Keys, Spring 2012

Keys

Mount Saint Mary Collegeâ€&#x;s Annual Literary Magazine

2012

In Loving Memory of Dr. Virginia Davidson

From all of your students that knew and loved you, we dedicate this magazine to your memory, laughter, and compassion for us. You were an unbelievable mentor and friend to us all. We miss you terribly and think of you whenever we read a good piece of literature.

“There’s teachers you grow to like at school. There are some you even enjoy. And then there’s those that you really adore. Because you know they care. Because you know they love you back. And because you know they were and always would have been there. “ -- Danielle Kearns "Life is no brief candle for me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations."

-- George Bernard Shaw 2

Executive Board President: Meagan O‟Gallagher Vice President: Danielle Kearns Secretary: Stephanie Weaver Treasurer: Michael McNicholas Advisor: Dr. Peter Witkowsky

Cover Photo: William Biersack Back Cover Photo: Dakin Roy

Table of Contents Flying Sheets By Crescentia Danner…………………………………...4 Untitled By Joshua Wilamowski………………………………………...5 A Lie Within a Lie By Gerald Ortiz……………………………………..5 Flower Pots and Body Bags By Kevin Berry…………………………..6 Illuminating Desire By Steven Broschart ……………………………………...7 Alone By Dana-Graff Ernano…………………………………………….8 Compensate By Rachel Sangalli…………………………………………8 Once Upon A Time By Nick Contarino…………………………………9 Clipped Wings By Joseph Mastando…………………………………...10 Number Seventy-Nine By Madeline McQuade……………………….11 In My Mind By Dana-Graff Ernano…………………………………….11 Man Child By Erin-Therese Vecchi…………………………………….12 Song of Summer By Laura Lamica……………………………………..12 Blessed are the Free of Heart By James Fitz Gerald………………..13 Untitled By Crescentia Danner……………………………………..18-19 Arctic Wasteland By Joseph Mastando…………………………….20-21 From a Father to His Son By James Fitz Gerald…………………22-23 The Journey By Donnie Hiland…………………………………………24 Midnight Wait By Pamela Delano……………………………………...25 The Inner Thought Chronicles By Anthony F. Krueger……...……..26 Queen of Swords, Queen of Cups By Christopher Bernadino..…….27 The Cold That Lingers By Emily Knapp…………………………..28-29 Modern Mythology By Glen Russo………………………………….30-31

Photo Credit: William Biersack

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Photo Credit: Joseph Mastando

Flying Sheets

By Crescentia Danner I was standing on mist, falling up through exploding stars.

The sea was walking up mountains and the rain was flying sideways looking for a place to perch.

My face was showing my hands how to whistle, while my feet made love to my breasts.

My skin was writing futile love letters to my lungs (futile because they would never meet).

My hair was yelling at scissors in a chorus of reproaches, while they wooed a sheet of paper.

My veins were gasping as my heart denied them air because it had been betrayed by water, road and trees.

Life was arguing with Fate, because Fate was manipulative and deceptive.

Hope was strung out on fear, dying slowly, crashing from an overdose of failed tries.

The sky was keening over her lost virginity, while the planets laughed viciously.

Tornadoes birthed bastard sons of hurricanes which wreaked havoc on the insides of symphonies.

The trees screamed in a bitter chorus of wailing sirens.

Doors ran down halls looking for hallucinogens.

Light bulbs leaked mist into the cloud I stood on, the stars exploded while I fell up through them.

Photo Credit: Joseph Mastando

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Untitled

By Joshua Wilamowski Is that a poem or are you just rhyming, Trying to perfect your pathetic timing, You should probably go back to the start and rediscover this thing we call art.

Silver spoon progressions, carbon copy hands Faded moonlight projected across moonlit sands Emptiness has faded like the sinking tides Ugliness is stated behind your blood soaked eyes Masticating vultures picking bone from flesh Procrastinating cultures bleed from unpaid debts Caravan or pachyderm pack it up and let it burn Machine guns singing soft goodnight Seven silver serpents alcoholic haze Living for night and dead by day

A Lie Within a Lie

By Gerald Ortiz

You know there‟s strength in numbers So you didn‟t stop with just one lie You kept the story going But you never told me why

And made me hesitate Now I‟m bleeding out and hallowed A pain I can‟t explain A joy that turned to sorrow A soul you loved to drain

You said it wasn‟t worth it That you didn‟t have the time You said that I was stoic And that trying was a crime

There is sin in never knowing The life that could have been If I had never met you And the lies that dwelt within

You made me feel so worthless You held me at the gate You stole my trust in people

But now the story‟s over The book was not a friend There might be no tomorrow But this pain will never end 5

Flower Pots and Body Bags

By Kevin Berry

Roses standing in their pots, stuck in the place of their birth Rose dying in their pots, trapped till their dying moment Sitting in the same diner from town to dead end town Dying from moment to moment, this place has become my body bag Trapping my cold soul inside this warm body gazing at the roses, trapped in their flower pots, growing rich from sunshine, from excrement Crossing borders here and there As my state of mind goes nowhere Roseâ€&#x;s dying in their pots, stuck there wilting from the chill of wintersâ€&#x; air My soul keeps rotting in my body, as it tries to escape in travel from here to there Driving, running and flying through the same world Hoping to find a gift from the universe, knowing that Iâ€&#x;ll always be too far away Knowing this truth My body is still warm, but my soul has become corpse cold, as I watch roses die in their flower pots My warm body moving from here to there Knowing that this cold soul is dead That this world is its body bag Photo Credit: Joseph Mastando

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Photo Credit: William Biersack

Illuminating Desire

By Steven Broschart Cheers and laughs swell the air with anticipation Beer and wine relax the core Yet across the noise the room goes deaf The smell of her desperation and exhaustion ignites my passion Solitary yet refined she sits alone Surrounded in an atmosphere of isolated caution My heart pulls forward as my feet drag without direction Vision blurry, my mouths depletes its air of delirious obsession Her legs shuffle underneath as I approach slowly; caught in her womanly grace her skirt rides high Blood pumping into my every pore, my tongue struggles to gain its footing I stumble forward onto the bar; gain my posture enveloped in the passion and lust of my own mind A glance to my right illuminates my soul with light as I study her every move Stumbling internally, searching for words, I manage a dry gasp A shuffle and a scratch reveal an empty void next to me, where my opportunity was lost in my moment of trepidation As her skirt turns the corner, my lips catch forward and whisper “Hello�.

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By Dana Graff-Ernano

Alone.

In the corner.

Your shadow is your worst enemy.

You feed off the demons in your mind.

Shattered in a million pieces, your heart aches for the happiness it once held.

Don‟t bother climbing the stairs.

They are never ending.

You could walk a million miles and still be in Hell.

Salmon and macaroni down your throat is hard to swallow when you don‟t even want it.

Photo Credit: Joseph Mastando

Alone

Compensate

By Rachel Sangalli Smash my toes, I‟ll use my heels.

Break my legs, my arms grow stronger.

Lock my doors, I‟ll use the window.

Protect it with glass, I‟ll spare some blood.

Steal my clothes, I‟ll embrace my beauty.

Laugh in my face and I‟ll laugh with you.

Whatever you do, however you do it, I‟ll move on, I‟ll compensate.

Photo Credit: Danielle Kearns

In the end, I‟ll still have my spirit.

That‟s something your actions can‟t take.

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Once Upon A Time

By Nick Contarino This poem is didactic—it is to teach a lesson.

Do not follow in my footsteps, this is my confession.

Not every day does an angel touch your heart.

To be quite honest, I was not very smart.

Deep does your eyes cut to my core.

I long for that smile with radiance galore.

I had you once, but let you go.

Since then, my life has been an everlasting low.

The panes of my heart are streaked with the tears of my soul.

I worry one day that it shall never again be whole.

The list of reasons why I love you is far too long.

It takes a man to admit this, but a bigger one to admit when he is wrong.

“There is nothing to fear, but fear itself.”

I have searched every outlet looking for help.

The conclusion I have come up with is quite simple.

For everyday without you is yet another ripple.

I hope one day that you are not too far from my grasp.

That will be the day these demons fully allow my body to collapse.

If you smitten lovers are reading this Do not make the same mistake.

Hold on to your love, whatever risks that might take.

If you are reading this, I end on this note.

The next few lines are based on foolish hope.

I cannot have you now, I could not have you then.

You will be mine again someday, the only question is when?

Photo Credit: William Biersack

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Clipped Wings

By Joseph Mastando Sharp thoughts rise like the edifice above, Scraping higher hues of blue, black, and white.

Sturdy and strong, block the majestic dove.

Luminous even in the depths of night, When all should cease and rest their dreary might.

What lies beneath to stir such conception?

That which intersects, crosses, and crashes, Amplified by a hawkâ€&#x;s eye projection.

Momentarily, blind by the masses, But molded simply to fill those glasses.

For if these thoughts would nature calmly brew, Could sweet harmony and true peace embrace.

Sparrows swinging above would sing anew, The willow bends would my eye firmly trace, And in this frame might muddled minds replace.

But without voracious visions clouding, Minds stagnate in the orchestrated pain.

A vulture to a bare brain, consuming, Rip, tear, swallow--prided personal gain, In deep dry deserts--soulâ€&#x;s sorrow sustain.

In shape and in form, these thoughts twist and turn.

They melt in cognition, dripping in one.

And swans swimming by will bleed in concern, For as their feathers had glistened the sun, Now drip drop in oil, their fate sealed and done.

Photo Credit: Joseph Mastando

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By Madeline McQuade Look through the green, a place between comfort and curiosity.

Imbalanced brown faults generosity creating a division of two.

What I think is me and you.

Photo Credit: Danielle Kearns

Number Seventy-Nine

A bit of light and human might planned a frame where it was bare They disregarded perchance we‟d care, you there and I here, sitting unconsciously near.

If we were to speak we may concur but green averts words that are heard.

So instead we‟ll listen to the birds that laugh with each chirp they purr; everything we infer.

What‟s the name I neglect to know?

Can it be something like my own?

It may but still remains unsown.

Like the buds on green or the green on brown; entities temporarily unfound.

In My Mind

By Dana Graff-Ernano

In my mind I am the pearl wearing Apron „round my waist Sock darning Brownie baking June Cleaver wannabe I can never be.

Photo Credit: William Biersack

I traded those images for a Sterling Silver wearing Stained pajama lounging Fast food ordering Life of a modern day wannabe Woman.

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To state I am a woman is such a joke.

I am still in my mind a Girl.

Never a Lady.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Sold.

Man Child

By Erin Therese Vecchi I don‟t know how you to be a man but you became one so I could stay a child.

How did we get from partners in crime, to you worrying what time I came home?

People say we look alike but I see no matching features or resemblance Both of us as tall as skyscrapers, you standing proud as a monument me attempting to shrink myself so not to stand out You have the sun kissed Sicilian skin, Emerald Isle eyes I was saddled with the Irish pallor and Italian appetite When did you decide to become the parent, the example you didn‟t have, to make sure my life would be easier than yours?

Failure is something you didn‟t inherit.

And yet there is no Hallmark holiday to thank you.

No half painted mugs or ties or screwdrivers or clever cards to say thanks for making sure I could ride a bike and that two seats were always in my corner.

Still you make it easy to remember who you are as you take the last cookie and wrestle me for TV control I don‟t know how you became a man but sometimes you really can be a child.

Photo Credit: William Biersack

Song of Summer

By Laura Lamica My feet feel best when wiggling in Water and sand, grass and soil; When they walk „long driftwood On secluded beaches With hidden campfire pits And worn-out tires half sunk Or hoisted up as swings.

My lips feel best when lightly Chapped by wind and sunshine; While bitten in anticipation.

My eyes feel best while smiling Into loving eyes and Swimming glim‟ring rivers; While catching shifts in Leaves and clouds and body.

My heart and feet feel best When bare and naked— Sensitive to touch.

My spirit sings when summer sings to me And holds my breath Securely in her hands.

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Blessed are the Free of Heart

By James Fitz Gerald Your body is a Gordian knot that only I can untangle from those mind-forged shackles of your mother‟s morals. and when I stretch too far you clench my arms tightly around your supple skin that rises towards those maternal mountains and dips into the neck that curves reaches towards your red lips and above your button nose rests a head that houses Pandora‟s box ready to be set free into the oceans of my imagination and yet it‟s locked locked locked up by an elder‟s superstition based on magic tricks and steeples and hearsay and no way but that baby bird we found dying while we walked through the fields of grass and lilies suffered every one of her last precious moments because she leapt from her nest too soon and jumped for sovereignty before the air knew her wings were meant to glide that bird died and sighed painfully and we both know that‟s true but that bird‟s pain was a free pain and for that we should be jealous Photo Credit: Joseph Mastando

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Artwork

Courtesy of Jesse Inoncillo

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Photo Credit: Kieran O’Keefe

Photo Credit: Danielle Kearns

study abroad pictures

Photo Credit: Danielle Kearns

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Post

Displayed by Different Stages, Psychology Club, & Get Creative Club

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Secret

Displayed by Different Stages, Psychology Club, & Get Creative Club 17

Untitled

By Crescentia Danner …and then I felt I felt things I had never I never thought I could feel that way it was more, more than anything it was overflowing it was my soul spilling my soul is spilling it was feeling connections to strangers feeling connections light was filling my chest I could see music I heard colors

but it’s burning my eyes it was an energy

it was drinking life from the source I am swimming in life.

Souls are shiny Technicolor souls are cold like iridescent ice but they aren’t solid you can’t touch them you wouldn’t want to touch them if you could you can’t tell what kind they are good or bad not by looking at them sometimes you can feel it in the cold bad is a different kind of cold a different kind of ice a chalky ice the good souls are liquid ice but at the same time liquid fire.

And souls have tastes you can tell that way if they are good or bad the bad ones taste burnt charred like cigarette butts but without the smoke without the addiction tasting souls is strange like full energy when you consume them good souls are almost tasteless slightly sour kind of tangy refreshing 18

the good souls are addicting their faintness is so

distinct it can’t be imitated

they all taste the same aside from good and bad you can’t tell one from another they aren’t as individual as people think the only difference is the amount of energy that they are made of sometimes it’s only a pinprick other times a tsunami it’s feeling things you never felt every time your own soul spills whets your body for things you’ve never done things you can’t imagine things you wish you wish you could have things you believe that are reserved for the gods of myth not for mortals not for a soul-eater like you.

Picture Credit: Jesse Inoncillo 19

Arctic Wasteland

By Joseph Mastando Icy, bitter winds whistle through the air. Meeting the water‟s surface, the gusts mark their presence with the creation of a few ripples. The mini waves carry to the ends of the pond, crashing against bodies of frigid ice and eroded earth. The stale, cold smell of winter lingers about the atmosphere. Away from home, he sits, passing the days.

The winds pick up their momentum, and soon enough, they caress the body of the beast. His fur juts backwards, opposing its pattern of growth and returning to a more comfortable state once the currents cease. He lay sprawled out; his head rests on one boulder, while his torso and limbs all sit on another. His reflection soon regains its form in the water‟s recently disturbed surface. He stares at it, slowly blinking his tiresome eyes. Reacting to a nearby scent, his thick, black nostrils begin to fluctuate. Gasps from the distance sound like an alarm as he lifts his head off the rock, observing his surroundings. Anticipation grows, thickening its chokehold on the spectators who watch in angst. This continues for about thirty seconds until the creature places his head back down and returns to his daily routine of lying still, staring into his reflection. Every person takes turns gripping the freezing metal bars and staring out into the arctic wasteland. A large cement wall reaching much higher than any viewer‟s field of vision casts an unbelievable shadow upon the entire surface. It darkens the ice and snow, and blackens the beast‟s white fur.

After minutes pass, the bear braces a feeble stance and lunges off the rocks and into the pond. The loud audience sounds off once more, cheering and clapping to the animal‟s instinctive behavior.

Underneath the surface, he embraces a world of adventure, swirling in bliss, spinning in comfort, and swimming in silence. When he rises, beads of water drip from the corners of his eyes and down his snout as the burdens of fame and misfortune reappear. He peddles around the fifty feet of water for a while longer, walking shortly after onto the fabricated icebergs. The ice covers most of the area, bordering the pond and extending across the approximate one hundred feet to the cement wall. Foreign to the onlookers, a dark and eerie cave lies beneath the wall‟s surface. It amplifies all sound, echoing even the slightest whisper. At times, the bear will enter the cave out of frustration and bellow deeply.

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All of the bystanders‟ eyes will spring open, fearing the monstrous howl. They will walk away angry that their money‟s worth was not accounted for. Like all others, they will view the animal‟s dismay and weariness as a defiant irritation. If they listen closely, they will hear it: the sorrowful sounds of sadness and solitude.

He travels back and forth across the ice. Rocks scattered sporadically about interrupt his path. He uses his nose to push a smaller one out of the way, attempting to entertain his boredom.

Then, a powerful nudge sends the mass flying into the water. The bear stares at it for a second, and then continues walking. The spectators gleam in amazement, holding binoculars and lenses against their eyes in order to capture the intriguing behavior. Some begin a steady jumping motion while the rest stand with giant eyes, grinning from cheek to cheek. Soon enough, it is impossible for the observers to contain their thrills and astonishment. One woman begins running around in circles while another man almost throws his daughter into the environment just so that he can see more of the beast‟s behavior. Gradually, everyone begins talking: “Did you see that? Isn‟t it amazing? I can‟t believe he‟s doing that! How incredible!” But the bear just continues walking back and forth.

With a deep sigh, the animal climbs back onto his rocks. He lay sprawled out; his head rests on one boulder, while his torso and limbs all sit on another.

Photo Credit: Dakin Roy 21

From a Father to His Son

By James Fitz Gerald I saw you once, An apparition in the corner of my room.

It was morning, but the windowless center of my insomnianic rage Held no space for sunlight- no space for life.

And yet there you were, a glowing boy with mud-laden jeans and Untied shoes- how I yearn to teach you how to tie them.

Your thin amber hair that you got from mommy fell just above your brow.

Your eyes, those warm, blue eyes, Stared towards me with remorse- an apology.

Thin straps from your pied backpack coiled over your shoulders With a bitter, strangling tension.

You shook, my poor boy, you shook from the bitter frost of neglect that My bloodstained hands will never be washed of.

I lay in bed, whispering muffled pleas that turned into vivacious bellows“Forgive! Forgive!”

In vain I howled, huddled under My covers like a terrified infant.

With minute steps you came towards me, Your arms reaching out and your lips quivering With a ferocious fury that served to portend The tempest that soon flowed from your eyes.

“Forgive! Forgive!”

As the tears began to fall from your supple face And seep into the thin carpet, I reached my arm Out to catch them like a bucket under a leaking ceiling.

They coalesced into a thick sap and grew blacker as they Dried into my palm.

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I stretched out to hold you, as if my grasp would be enough To justify the life you never had, or the short One that you did- the playgrounds you Never played on, the schools you never learned in.

And yet, my hands grabbed only the emptiness of my desolate room.

The vast isolation- a small atom in the realm of the universe.

I glared at my palms, soaked with the sanguine reminder of My ignominious treachery.

“Forgive me,” I whispered, “Forgive me.”

Photo Credit: William Biersack

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Photo Credit: William Biersack

The Journey

By Donnie Hiland

Follow the grey fox to the deepest glade in the forest.

Do not trust it, For it will try to deceive you.

Keep a close eye the path, Lest it wander off And leave you in Darkness.

Drink from the spring that flows from Nowhere; Stifle your curiosity.

Should you see a fairy, Or a gnome, Or a nymph, Leave it be.

They may stare and gawk in your direction, But take no offense; They are merely amazed To find that you are real.

When you realize that the fox has abandoned you— And it will— Rejoice.

It was leading you into trouble anyway.

Stop and take a deep breath, Enjoy the afternoon air, Then turn around and go home.

You need not venture any further.

Not yet.

Remember what you have seen And smile when you dream.

And then, When you are ready, Go back.

Trust the grey fox; It is your friend.

Wander from the path; It will find you when you stray.

Taste the sweetness of the berries And follow the spring to its source.

Nothing is elusive to you now.

Converse with any fair folk that you meet.

You are one of them, Or will be soon.

Watch the sun set beyond the western border, And do not fear the Dark.

Bid the fox farewell And thank it for its guidance.

Walk in whatever direction you please.

Fly, if you wish.

When you arrive at the other side of the wood, Continue, And see what more there is to find.

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Midnight Wait

By Pamela Delano

At night when I feel like I'm the only one awake, I glide through these streets with the wind's exhalation, Silent but strong like the red bricks that stare, I hold up a structure that is barely there, Yet has great weight.

My soul is paved below for you to stand, My hands quiver with the limber tree branches, My thoughts scatter like grains of sand.

With each inhalation my body aches, I wait for the sun my eyes forsake, When I feel like I'm the only one awake.

Photo Credit: Dakin Roy

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The Inner Thought Chronicles

By Anthony F. Krueger There are times in your life when you feel like you are no longer in the driver‟s seat. A surreal feeling because the choices you‟ve made in the past have put you in that state. So much runs through your mind. So many words from your inner self and those around you circulate through you at a rapid pace. You begin to distance yourself from the bad choices by wondering how you got to where you are now in the first place. Thinking back to even a year or two ago, you wonder what lead you to making the choices that you did. No amount of love or words of encouragement or hugs can mask the way you truly feel. The worst part of it all is after you reflect on the choices you have made, good or bad, nothing seems to change. You continue on this path in life as if everything was wiped cleaned and is once again okay.

Picture Credit: William Biersack

Love what do those four separate letters formed together really mean? That question can be seen as one of the mysteries to life.

Many people offer up their ideas and opinions. However can we ever create a substantial overall quote on quote “definition” of the word that everyone can agree with? I personally say no. There are aspects of the word that everyone can surely agree upon but there are things that the word brings that are different for each individual and the situation that they find themselves in. Therefore again it needs to be said, love a simple four letter word, that we as a world cannot and will not ever be able to all universally agree upon.

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Queen of Cups, Queen of Swords

By Christopher Bernadino I trace the moon across the blade as she raises it to the full height of her arm. It‟s virgin steel, unblemished and colorless except for my blood dripping off its edge. I draw breath, savoring the coolness of it in my throat, the taste of pine needles on my tongue, and the smell of loam in my nose.

As I accept my fate, comfortable in the choice I have made, I see something golden reflecting in her eyes and off hilt of her sword. A glowing arc flashes across my vision as the sword rushes towards my throat, and halts the blade hair-widths from my veins, quivering with its staying power.

A chalice blocks the sword. A cup, wrought of the purest gold, rimmed with rubies, body flecked with emeralds and sapphires. Its elegance is a testament to the skill of the craftsman. Slender, graceful fingers hold the cup steady against the sword with hidden strength.I trace my gaze up my protector‟s arm, she wears a gown of delicate silk, shining brightly and moving like quicksilver in the moonlight. She wears a crown, not of metal, but of laurel on her head. Her face is gentle and warm as she looks down at me, eyes smiling, lips slightly separated.

The Queen of Cups whispers to me “Get behind me, and don‟t be afraid.

I‟m here now, you‟re safe.” I trust her implicitly and begin to inch along the ground, blessed with the strength of her words. I manage to sit up and gaze at the Queens from a safe distance.

The Queen of Swords is rooted in disbelief, uncomprehending of how her prey has gotten away in its final moment. Her sword-hand shakes in anger, and her eyes flit from me, to the Queen of Cups, and back, rage seething beneath her skin.

“HE‟S MINE” she wails, half in anger, half in despair, and launches herself at the Queen of Cups, striking wildly and without tact, forgoing her swordsmanship for a berserking wrath. Clashes of steel and gold echo through the forest as I brace myself, afraid for my protector.

The Queen of Cups parries each blow effortlessly, without even moving her feet. She stands firm, feet shoulder width apart, hands outreached forming a shield in front of me. The Queen of Swords hops back, sobered by the enemy who still stands against her, unharmed by the assault.

She launches again at the Queen of Cups, lashing out hysterically. The Queen of Cups parries a thrust downward and externally, twisting her assailant and exposing her backside. No mercy shown this time: she strikes the back of her head, sending her sprawling to the forest floor.

The Queen of Cups plants a bare foot on the chest of the Queen of Swords.

She bends over to speak with her enemy, so close their noses are almost kissing. “You may no longer harm him” she whispers, and before hearing the reply, she bludgeons her face in.

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The Cold that Lingers

By Emily Knapp The cold air whipped violently around her red cheeks, making her shiver involuntarily. She shoved her hands quickly in her pockets, curling them into tight fists. She shifted her feet uncomfortably inside her old black shoes that were being to wear on the side from years of use and cold, wet nights.

She felt the cold flakes of snow falling on her face, melting and quickly sliding down her face to rest at the nape of her neck. The cool liquid seeped into her collar, causing her dull button-down shirt to stick to her skin. The cool fabric felt heavy like plaster on her small frame, weighing her down, pushing her farther into the piled snow.

She began her walk forward, forcing her feet into motion even though they protested with every step. The wind, now at her back, flung her dark curls in every direction. The hairs sprayed against her face, thrashing against her once alabaster skin, now pink from the bitter and cold air. Her ears ached as the cold seeped into them, no longer blanketed by her hair. The back of her neck stung as the snow smashed into it with each hurl of wind. And still she carried on.

The trees on both sides of her weaved in and out of her sight, dipping with the curves of the land. Every once in awhile they would close around her, cutting off the brutal wind. But they always pulled away sharply and suddenly, as one would do when touching a hot ember, pulling back from the burning pain. The trees pulled away from her as they seemed to nurse their burns, allowing the harsh reality of situation to whip around her again.

She drudged forward still, an air of determination exuding with each deliberate and painful step that sunk into the cold, thick layers of the snow that covered the ground. Her eyes were fixed on an unknown source in front of her, holding the same intensity as the wind did.

She walked for what seemed like hours, years, a lifetime, moving past her in a blur of color. She had no sense of what was around her; the beauty of the snow that outlined the dark, dried branches of the largest oak trees, the sparkle that bounced off each flake as it fell slowly from the sky, waltzing don to her as the wind blew. She had no awareness of the quiet hum of life moving about her; the young rabbit colony bundling closer and closer together below the base of a hallow tree, the small fox standing guard of its den by standing on a small rock, or the doe moving slowly beside her, making her way back to her dwindling herd.

All she could hear was the airy laughter that the wind carried, reminding her of every lost moment. All she could feel was the coldness forming in her heart, icicles slowly spiraling downwards to her chest, filling it with pain and searing cold.

All she could see was her own reflection in the snow, her green eyes peering lifelessly up at her.

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Finally her numb feet began to slow down, her destination coming into view. A long, ominous, black fence took shape, stretching down the land for an eternity. She walked to the fence, letting her fingers run down the side of the bar. It flaked with years of neglect, the dark crimson rust falling at the softest of touches, coming to rest on the bright snow. The fence was falling apart, and it seemed that with one more good push it would all fall over, the once beautifully strong and protective structure failing from lack of care and attention. It was once elegant and ornate but was now decrepit and useless.

Photo Credit: Dakin Roy

She looked at the large house in the distance, a swirl of fantastical architecture and blackened bricks blurred by the falling snow. She remembered the happiness that she felt when she was here before, sitting in front of the large fire, the flames cracking in front of her. She sighed to herself and sat down in the snow, wrapping her fingers longingly around the iron bars. She sat there for some time before finally convincing herself to let go of the fence. She fell backwards into the snow as the wind pushed against her face. She felt the cool snow slip down her neck, cooling her whole body that seemed to have been suddenly set on fire from the inside. She could feel it wetting her curls as she watched the snowflakes dance from the sky, falling gracefully on her pale skin.

She brought her hands to her face, taking in the now blackened skin, colored with age, the integrity of the fence. She placed them in the snow, trying to rub away the past that was left lingering on her palms, a feeble attempt she knew. She closed her eyes, feeling the cold liquid drip down her eyelids and pool at her lashes.

She allowed herself to drift asleep, lulled by memories that swirled across her mind, encircling her like a blanket, closing her off from the cold and the rest of the world.

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Modern Mythology

By Glen Russo The Trinity of Existence When the two Immortals Time and Space came together, there was a huge explosion which created another, known as Chaos. They continue to grow even to this day. Without these three, nothing can exist. While Time and Space have rules and discipline, Chaos is a trickster and evidence of the Immortal‟s mischief is all around.

The wise worship Time, as the quest for knowledge is eternal; the powerful worship Space, as the ownership of land gives power over the world; and only the most courageous worship Chaos, as one must be brave to push for change, or to deal in chance, which are the Immortal‟s right and left hands.

As Time went on, Space complained of feeling empty and devoid of anything. Chaos heard the plea and made an effort to make something out of nothing. Failure after failure was witnessed before Time finally decided to help.

Together, the two Immortals were able to create the stars which lit up the Realm of Existence. Yet, Space still complained of emptiness.

So, they made Great Rocks to spin around the lights. Each one of these planets formed differently based on how close they were to the stars. Space was satisfied by the Ornaments of the Universe and no longer felt so empty…

The Ingredients of Life On a certain Great Rock, three different disconnected beings roamed the world. They were called Body, Mind, and Spirit.

Body was slothful and had no motivation to sustain itself. Mind was small and too terrified to expand. Spirit, however, was free to be itself and wandered around trying to figure out just why it was there in the first place.

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Chaos came to the Great Rock in the form of a storm cloud and called these three abominations who threatened the very fabric of existence. Body and Mind both willingly submitted to the judgment of Chaos; however, Spirit refused to be pushed around by such a bully. Mind was secretly inspired by Spiritâ€&#x;s courage and formulated a plan. Laughing at the insolence, Chaos summoned the Destroyer to get rid of them.

Photo Credit: William Biersack

Taking the form of a great burning wrecking ball, the Destroyer decided that Body would be the easiest, Mind would be the next, and Spirit would be the hardest to get rid of.

Just when Body was about to be pulverized, Mind possessed it and moved them both out of the way. Chaos had not foreseen this and told the Destroyer to go after Spirit first instead.

Mind and Body both resolved to protect their friend and told Spirit to join them. Together, they are the Trinity of Life.

Outraged, Chaos cursed them to be forever entwined; however, they were better off that way in the first place! It was not long before the secret of Life spread throughout the entire Realm of Existence and continues to prosper to this day.

Those who seek power worship Body, as it is the container of physical strength and no one can be in charge of anything without a body; those who seek wisdom worship Mind, as it ties knowledge together and makes sense of information; and those who seek courage worship Spirit, as bravery comes from the soul.

The Destroyer looms over the Body, Mind, and Spirit of all Life waiting for one to slip up and capitalize on their mistake‌ 31

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