out at the moon reflected in the shimmery, uneven waves on the ocean that were so random, yet still so beautiful. Some small
part in the back of his mind registered that it was cold out, much too cold to be outside without a jacket and yet strangely, he could not feel a thing. It had started as a prank, no malicious intent involved; a prank born of a group of rowdy middle aged partygoeers who had had way too much to drink. Chuck had pulled out his handgun, informing everyone in a slurred voice that he was an expert sharpshooter and that he could shoot a hole in a full cup of water and still leave it standing. Neither he, nor the man lying on the floor in a pool of blood, had been so lucky. And the cup of water, which had been untouched and generally out of the range of fire, had somehow fallen over, dumping its contents onto the cold tile floor where it mingled with dust and blood and tears. Chuck wiped at his eyes, pulling his hand back, amazed it was dry. He had expected to cry bitter tears over his part in his friend's death but instead, he felt nothing but a great, overwhelming coldness that threatened to envelop him and everything around him, sucking him into an everlasting cold, dark place. He stared at the reflection of the moon for several more mo-
ments, watching as it bobbed m每evenly on the choppy waves. And then suddenly he was walking forward, his feet seeming to move of their own volition, his mind knowing that it should be protesting but too numb to actually do or say anything. And then his feet were in the water, the waves lapping at the pants legs of his tuxedo. He did not feel the icy depths of the ocean as they reached out for him; he only continued to walk slowly, numbly forward. When he could no longer walk he swam, oblivious to the frigid temperatures. He swam out until he could no longer see the accusing lights of the beach house which seemed to be pointing their bright fingers in his direction. As he sank slowly into the water, his feet making no effort to slow his progress, his last thought was that none of his friends had tried to stop him.
The End -Allison Mansfield -- --25-
o每e The Literary Magazine 0 "-h
On behalf of the Montage we would like to thank the following people for all their hard work and support that helped to make this publication possible:
The Student Government Association
Michael Miller Ed Kovacs Nancy Cunningham and her staff at Campus Copy
The English Department at Quinnipiac University especially:
David Cole Mark Johnston
Mary Segafl The English Club WQAQ & The Chronicle Chili's Bar & Grill And all those who contributed their creative work
-- Kristie Sobeck-
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