THE MANUSCRIPT
MORAVIAN UNIVERSITY LITERARY MAGAZINE
ABOUT US.
The Manuscript is Moravian’s student run, student produced literary magazine. This celebration of Moravian’s creativity is a long standing tradition and is a beloved part of our campus community. Accepting work from students of any major, our goal is to promote inclusivity, creativity and expression. We are proud of our student editors, designers, writers and artist and we are happy to share this year’s work with you
01 OUR E-BOARD.
GIANNA TULLY President + Editor-In-Chief
Gianna is a senior and the president/editor-inchief of the Manuscript. This is her third time being a part of the production of an edition of the Manuscript and is so proud of this year’s officers, editors, writers and artists. She is always in the writing center whether working as a writing fellow, a writing center consultant or as the lead student assistant to Writing at Moravian. In her free time she watches too much sitcom TV and reads too many mediocre books.
LOLA OFFENBACK Vice President
Lola is a sophomore English major and vice president of the Manuscript. Outside of the Manuscript, she is the Assistant Editor for The Comenian, vice president of Swiftie Society, a Writing Fellow and Consultant, and a member of Phi Eta Sigma, Omicron Delta Kappa, Tri-Alpha, and Phi Beta Delta, among other involvements. In her free time, she enjoys reading, writing, and spending time with friends!
LIZ KAMEEN
Social Media Coordinator
Liz is a sophomore political science and English double major. In her free time, she enjoys hiking, painting, writing poetry, photography, and playing with her cat, Gus. Outside of the Manuscript, she is the Managing Editor for The Comenian, Social Media Manager for the Humanities Club, a Humanities Fellow, a Writing Consultant, a Writing Fellow, Student Assistant for Writing at Moravian, America Reads Tutor, and the Vice President of Internal Operations for United Student Government, along with being a member of Phi Eta Sigma. She's from a small town: Dingmans Ferry, PA, where she loves taking long drives to the middle of nowhere.
FATIMAH BOURI Secretary
Fatimah is a junior English and history double major. Aside from being the secretary of the Manuscript, she is the president of the Humanities Club, a Humanities Fellow, Vice President of the Anime Club, History Club, and Zinzendorf Literary Society, Opinions Editor for The Comenian, and Student Assistant for the English Department. Outside of school, they love writing poetry, going on spontaneous road trips, thrifting, watching anime, playing the saxophone, and playing Wizard101.
AJ MINNICH Treasurer
AJ is a junior English writing arts major with minors in political science and communications. In addition to being the treasurer of The Manuscript, he is the Editor-in-Chief of The Comenian, Class of 2025 Liasion for Moravian’s United Student Government, Vice-President of Video Game Club, Treasurer of Moravian’s Omicron Delta Kappa chapter, a Writing Consultant, a Writing Fellow, a Reeves Library Student Worker, Phi Beta Delta member, and a Pi Sigma Alpha member. Because of all of his writingrelated involvements, Zinzendorf Hall has become his defacto home and he loves supporting student writers. In his free time, he loves playing video games, reading comic books, and writing.
POETRY.
WORLD ENDED BEFORE THE STORM
By Matt Conners
(After Jakob van Hoddis’ Weltende)
A forsaken woman’s hat levitates and flees, for the wind is too much.
She shrivels as the gale roars, for the sound is too much.
She sees rushing water in the streets, for the flood is too much.
She witnesses a roofer fall, and the sight is too much.
The storm is here, and the sea is leaping To destroy the dams, and awake the sleeping.
No sleep for the woman, not anymore, for her lover’s eyes shut forevermore.
She strolls the street forevermore, and longs for life, not anymore.
WHEN MY UTERUS BURNED
By Liz Kameen (CONTENT WARNING)
I sat in my gyno’s office, eyeing the stirrups while jeering justices inserted a speculum between every fertile woman’s thighs.
my friend held a protest sign instead of planning their mother’s funeral, a burden too big to bear; while children scribbled on posters instead of cuddling stuffed bears.
where were you when the government had defined a woman’s body as property, yet their chests clad as a constant commodity?
the holy American Dream–where whistleblowers are condemned and rusty coat hangers are seen as a more fitting end.
the court would rather gain leverage and watch indifferently as millions of women hemorrhage, while abandoned infants starve in the streets–with over one hundred and seventeen thousand four hundred forty-six children waiting for a home in the united states alone.
the judges can make a choice for all women, yet men have the most voice time and time again.
isn’t that history— to blame a woman laid for a choice a man made, yet the burden she bares and the cost she paid?
the government pillaging the bodies that have already been molested by siblings and fathers, forgiven and frustrated uncles and now the founding fathers.
do you think they considered the 14-year-olds pissing on pink sticks? hiding it under supermarket toilet paper to avoid parental-led crucifix?
but isn’t it funny, that the courts worry more about identifying the whistleblower than the offspring forced to be born?
where were you when Roe v. Wade was overturned?
THE PHANTOM OF WAR
By Brin Moody
PREFACE
This piece tells the story of An Morrígan (Awn More+ee+gun - The Morrígan).
Irish mythology is split into four sections, The Mythological Cycle, The Ulster Cycle, the Historical or King’s Cycle, and the Fenian Cycle. Each, primarily told through oral tradition but eventually written down by early medieval monks, includes the narrative of the ancient history of Ireland. The Morrígan, whose name translates to “The Phantom Queen” or “The Great Queen”, was the goddess of war, death, and fate. She is what is known as a triple goddess, meaning she has three aspects - Maiden, Mother, and Warrior.
She mainly appears in The Mythological and Ulster Cycles. This poem, told in three parts, begins with an introduction of The Morrígan, then proceeds into two subsequent parts, each describing the narrative of her involvement in these two cycles.
First is the Ulster Cycle, particularly her personal conflict with the “Hound of Ulster”, Cú Chulainn, then secondly is the Mythological Cycle with the two Battles of Moytura, or Magh Tuireadh (Maw Chur+ah) in Irish. The Battles of Moytura tell the tale of a series of epic ancient battles, between the tribe in which The Morrígan belongs, the Tuatha dé Danann, or “Children of Danu”, the great mother goddess, and the forces of the Fomorian and the Fír Bolg tribes. Being mainly a part of oral traditions, there are many versions of the story of The Morrígan, but this is my telling, as I understand it.
AN MORRÍGAN: PART I
Woman she
In one, two, three Great phantom, warrior queen
Death with her be seen
And flying across the fields of war
As the raven of death, she does soar
Deciding battles and dealing fate
This phantom queen so great
And fear befell the bravest man
From her they ran
And her vengeful spirit lies
Over all who her greatness denies
Maiden, mother, warrior one
The aspects of The Morrígan
THE RAVEN AND THE HOUND: PART II
A hero from the north did rise
Only to meet his demise
It is said the queen of phantoms warned Him, by he was she scorned And vowed to bring her revenge
Herself to avenge from this great hound from the North
The raven, she brings death forth
As she tricked the warrior lad
For which she was most glad
He ate the dog stew
Which he vowed he’d ne’er do
And then he knew
It was she, the Great Phantom Queen
His death would soon be seen
With the raven’s fearsome call
Brings forth the warrior’s fall
THE RAVEN AND THE HOUND: PART II
And what is this great battle?
Where ancient giants clashed and mountains rattled?
The children of the Great Mother
To take their rightful land from another
The Fír Bolg and the Fomorian band
Blood soaked deep into the land
But who does stand victorious?
The Tuatha Dé Danann glorious?
Or the Fír or Fomori shall reign?
Is all this death in vain?
Ancient stones watch they on
And the sacred trees off yon
Guard memories never gone
At the battles of Moytura
Morrígan cries a warrior call
To save her people from their fall
At the gaze of that Demon, King Balor
She the warrior with true valor
With fury and frenzy and terror in her wake
All for her people's sake
The children of the Great Mother
To take their rightful land from another
The Fír Bolg and the Fomorian Band
Blood soaked deep into the land
But who does stand victorious?
The Tuatha Dé Danann glorious?
Or the Fír or Fomori Notorious?
At the battles of Moytura
Clash of swords so great and shrill
Screaming calls of those who kill
And with blood they violently collide
Until thousands of Danu's people have died
At the gaze of that Demon King
With haunting song of war sings
Dying and dying and dying and dying
And more bodies be a-lying
On the fields, stones of the fallen stand
For they could not withstand
The eye of that great Demon tyrant
And oh how great the violence
And the ever growing silence
At the battles of Moytura
Blood and blood ran crimson red
And by great Lugh we now are led
His gallant heroes stand against that tyrant king
Destruction in his wake to bring
And the Morrígan in her power comes
Ne'er the Phantom Queen succumbs
While glorious Lugh his grandfather confronts
That Demon King whom he hunts
Brought dead at the sorrowed Glen
The Glen poisoned by his bloodshed then
And Bres the new king is he
Of Ireland from sea to sea
Yet are we free?
At the Battles of Moytura
THE PANCAKED OPOSSUM
(THE CONSEQUENCES OF THE INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION)
By Liz Kameen
on a foggy afternoon, tumbling rumbling metal hobbles down the street and gradually but undoubtedly, so do the little feet.
fuzzy paws patting the pavement, little noses humming on the ground in search of ticks, bugs, and grub, not noticing creaking little sounds.
mama danced across the road little whiskers shaking from all the loud things, instructing her babies to jump in her pouch to protect them from outer world ouch and stings.
yet, her eyes didn’t catch the glint of the shrill, shining maserati that rumbled and raced towards her fragile furry underbody.
squirming babies inside her pouched tummy red, running blood seemingly slowed hikers wonder if she had rabies inside as her skull becomes one with the road.
I check if there are infants within, to help the bumbling babies escape their mama’s body, which had become a cocoon of grief and impending scrapes. little tiny feet continue crossing the street; I halt the two-way traffic as I lead them to a grassy heap, almost glad to witness the graphic.
because I hope that one day someone will protect me from death in the same way that mama held her babies in her fading breath.
because I pray that one day I will never face torment for the simple offense of being a little lost on cement.
but I don’t think most people in this wide world would feel sympathy to stop at all, not even to protect those in infancy.
mama will lie there until the crows feast on her decaying body, torn muscles flattening out her bones, that only children will mourn.
THE FIRST BLOOD
By Liz Kameen
and I know I was born to be broken in a body made for male consumption, born for the concept of consummation. I know that women are meant to be bent and bred under any fault of miscalculation— beaten and blamed for ‘falsified allegations’ while perpetrators condemn these faux accusations.
the first time I met Ms. Red, she is reminding me of self-hatred that time of the month mongering a fear of womanhood and what it means to once in my life, truly bleed. staring into the cracking reflection, facing a foreign, furtive foe.
but . . .
shark week creeps up on you quick, while boys whisper in ignorant bliss. they learn the function of their dicks, while the girls are steered to a private room to grasp how to not be a slut–and that sometimes there’s blood, but it can never be discussed, because we were just bud–and the boys spit in disgust.
my mother told me to hide my pads, protect my peach-scented sacred pearls–like the boys hadn’t seen the TV ads that haunted and followed girls? stuffing empty tampons under toilet paper and more toilet paper and more–until the pipes burst and the water overflows and the little girls cursed begging to be buried within their clothes.
i spent my life walking on glass floors in metal heels while the men stay balking at any lack of their appeals stomping around in rubber soles knowing if they could ever even fall, it’d only be into more control and yet, they never face appall.
even when I score twice as well, or bark back equal quells, nothing speaks much more than my ass and tits, over my astonishing class and wits.
SOMEONE TOO FAMILIAR
By Matt Connors
I possess too many names,
From all over, near and far. When I am around, it's a shame, I will take you to the stars.
From all over, near and far, People acknowledge me not. I will take you to the stars, Leaving your body to rot.
People acknowledge me not, Ignoring my existence.
Leaving your body to rot, To realms with no consistence.
Ignoring my existence, When I exist everywhere. To realms with no consistence, Death is my title, I swear.
When I exist everywhere, I possess too many names. Death is my title, I swear, When I am around, it’s a shame.
SOCIAL CUES
By Fatimah Bouri
Hand me a script! What were my lines again? I said something wrong, yell "CUT!" Tell me to look up, "EYES UP HERE!" even when I'm so afraid of being swallowed by cruel irises (oh no! I'm turning to stone, the gorgon's curse!)
Don't stutter (work on those R's and W's!), and don't be afraid of this stranger or that friend-to-be or those professors (they can't hate you, they don't know you!), and don't laugh too loud (if you do, social suicide is always an option!), and eyes up, up, up!
I will be the life(less) of this party, putting the fun in dysfunction like I always do! Laughing off my avoidance like I always do! Being so misanthropically me!
And then, I will crash into a restroom, alone to be fractured, unsteady hands gripping the sides of the sink and the sides of my world. There are no sides. There is nothing that is mine to hold as I fall.
My words were dead on arrival on my tongue. Shifting, wandering inked in fear. The awkward contortion of my face. I shrunk myself for the world. I mistook a cough for a sneeze? Sneeze for a cough? I spoke softly then I didn't speak at all.
Get out, I screamed internally, immobilized externally.
"Ask questions," what questions do I even ask?
"I don't bite," what if you do? "Look at me," fossilize me instead.
A friend knocks, picks the lock, and catches me before I'm over the edge of my world into the next. Fingers right on my pulse, crashing eyes piercing into me, knowing.
They know, but they listen to my mumbling. They know, but they lace hands with me, offering me a pocket of warmth when I'm so icy with ineptitude.
I croak out, "What were my lines again?" and they say, "Make up your own for a change."
NIGHTMARE
By Josiah Dalpezzo
A pale white room flashes the room.
A silent night sweeps over the gloom.
A silent voice whispers through my ears.
A teen’s cheeks are covered by tears.
The silent night continues over the gloom.
While a shadowy figure stands.
Jacob’s cheeks are covered by tears.
The eerie presence reaches out with his hand.
The tall and long shadow figure stands.
Those haunting whispers burst the window.
The sharp eerie presence reaches out with his hand.
While the shadowy figure destroys the airflow.
The haunting whispers continue to burst more windows.
Slowly making an ascendance of the home.
As the shadow figure destroys the airflow.
Trapping a young soul in his shadow.
Slowly turning ascendance of the home.
Cast more darkness upon the bedroom.
Trapping a young soul into his shadow.
Laughing as he captures a teen to his doom.
Cast more darkness upon the teen bedroom.
Can not escape his endless suffering.
Shadow figures Laugh as he captures a teen to his doom.
Only turning into his puppet hung by string.
Can not escape his endless suffering.
Wishing for his chance to be free.
Just turning into his puppet hung by string.
Just trying to get his chance to flee.
MY HAPPY PLACE
By Destiny Smith
another martini down the hatch–i’m in my happy place i drink them very quickly, like i’m in a race with myself. can i drink them faster? my heart is broken still, that i’m going to get plastered despite my drunken stupor, i conduct myself with grace.
this used to be our bar, but you left without a trace now i sit on this barstool looking for someone to replace you. tell me why am i such a disaster? my belly full of tito’s and garnishes–i’m in my happy place.
how many cocktails have i had? i feel all tingly in the face the door swings open, i swivel my head, and see a woman dressed in lace her hand in yours, both giggling with glee, closing for good our chapter i give you a fake smile, because i’m such a convincing actor i thought you’d come back, but that’s not the case vodka in hand–i’m in my happy place.
LIMERICK FOR THE LAND
By Brin Moody
I wander through quiet villages, forests, and glens
By brooks babbling as they've been
On a quiet morningtide
It's flow my humble guide
To the place I shall return again
My heart it goes with the mountains tall
And the meadows in spring, forests in fall
My song is with the winds that blow
And in morning mists that gently glow
I hear their eternal, neverending call
The great standing stones guard the land
And ancient trees so tall they stand
But this is changing, turning on And soon perhaps will forever be gone
The time passed like shifting sand
I LOVE MYSELF
By Destiny Smith
I love myself.
I am smart, and cute, and witty I love myself.
I drink red wine to keep my health I am cunning like a kitty You can’t be me, that’s a pity.
I love myself.
GIRLWORLD
By Fatimah Bouri
HELL FREEZES OVER
By Veronica Kromer
IThe girls run around in their socks, Giggling, shivering,
Flaunting what they’ve got.
They’re about to capsize.
Those who watch
Can’t wait - what joy.
They look in the DSM but can’t stop the inevitable, When all water and flames turn to ice.
Crumbling, slipping, numbing, Looking for tiny footprints in the snow.
There are none.
The lady at the register, in hopeful conversation
Asking if it’s bad out there.
The response, with a strange smile:
“No, just wait. In fact
It’ll already be gone by morning.”
What a drug it is, this world in its climax-
Her watching them, them watching him, Them all, giggling, shivering, Weary dagger-vision.
What makes me a GIRL?
Is it the GRINDING of my teeth because of a man's breath?
Is it the INCHES off my calorie-crunching chest, arms, waist, hips, thighs?
(Thank you, DVD box set of Jillian Michaels!)
Is it my REVEALING skin, shredding my aching softness?
Is it my iridescent LIPGLOSS that promised me pincushion lips?
Am I a girl, yet? Isn't my cracked foundation enough?
My chipped unicorn pink polish?
Mascara tears?
Tattered bra?
Regrowing leg hair?
Or, is it the stolen estrogen dreams or stolen kisses from nicotine lips that aren't mine?
The answer may come when I don't feel like kissing anymore, too focused, too scorched, too LOATHSOME to be defined by if I'm loved.
I'm not whole
unless I am loved by him, her, or them… am I?
VERT MONT
By Zuri Foell
My fingernails are clean and the smell of the gentle wind feeds my soul.
This place is so filled with the feelings of home, and I have only met its land just this once.
Vermont’s orchards and hills, mountains and trees, moss and soil, Holds me tight but still lets me fly.
I feel safe, as if I have known its earth my whole life.
The feeling I lost has been hiding in the coziness of the moss, Sitting close and hugging the trees of maple and breath.
The apples are perfect here and the windows open pathways to a whole other life.
My home will be here, the calmness and peace I seek sits here, patiently.
The mountains are ice cream scoops in the distance, The stars are brighter, bigger, closer.
The Big Dipper was staring at me,
He was telling me to stay.
He would fall in love with this place, and maybe we would fall in love again.
UNTITLED
By Serena Elsasser
It’s almost as if I can perceive the pale blue brushing against the panes of glass.
Not cloth, but rather Crafted from what lies between words and ellipses.
Moments stitched, a mosque of dead-blue silence.
Watch the fog roll, and whisper. Unfolding, into the finest drop, Begging.
The reflection of a face overlapped in blue. Creating but one image.
I lock the window.
UNTITLED
By Serena Elsasser
Metamorphosis marked in the rain. I transcend this vessel, Soul turned liquid Trickles down a window pane.
My eyes see; Copies the raindrop with tears.
An ocean beckons at a shore, Far off I hear it; Calling me into its arms.
But, inside I’ll stay. Mending my water heart.
Slipping and spilling into my blood, Transitioning from cherry-red to blue.
UNTITLED
By Serena Elsasser
And, when I die Which must happen soon; They’ll take these bones And won’t fathom Each human memory, of mundane I kept.
But my bones will decompose; Blossom in deathly dark lilies That smell exactly of you,
For my bones love you, deeply.
THE PIT
By AJ Minnich
Here lies The Pit,
No one knows where it came from, No one knows what it holds, Yet, here it lies.
No one knows what it is, But everyone knows where it is, Unknowable, unsolvable, Uncontrollable, inconsolable.
It is in you, in me. A universal constant. The feeling that something is missing, The feeling you aren’t complete.
The Pit longs and hungers, Demanding more and more, Chained to your soul, Like an unending sore.
Have you entered?
Were you already there?
Will you ever escape?
What will you see when you go in there?
Who will you be when you leave? Should I jump in?
Would I just be going deeper?
Spiraling into a pit of despair?
I don’t know, But the pit calls nonetheless.
SOMETHING ROMANTIC AND FRENCH IDK
By Nathan Pynchon
Je t’aime mon amour. Tes yeux, ton visage, et tout. Mais j’aime plus ton âme.
RUSHED
By Zuri Foell
We are always moving somehow
Looking left or right, foot ready to hit the ground on a different part of the sidewalk.
I hate the keys that shuffle on my right hip, cuffed onto my jeans with a swaying bell that hits ta-ting, ta-ting, ta-ting. Nobody cares about poetic moments anymore, We are always on the move.
Our shoelaces become untied and we wait until we hit our destination to even acknowledge the loosening white lines.
I ate the last bagel, sorry. It was the only thing I could eat quickly enough in my car ride from here to there.
My book-bag hurts my shoulders but I continue forward, life scaffolding and constructing itself as it also fractures.
My face never takes the time to look up at the sky, stand still, and watch. My mind never gets a silent moment.
I’ve been missing the minutes of life that was never me drinking my coffee and sitting on the bench, phone not in hand. Look up at the sky, you idiot, you won’t be here for that long.
I miss the time when people actually talked to each other, when we didn’t take the time to look at them from afar, yet so up close, on the screen we call helpful.
My hands are shaking and I never get a silent moment. We are always moving, but one day I will stop, and somebody will ask me what’s wrong.
We don’t appreciate life anymore, what’s around us anymore, because we made it look so ugly.
I want to feel the fall breeze and the apple cider taste in my mouth. I want to crush leaves under my dirty shoes, just like we used to, don’t you remember?
I forgot what it’s like to breathe with both lungs, to slow my heartbeat by four seconds.
I listen to the wind like it’s my last time here,
Maybe it will be.
OH, THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
By Gianna Tully
New yellow paint that never covered the blue
Thumb tack holes and a numb green view
Quiet phone calls, bad news
Faded ink receipts and two sizes too small of shoes
Cream-colored carpet with bright red nail polish stains
Indifferent snow storms melted by the rain
Advil headaches, bandaid pains
Fluorescent grocery stores and shopping cart trains
Half-finished projects stored on the shelf
Dusty books about cooking and how to help yourself
Tissue boxes, prayers for health
Unwound grandfather clocks that stay quiet at the twelfth
Cable TVs with evening newscaster hums
Unfinished journals and saliva-wet thumbs
Mom’s golden wine, Dad’s pink tums
Corner-tucked top sheets littered with Christmas cookie crumbs
Windows with blinds drawn tight concealing the glass
White candle wax on tiles at the vigil mass
Seconds heard, hours pass
Locked jewelry boxes with heirlooms made of brass
Heat through the vent that warms sock-covered toes
Four A.M. reruns of ‘90s comedy shows
Two black dresses, one red nose
Novelty mugs upside down and lined in a row
Estranged curtains framed against purple horizon skies
Cracked chestnut shells and half-eaten pies
Churned frozen earth, silent cries
Another layer of thick mascara applied to puffy, dry eyes
"INTROSPECTION"
By Shannon Lawlor
Imitated
After: Self-Preservation by Chiagoziem Jideofor (Imitation)
who are you?
i am what you wish to see, if you’d like. i’ll begin with the obvious: i am white. i am a woman. how else may i describe myself to you?
with time. and trust. i may disclose Romantic Attachments and Neurodivergent Tendencies fearing announcing too much, too soon
the journey of introspection begins with resistance.
to see only the acceptable, little is seen. it comes with the hiding of difference or the quieting of variety
wearers of masks understand the silence as irresolute. to unmask is to listen how to be heard ---how to be secure.
a cacophony resounds.
with the fear of being observed. with the tremor of my voice. the need to appease and comfort the confined.
anxiety seeps through the cracks: gritted teeth and fidgeting hands. a worn-out t-shirt smelling of memories. celebrations of rumination and dysfunctional love. trinkets of the past. which exhibits true insecurity
my feelings of controlled insanity. a comfortable disorder. what’s hidden and what you see.
distilled with the flood of apology, of taking blame, of finding relief.
acceptance of entropy not quite…
…Yet.
i can not detract from the worldly pains. a molded ideal unraveling. what should be and what seems out of reach.
tireless repetitions and recollections of before.
i am---- --- am I? confusion of reality. the problem of introspection lies within self-acceptance.
HOLLOW
By AJ Minnichl
Gather with me by this kindled flame dear friend
You’re certainly no Hollow
Your eyes still have the flame of ambition
Your soul still glows like a burning ember
It’s good to see some hope still exists in this land
I’m afraid my journey ends here I have failed my mission
Soon I will go Hollow like the rest of them
In this black soulless sea of death
There is no hope for me but you are different
While that flame burns so does your mission
You will endure hardship
You will have to use all your blood, sweat, and sinew
You will escape the depths of this Hollow world
You will keep the flame burning
“Goodbye then
Be safe friend
Don’t you dare Go Hollow”
DRIVING ON
By AJ Minnichl
I am lost.
I drive aimlessly across a vast highway, Looking for an exit or gas station to stop at.
Plenty pass by but the car won’t stop.
The body seems sturdy, the engine roars, and the paint is shining,
And so my car keeps driving on as if nothing were wrong.
I try to press the breaks but the wheels keep spinning. I pass by dozens of stations, exits, and other cars but mine won’t stop;
Without stopping for gas the car surely must halt.
In truth, the body is rusted, the battery is dying, and the paint is scratched,
But no one must know, for my car must drive on.
And so my car keeps driving on as if nothing were wrong.
FOUR MINUTES
By Zuri Foell
My grandmother would always let her tea brew for four minutes.
Hot water boils down into an oval cup, as the butterflies engraved on the outside fly into the steam itself. Life has been overwhelmingly unknown. No one knows what is happening, and no one wants to. Breath signifies what we couldn’t have, will never have, and will always want more of. My eyes are heavy bags as they carry weights of rain that I have never had the courage to let out.
My mother bought tea. Tazo’s wild sweet orange crept out of her hands as she came home with a giant honey bear and a smile on her face. I did not get to see it. Tonight, my friend ignores me again. I worry, but I feel a fight sprouting. I don’t know what’s wrong.
I have been watching movies when I want to read books, and I have always hated that actions on a screen have always made me feel more than words on a page, yet I am the one who writes. I don’t act, I don’t sing, I write. The pen is starting to hurt.
I bring myself downstairs, fearing over the sore throat that I have been feeling all day, the fever, and the headache. I turn on the kettle. When the water is at the edge of boiling, I take her off, pour the whisper into the cup. I miss my grandmother. My grandfather.
I let myself wait four minutes.
I stay downstairs and I count. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.. I stare at the metal spoons and ladles and the giant honey bear sitting at the throne of the collection. My mind goes through life and how birthdays were spent and how I will always remember 17. 20, 21, 22, 23… This is the age I have been craving for my whole life, I can be free. But the ticking doesn’t stop. 28, 29, 30, 31..
I don’t know what and who I’ll become, what I want besides love and adventure, but no one seems to come with me. No one has the time.
I let myself count.
58, 59, 60. 1, 2, 3..
The second time, I didn’t think I would make it. The tea is escaping so fluently now, nothing is as hot as it was before. The second time, I thought about how I would spend my birthdays again, and how it could be happier this time. Only elongating hair and a woman at a bar pictured in my mind as the seconds passed by.
The third time, I was used to it. Was I skipping numbers?
The fourth time, the last time, I felt my eyes move. 18, 19, 20.. It doesn’t matter what age I am, I realize that now.
45, 46, 47.. I am getting closer to the end. I pick out a spoon to catch the tea bag for when the numbers hit 60.
58, 59, 60.
I can’t stop.
1, 2, 3…
Wait until you get to 17. Don’t take it out yet. 4, 5, 6, 7,
What have you been missing all these years?
8, 9, 10,
Remember when mom made you that ice cream cake? 11, 12, 13,
Do you even remember blowing out the candles? 14, 15
You can’t read. 16, 17.
Take out the bag. Let the excess drip into the water that is filled with flavor, such life. It ripples as you throw away the cause. Open the honey and squeeze.
Stir.
Sip.
Remember. She taught you this. Four minutes. All I can hear now is the ticking.
COUNTERFEIT DAYDREAMS
By Gianna Tully
There is blood coming out of the shower head–any minute now, I’m sure of it.
Drip, drip, drip, Blood.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Blood!
Drip! Drip! Drip! Blood?
No, keep going. Razor in my left hand.
Sponge in my right.
Razor right, sponge left, wrong! Sponge right, razor left. Right! No, razor left.
Sponge right. Right.
Deeeeeep breath.
Everyone can tell where I’ve been just by looking at the bottoms of my shoes. I swear it’s all over the floor, because there’s blood coming out of the shower head,
this spot at the table is my spot. Cushion molded to my body, I can tell when it’s not my chair. Chapstick has a heart, Tic Tacs have souls, rubber bands can die, and I cry and no one understands why I bought a dollhouse on my 20th birthday. Or why there’s blood coming out of the shower head.
I hope it feels like being carried to my bedroom, hearing laughter through the walls–but distant laughter is violating and was that a voice whispering under my car?
My eyes scream to be closed but the big light is still on and my brain’s not off and if I can still hear my heartbeat then it will never be quiet enough for sleep, and oh god, there must be blood coming out of the shower head!
When the t-shirt I randomly threw on becomes the costume of my corpse, I’ll pick my favorite song to play on repeat, repeat, repeat, just in case my car crashes–it’ll be the last thing I hear. The note I left in my journal last night, tonight, tomorrow night will be my farewell address calling from beyond the grave before I’ve even had the chance to dial long distance. But for now,
my razor is in my left hand and my sponge is in my right. I’ve checked three times and that’s enough, enough, enough! I’ll keep sitting in my same chair, wearing my curated shirt, writing to a sold-out audience of future me, before I fall asleep from sheer exhaustion and lack of thought, willpower, breath–dreams.
Sweet dreams, with pantomimed calm. But wait–what if blood comes out of the shower head?
LOVE AS NATURE AND IMMORTALITY
By Emily Kave
And so I'll mean the world to you. You'll be my wonderful experience, and I'll be your everything.
We'll be the mountains in the sky, the valley just below them, and the trees in between.
Our love will outlast seas and rivers, compete with the sun beams and moonlight, and be a misery to the fossils.
I am yours, wholeheartedly and truly. Let those who argue otherwise suffer a long, distasteful death.
“AN IMAGE OF THE MUNDANE LIFE OF A COLLEGE STUDENT”
By Emily Kave
It's cold in here, which is unusual for this room. All week long, I've been fighting off the sweat stains and the overbearing heat that rises to my cheeks when it gets too hot.
It's one in the morning and my stomach hurts and I'm bored out of my mind. What else is a girl to do except splay her arms out like a sickly Victorian child, wishing to take one last glimpse at the sunshine?
I'm huddled under the blanket now, but even that's too much for me, so my foot sticks out for the monster under my bed to grab if he pleases. I'm nothing if not paranoid and consistent.
I've got two cartons of my favorite oat milk in the fridge, the greatest joy of a bisexual. On top of that, I got them at 2 for $8 at Target. What a steal.
I'm planning how I'll live on the beat-up box of chocolates my mom sent me for Valentine's Day, two avocados I got for a dollar, and the bread that's slowly diminishing for the next two days.
I guess it'll be another hungry weekend.
ART WORK.
3
UNTITLED
32x48 inches, oil on canvas
By Simone Toppin
PLAYING
By Theo Berenato
2023, Oil on Canvas, 24x24 in
SUDDEN WARMTH
By Logan Monroe
By Caillie Fish
By Logan Monroe
LONELY GIRL
Inspired by the song "Lonely Girl" by Tonight Alive
LOLKA'S EYE
DUST IN THE WIND
By Caillie Fish
Inspired by the song "Dust in the Wind" by Kansas
EVERLY MYSKIA
By Logan Monroe
STILL LOVING YOU
By Caillie Fish
Inspired by the song "Still Loving You" by The Scorpions
MOMENTOS DE FELICIDAD
By Ruth Alcantara
Who am I? Four years have passed and I find myself a few months away from graduation. Before my academic journey began I was shy and anxious about what lay before me. This question is more of a reflection on what type of person I have evolved into and dig deep into what makes me, Ruth. The art piece below is separated between 5 canvases, but in reality, they are all connected into one. In the middle, it's where I began my journey in trying to answer the question of who I am. I found myself painting squares over my self-portrait. I'm unsure why this happened, but the idea was that it represented sticky notes each entailing a color of my personality. Once I finished painting the middle piece I started to brainstorm what these colors represented. Eventually, I found objects that represent who I am, and very soon I found myself painting these objects under their respective colors. Yellow represented the happiness I felt when receiving a heartfelt Valentine's Day card from my boyfriend. Green displayed the plants I take care of every day, a metaphor for the life I am gifted from God and how God takes care of me just like I take care of my plants. Pink signifies a jewelry box where I keep objects of love, a lot of its contents include important possessions gifted.
CARRICKAHOWLEY: ROCKFLEET PREFACE
By Brin Moody
Dia daoibh, is mise Brin Ní Mhuadaigh (Pronounced Jee+aw Jeev, is Mee+shuh Brin Nee Woody). Hello all, I’m Brin Moody.
Old stories told through the ancient Irish Bardic traditions, which are thousands of years old, revived in the 19th and early 20th centuries, were a source of inspiration for the people of Ireland. The Bardic Tradition was a deep, intrinsic part of traditional Gaelic Irish Culture. Bards were considered paralleled to the great Kings of Ireland. Bards were a part of governmental decision-making, involved in the waging of war and decisions of peace, and most importantly, were tasked with keeping the memories, the lineage, of the clans alive. They were the record keepers, not just “storytellers.” This revival of the Bardic tradition created a national identity and a sense of unity among the people of Ireland, who had been colonized by the British for centuries. These stories inspired a revolution that liberated Ireland.
I follow this Bardic tradition with my stories, my music, my poems, and my artwork. Through my work, I intend to share Ireland’s history, the good and the bad. The three pieces I have submitted are part of a series I call Scéalta Saoirse (Pronounced Skale+tuh Seer+shuh), meaning Stories of Freedom, in Irish.
My collection in this edition includes “Carrickahowley/Rockfleet”, an ink drawing I did of the most notable castle controlled by the famed Pirate Queen of Ireland, Gráinne Ní Mháille (Graw+nia Nee Wahl+ee - Grace O’Malley), who lived from 1530 and 1603. Carrickahowley castle, more famously known as Rockfleet, was built by the Burke clan in the 16th century and was home to Richard “in Iron” Burke, who would become the second husband of Gráinne. She took control of his castle through this marriage, using Irish marriage laws to her advantage.
Most notably, Gráinne, in her life-long struggle against encroaching English powers, would eventually be formally invited by Queen Elizabeth I to meet with her at Greenwich to discuss the atrocities that had been committed against her and her people by the lord put in charge over the western region of Connacht. Gráinne would emerge from this meeting, known as “The Meeting of the Virgin Queen and the Pirate Queen,” victoriously in an agreement with the queen that would grant Gráinne immunity for the rest of her life, the return of all of her lands and fleets, as well as of her youngest son, and protection. Her side of the deal was that she would stop fighting the English and serve in the Royal Navy. Let’s just say, she didn’t entirely uphold her end of the bargain, but what can you say when you’re dealing with a rebellious pirate queen?
The first of my poetic works, “Limerick for the Land” is a reflection on the loss of both tradition and respect for the world around us, but also an admiration of its beauty.
Finally, there is the three-part poetic piece “The Phantom of War”, which is a piece that tells the story of An Morrígan (Awn More+ee+gun - The Morrígan), goddess of War, Death, and Fate.
By Brin Moody
CARRICKAHOWLEY: ROCKFLEET
PERSONAL ESSAYS.
MY SWEET RIDE
By Joel Hendricks
I wasn’t trying to kill the guy, although when you start sprinting into the middle of traffic, you kinda forfeit your assumption that cars will stop for you. Like seriously, this dude was lucky that I stopped for him. I mean, I’m not saying that as if I pick and choose who to run over and who to stop for, I’m just saying that he really pushed his luck that day. If I had known that he had just stabbed an innocent kid, I might have acted differently. Now, you’re probably wondering what I’m referring to, considering all this talk about ramming into people with cars. This was all to set the stage for what’s to come, which is a “tragic” story of defeat, fear, and road safety laws. It all started when I made the mistake of joining a competitive video game team.
Coming from that Esports loss, I was already in a pretty crappy mood. What was I thinking, though? It’s not like we were going to win. The team we were playing was in the top 10 of the entire league. We just barely scraped into the playoffs to begin with. They handed our asses to us on a silver platter. I’d bet money that the other team couldn’t even comprehend the concept of a shower. However, the same could probably be said for the people on
my team, too. Regardless, it wasn’t much of a match, more like a massacre. Besides the fact that I hate playing games competitively, it still stung a bit.
So there we were, a bunch of losers sitting around like we actually accomplished something useful. Packing up all of my belongings after an utter defeat was always a chore. I shoved everything in my bag with no rhyme or reason, which basically describes my mental state at any given moment. I threw my bag over my shoulders and walked the three steps it took to leave the building. South campus wasn’t very lively when I stepped out. It never usually was, at least compared to North campus. It’s a huge contrast to the bustling Main Street right down the road, and Main Street was especially busy that day. Everybody was doing their last-minute Christmas shopping. “Oh no, I forgot to get a gift! Let’s head to Main Street to find something!” said 90% of Bethlehem. It was so crowded I was sure I’d spot Waldo somewhere.
Everything was a mess, and the traffic was horrendous. I waited at least 10 minutes just to get to the stupid light that separates South Campus from Main Street. What’s worse, I ended up getting stuck behind a horse and carriage when I finally got past the light. I was pissed, and I was impatient. Normally, I would have just followed Main Street all the way down and eventually turned onto Elizabeth Ave. to get to my house. That day, however, I wasn’t horsing around. Instead of waiting for the horse to move out of my way, I decided to turn at the corner of Johnny’s Bagels, onto West Market Street. That deviation was what sealed my fate.
Following the road down wasn’t terrible. I just…you know… drove. When I got to the intersection in front of the bridge I immediately recognized my location. All I had to do was go straight, and I'd be home in no time. As I crossed the intersection and drove down the hill, I noticed a car parked on the wrong side of the street. I didn’t think much of it though because nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It all changed when all of a sudden, somebody jumped out of the car and ran in front of my car. Surprised as to why this dude was playing musical cars, I hit the brakes because I’m not a fan of vehicular manslaughter. Other cars were coming from the other direction. Why did he jump in front of my car? There were other perfectly good cars to jump in front of.
My heart started to beat faster because a sane person doesn’t just run into traffic (obviously). Then, before I had time to process my existence in the situation, the person began to run to my driver’s side car door. Without thinking, my hand slammed on the lock of my car door. I always complain about how my subconscious brain is my worst enemy, but this time it had my back. My suspicions were correct, as he tried to open the door. Well, “open the door” is an understatement. It was more like him continuously yanking on my door handle as if he was trying to win money on some shady game show. I don’t remember what happened next very vividly. I heard screaming, followed by banging, followed by my car engine roaring. The next thing I knew, I was flying down the road playing Mario Kart in real life. Everything was now fine, right? I got out of that situation, which could’ve turned very bad. “Phew, that could’ve gone a lot worse, wouldn’t you agree?” I asked the dude on the other side of my window. Wait, what?
HOW THE HELL WAS THIS DUDE STILL OUTSIDE MY WINDOW? This man had to have been trained by the flash because I was speeding up and so was he. See, the person who tried to open my door decided to grab the top of my car. My car has luggage handles on the top, making it possible for someone to grip. As I’m speeding down the road, this jerk is keeping up, all the while screaming and banging on my window. I kept trying to start and stop, hoping Usain Bolt Jr. would go flying. Luckily, my plan worked and the dude disappeared from the side of my car. Safe at last. “No need to worry anymore. He’s gone!” I said to him through my roof, now hearing him punch the top of my car. Wait, what?
By some miracle of Jesus, this dude CLIMBED ON TOP OF MY CAR. Nope, you don’t need to do a double-take; you read that right. This man pulled himself on top of my car. Bootleg Spider-Man somehow was able to pull himself on top of a moving vehicle. It wasn’t when I was stopped either, because every time I hit the brakes I would check to see if it worked. And it wasn’t as if I was driving like a senior citizen during brunch either; I was going highway speed on a normal road.
After running a stop sign in complete fear, I made it to a red light. I was terrified. You know how sometimes your heart skips a beat? Yeah, well, imagine that but nonstop. So, I guess a heart attack? Anyway, I had a feeling he was gonna break my window and kill me with how hard he was slamming his fists on my car. I didn’t know what he wanted, but it couldn’t
have been good. At the stoplight, I was able to calm myself down and think, probably because my focus wasn’t on getting this guy to leave anymore, it was more so about surviving. I looked at my cell phone, hanging right below my dashboard. “Of course! I’ll just call my mom! She’ll fix this!”
“Mom, there’s a guy on top of my car banging and screaming!”
“What?”
“MOM I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!”
“What?”
“MOM WHAT DO I DO?!”
“Call the police?”
“Oh shit, you’re right.”
After that enlightening conversation, I dialed 9-1-1. The dispatcher picked up immediately. At this point, I had already passed the stop light and was heading home with the guy still on top of my car. Now before you start asking, “Why did you decide to take this maniac home?” I want to preface that I wasn’t actually going to bring him to my house and invite him over for some dinner and board games. The dispatcher told me to head home, and that I’d meet police somewhere along the way. Not even a minute later, I heard the sirens and saw the flashing lights. I pulled over, the guy rolled down my windshield, and an officer shoved him into the back of a police car. It was over.
Here’s the kicker: The person who jumped on top of my car stabbed someone. I’m serious. He saw a random kid walking down the street, tried to throw him into traffic, and then proceeded to stab him. You know, just a normal day in Bethlehem, I guess. The kid fought back though, and pulled the knife away, stabbing the attacker. Now, try reading through the story again, but this time with the knowledge that my unexpected Uber client was bleeding out from a stab wound (which I didn’t even notice during the whole debacle). Anyway, the attacker ran away, and I just happened to be driving by, and well, you know the rest. The police charged the attacker with attempted murder and attempted theft of a motor vehicle. I had to spend a lot of time in police questioning because they were also trying to piece everything together. When I was finally permitted to go home, I was starving. I got chicken for dinner that night. Chicken always makes me feel better. I also appeared in court to testify on the 18th of February, 2022, My court adventure was nothing exciting though, so I won’t bore you with it. It’s kind of crazy to think that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I dread to think what would’ve happened had I not locked my car doors when I did. At least it’s all in the past now.
So what did I learn by going through this experience? What can I reflect on? Well, the obvious thing is that car door locks save lives. I might be dead if it weren’t for the locking mechanism in my car. The craziest thing about this incident is that it happened where I least expected it. My doors weren’t locked in the first place because I didn’t think I was driving anywhere dangerous. I’ve driven down the specific road where it took place countless times with no problems. Even the places where I feel safe are never truly safe. Scary stuff to think about, right? Danger can strike from anywhere, especially the places we least expect.
In all fairness, this was the first time I experienced something as terrifying as this. All my life, I’ve been shielded from the outside world. That’s not to say that I haven’t experienced the world, but nothing like this. It was still kind of in my head that my parents would take care of me, and make sure no harm came my way. Sadly, the world doesn’t mess around, and that was a truth I had to learn sooner or later. I try not to think about it, but things could’ve gone very differently. Despite keeping the tone of this as light as possible, it’s a dark story beneath the surface. I was lucky this time, but I won’t always have my mother to call, or a joke to tell. Actually, scratch that, I’ll always have a joke to tell. I think that it may just be a part of growing up, meaning I need to learn to handle situations myself. Besides that though, I’m a lot more careful driving now. Careful as in I lock my doors every time I start driving. I never know when this could happen again. I really hope it never happens again. That would really suck.
COLLECTING CICADAS
By Brooke Gormley
The only photo I have of the day my mother died is of me sitting on the steps to my backyard, eyes puffy from crying. It was sent on Snapchat to my, at the time, new situation-ship (now ex-boyfriend) with the caption “this sucks.”
It did suck.
For years I had lived in terror of losing that house. My parents tried to sell it when I was nine, and I was haunted by nightmares of thick, white paint being rolled up and down the ledge of my closet where my height was tracked. Little marks I’d left on the house that had been mine since birth, covered by a new family wanting a blank slate; the new owners not appreciating the importance of those jagged numbers scratched too deep by newly literate hands into the drywall.
I had been trying to come to terms with the reality of it before my mom’s diagnosis. She had always said that she was going to move back to Pittsburgh as soon as my little brother graduated high school. I remember her saying that my hometown was not hers, it was just some place my father had brought her, and since they were no longer married, she had no reason to stay. I thought this and maybe the death of my childhood dog or the passing of my eighty-year-old grandparents would be my first real encounters with grief. The losses would be the normal earth-shattering but not world-ending.
I, of course, got the order very, very wrong.
My mother passed at 11:53 on June 21st, 2022, and I spent my last day in the home that raised me exactly two months later. I had spent the last week in the house trying to remove anything meaningful from it. It was a highly emotional task, sorting through the last twenty years of my life while grieving and trying to make value judgments on every Christmas decoration or kitchen utensil. My mother's collection of Snoopy memorabilia was particularly overwhelming, and after about an hour, I found myself gasping for air on the unstable steps where I’d taken that photo.
The backyard of my childhood had been a place of fantasy. Escapism from a world of constantly fighting parents and the trials of undiagnosed ADHD was a necessity, and there I found it, in that quarter acre fenced in by gray wooden slats.
I’d always had a bit of a hunter-gatherer streak and there–fed by my imagination–it flourished. The grass gone to seed around the edges of my playset where the blades of my dad’s weed wacker failed to reach became wheat to gather and process into grain. I pulled the strings from the plantains to dry into thread and soft lambs ear was collected for fabric. Onion grass I wrested from the earth and dried on the branches of the newly planted maples for fairy-sized garlic. I gathered the spores of nest egg fungus and feared the rotten-scented “zombie fingers” that appeared around the base of the massive tulip tree outside my bedroom window.
At that moment, with the greatest pain I have ever felt laying claim to my soul, I wanted so desperately to run away into that world of childhood. I wanted to play again. Walking across that overgrown lawn felt sacred. My eyes searched through the sea of bright green to find the plants that had built my world in hopes they could drag me from this waking nightmare. Though my path was aimless–across the patch of dead grass outside the door, up the mound that had once been a vegetable garden before the maple trees blocked out the sun, over the pits where the swing used to be anchored–I scoured methodically until a hole in the ground about the size of a nickel caught my attention.
I now stood against that rough, aged wood of the fence; the border of my realm. It used to seem as though it shot into the sky for miles, but now it stopped only a foot or so above my head. My eyes knew what they were looking for before my mind did and they caught on the split shell of a hatched cicada.
The summers of my childhood had not just been spent gathering the local flora, but also hunting down these remnants of the fauna. Dirty, brown, crunchy, and translucent, they were perfect for putting on my more squeamish younger brother or for becoming armies protecting the fairy houses scattered around.
Cicadas live for years in the earth, biding their time to arrive in droves, filling the late-summer air with their mating cries before dying, writhing on the ground, only weeks later. They lay their eggs on the thin branches of trees, and once the nymphs hatch, they fall to the ground and bury themselves. The edges around my childhood had always been the perfect place for them to crawl up when it was finally time to escape their tomb of mud. They slowly crack themselves like lobsters at a boil until their beautiful new form emerges, a light turquoise reminiscent of the wings of a luna moth. This beauty is shortlived, for they soon harden into brown, similar to their old form, with only traces of their color lingering on the veins of their gossamer wings. My friends sometimes laugh at me when I pick up their struggling bodies and carry them out of the path of careless feet, but I know in some inexplicable way deep down inside that every creature deserves somewhere beautiful to die.
My grandparents are still kicking, one just celebrated his ninetyfirst birthday. My dog, Gracie, now lives with my dad's friend because my new neighborhood was not good for her anxiety. I haven’t seen her since I left the house. The house itself was sold to a young couple I never got to meet, but sometimes when I feel strong enough not to cry, I imagine a wobbly toddler walking the perimeters of that backyard collecting cicada shells and I feel at peace.
OPPENHEIMER, KRISHNA, AND DEATH
By Veronica Kromer
I often feel like Death.
I feel like Marcus Zuzsack’s Death in The Book Thief, the omniscient narrator who is the observer of the story of a girl in Nazi Germany. Seeing the worst of people; seeing the best.
And I do, too. All. Day. Long. Humanity is not so simple, but I spend my days adding, subtracting. I watch the boys on the field, their strong legs, dashing opponents. Scoring against the other team. Creating the winners and the losers, with aggression. I think of cheerleading at six, my cheers from a shivering mouth in late October: “Be! Aggressive! Be-b-be Aggressive!”. I see a couple walk hand-in-hand under the moonlight at midnight where they think no one can see. Rather, where they believe there is no one else in this world for an hour, just each other. I watch the men on the news in Gaza, creating the winners and the losers, with violence. With death. I see fall leaves outside my bedroom window coming down like downy sheets and scattering on the streets. But, before this, I watched them turn yellow, then let go. I watch politicians make their decisions from the glow of screens where they think they can’t be touched, can’t be seen. I watch them for hours. I read a tweet today that said the producer of Oppenheimer is a Zionist. I read a list of all the American companies that pledge Israeli aid. I saw a post of celebrities calling for a cease-fire. I read that “Now I am become Death, destroyer of worlds” is misattributed from a Hindu text. I make the realization that it is ironic: Zuzsack’s Death is from a book about Jewish genocide, and now I think of the Palestinians.
And then, even after all of this, I still have to leave the chapel. I still have to break into the cold light of day, of the falling early evening headed towards winter. I still have to brace the chill through my sweater, which soon won’t be enough to keep warm. I still have to live with you all in my head. I still have to travel fast, head down, to the dining hall to get something to eat. I still have to live. Have to walk with a left step, and then with a right. Back and forth. Bouncing in my head. I have to brush my teeth. I have to turn off the lights. I have to use the bathroom. Ricocheting in my head. And it doesn’t stop.
Add, and subtract. Subtract, and add. Addaddadd. Subtract subtract SUBTRACTING FOREVER!!!!!!. . . now, adding one more. I grow enraged by them; I love them. Spare them; Let them die. Let me be their destroyer of worlds. Let Krishna show His form.
Omniscience, ultimate power, is destruction. It is creation. It is both?
GOODBYE.
By Lola Offenback
Grabbing the brown crayon off the table, I began to draw squiggles of curly hair around the face on the page. I added the finishing touch of adding wheels to my Daddy’s wheelchair. Once complete, I sprang from the plastic chair and turned toward my Mommy.
“Look what I drew!” I held up the piece of paper towards her and the doctor.
She brushed her hand along my hair without really looking at the photo, too focused on her conversation with the doctor.
“Very nice, sweetie. Go show Daddy.”
“Okay!” I ran over to the bed where my Daddy lay.
It was hard to look at him still, but I felt so guilty thinking that. I shoved the thought away and climbed up onto the bed next to him. I had to move his big hand over so that I would fit and in the process knocked my Mommy’s little stuffed cat out of his grasp.
I wrapped his hand around it once again and held up my drawing, “Look, Daddy! It’s you, me, and Mommy! I even drew your helmet!”
I pointed to the depiction of him in his wheelchair, with his foam helmet that protected his already injured brain. There was no response from him– he was on life support at this point and wasn’t conscious.
I could hear the doctor and Mommy whispering quietly still, but I tried to ignore them. I put my drawing down in Daddy’s lap and picked up his hand. It was about three or four times the size of mine and I struggled to lift it without his efforts.
Holding his hand, I just sat and observed him. I still had that uncomfortable feeling sitting in the pit of my stomach, but I looked anyway. He had wires taped all around his shaven head. These were to monitor his brain activity and scan for any signs of life. I also looked at the indentation where part of his skull had been removed. He was in his hospital gown and there were still more wires protruding from the arm and neck holes to monitor his heart and lungs.
The most difficult part to look at was his face, especially his mouth, where a life support and feeding tube were inserted. The tubes and wires led to a big machine that filled the room with a loud buzzing sound. When they first put that machine in the room, the doctors and Mommy told me never to touch it and never to pull a certain plug out of the wall. Little did I know, this was the machine and power source keeping my Daddy breathing and alive. I laid my head down on his stomach and stayed there until my Mommy came back over from talking to the doctor.
She sat in the chair beside Daddy’s bed and asked me,
“Are you ready to go home?”
“Yes,” I was always more than eager to leave the hospital. But, there was still that feeling in my belly– like something was wrong. I also felt shameful for wanting to leave my Daddy here all alone. I had so many feelings, too many, and I didn’t know how to sort through them all.
Mommy packed up our stuff and went to say goodbye to Daddy. I was standing near the sliding doors into his room, waiting for her. She leaned over and kissed him while holding onto his hand.
“Okay, Tom, we’re going home now. I love you so much. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she gave him another kiss and placed the kitty stuffed animal back in his hand.
Mommy leaned back to go but stopped when she saw my drawing, “Did you make this for Daddy?”
“Yes.”
“I love it, and I know he will, too.”
She came over and took my hand as we left the intensive care unit and down the elevator. “Are you hungry?” Mommy asked me.
“Yes!”
“Do you want to get McDonalds?”
“Yes!”
We ate there often after seeing Daddy. McDonald’s was right next to the hospital and I could eat on the way home. Sometimes, we sat and ate in the restaurant.
That’s what we did today. I ordered a six-piece chicken nugget kids' meal and got a My Little Pony toy. After eating, we walked a few blocks up to the parking lot in the drizzle of rain. The storm started to pick up as we got to the car. After putting her bag in the car, Mommy came over to my side and buckled my seatbelt for me and we began driving.
The fabric of my seatbelt is digging into my shoulder and I pull at it to relieve the rugburn forming, only for the belt to lock up and dig further into my flesh. I squirm in my car seat, my legs flailing.
I see my mom’s hand turn the dial that lowers the volume of the Coldplay song in the CD player. The car rolls to a stop and she turns around from the driver's seat to look at me with sadness apparent on her face.
“I have a question for you,” she says softly.
“What, Mommy?” I ask, oblivious to what is to come just the next day.
“Do you want to skip school tomorrow to see Daddy?”
“Why?”
The light turns green and she starts driving again,
“Well, baby, you won’t be able to see him again.”
I don’t understand what she means,
“But we are painting in art tomorrow.”
“You don’t have to go.”
“I don’t want to miss our painting.”
“That’s okay, baby.”
The next day, I learned how to draw a 3D house and painted it during art class. I couldn’t bring it home to show Mommy because it had to dry overnight.
I didn't know it yet, but he was gone and I would never have to enter that hospital again.
I love you, Daddy.
CONTOUR OF THE PAST
By Matt Connors
When I went to college I changed as a person. I was still in my shell, but I started peaking my head out. I was still a wallflower, but started growing away from the bulwark. I was still “Matt”, but desire to change my name had shown up, and intended to stay. There was a shift in how I presented myself to the outside world. Before, I could barely look people in the face, with a cat following me everywhere, constantly stealing my tongue. During that first semester of my college expedition however, that cat ran off. Instead, a new voice, one I had not discerned before took over. That voice carried with it a fresh personality I welcomed with open arms, shedding a tear for this newfangled way of life.
But the semester had to end eventually, with mostly every student returning home to their old ways of existence. Some went back to their past jobs, others arrived to greet their bygone pets and loved ones. When I came back to my childhood home, something was off. As I drove up to my Mom’s house, a dark silhouetted figure was beckoning me inside from the window by the entrance. He had a familiar energy to him that I just could not diagnose. I sat in my car named Ethel, trying to find any reason not to go in, but I knew my mom was expecting me. I grabbed my IKEA bag full of clothes and cautiously inched my way to the door.
As I turned the metal knob of the green wooden door and pushed ever so slightly, I could see the shadow awaiting my arrival through the aperture. He remained motionless in the living room, having moved from the window, gazing through my soul with a sinister stare. I pressed open the door and stepped through into the same room. Now face-to-face with this entity, I could feel the pressure and energy it discharged. Emotions of loneliness and sorrow, the degree to which I had not observed since before the semester, washed over me and I could sense myself shrinking back into my shell, cowering closer to the bulwark. My mother appeared, greeting me with, “You’re home?!”
“Yup, there wasn’t much traffic on the way down, and going 10 over helped cut my time.”
“Well, I am glad you got here early. I need help moving some chairs to the dinner table. James and Sierra are coming at noon and I want to make sure we have enough seating for everyone.”
“Yeah, just let me put my stuff down and I’ll get to it.”
I walked into my ancient room with everything the way I left it. I failed to notice the shadow had passed me by, for now, he is positioned by the head of my decrepit bed. I dropped the IKEA bag on the floor and sat at the foot of my mattress. I could feel the anxiety, the rage, and the sadness he was drilling into me with his presence. I could not even look at him, he was too much to bear. I perceived his existence expanding like a gas, filling up the volume of the room. All my growth, all the progress I had experienced in college, shriveled up and died right there on the carpet. I endured the shadow engulfing, bending, and molding me back into the person I once was. I retreated back into my shell, clung to the bulwark, and saw the cat stroll in through the door, back again to steal my voice. x