the Aquila
Niagara University Niagara University, NY Judgments of submissions are based on literary and artistic merit with the intent of showcasing the diversity of talent in the NU community and our broader community of readers. The views expressed herein are solely those of the authors and artists. All efforts were made to ensure accuracy of submitted material. We apologize for any inadvertent errors or omissions. the Aquila was first published in 1937. For previous issues, please visit: https://www.niagara.edu/aquila/
Cover: Rachel Pinti
the Aquila Staff Editor-in-Chief Tyler Bingham
Managing Editor and Designer Arianna Gabriel
Editor Rachel Pinti
Advisor Dr. Jamie Carr
Special thanks to the Niagara University English Department and to Lisa McMahon, Associate Director, Public Relations and Alumni Communication
Thank you & Goodbye We both began working on the Aquila in 2016 and it has been a busy four years. Undeniably, this journal is a labor of love. Although not perfectly we have tried our best to be painstakingly organized and dream of meeting our publishing goals. Of course, none of this would be possible without the help of our advisor, Dr. Jamie Carr. Words cannot capture how lucky we are to have learned from Dr. Carr over the years, and we cannot thank her enough for trusting us to expand the scope of the Aquila and all the help and guidance she’s offered along the way. It is with mixed emotions that we publish this last edition under our management. We excitedly look forward to our respective futures, but we will miss Dr. Carr, the wonderful community of artists, writers, and readers that have supported the Aquila, and we will miss our wonderful school, Niagara University. Thank you, Arianna and Tyler
Table of Contents Murder Near Orange Cat .....................................................1 Philip J. Sembert II
Aubade: Oil City ...................................................................6 Crystal Pierce
Devil’s Hole ..........................................................................7 John P. Sauter
Blackberry Bush ..................................................................8 John Walker
Canon in D ...........................................................................9 Shannon Borkowski
Sheltering Pines .................................................................10 Crystal Pierce
New Found Land ................................................................11 Edward Yong Jun Millar
Weekday on the Slopes ......................................................12 Sabrina Di Marco
Winter 1946 ........................................................................14 Crystal Pierce
Day Dreaming ...................................................................15 Evan Fleming
Armondo ...........................................................................16 Olivia Cinquino
Winter Coat .......................................................................17 John Walker
A Winter’s Nap .................................................................18 Evan Fleming
Rapid Reverse ..................................................................19 Evan Fleming
Larch Cone .......................................................................20 John P. Sauter
Not So Great Expectations ...............................................21 Claire Wanzer
Stories ...............................................................................23 Edward Yong Jun Millar
Redamancy .......................................................................24 Morgan Oun
Alexander Had it Right .....................................................25 Liam Cuddy
Dad ....................................................................................27 Brianna Gauthier
Golden Gates ....................................................................29 Olivia Cinquino
Adila ..................................................................................30 Claire Wanzer
Denim Overalls .................................................................31 Shannon Borkowski
Hewn Hues ........................................................................32 Edward Yong Jun Millar
Celebrate Yourself ............................................................33 Philip J. Sembert II
Lake Ontario Sunsets from the Cottage ............................34 John Overbeck
Not a Perfect Person, but a Great Man ..............................35 Liam Neaverth
Waves ..................................................................................37 Olivia Cinquino
Pearl White .........................................................................38 Liam Cuddy
Succulents ...........................................................................40 Claire Wanzer
The Angel Within ................................................................41 Loreana Armenti
Belle of Louisville ...............................................................42 John P. Sauter
Contributor Bios ............................................................43-46
Murder Near Orange Cat Philip J. Sembert II
“So, tell us what you did that day,” he said while puffing his cigarette with plumes of white smoke curling under the light. The neighbors were all talking outside. Jim is the only fellow on our street who receives the daily paper. You see, it’s hard times for certain folks nowadays, not everyone can afford the paper which makes Jim the most popular man when big news comes about. He just stands there like a bull and reads off all the headlines with a strong voice that carries like select few. But, until yesterday, it has been two months since any major news has happened. I honestly think that Jim missed his reading, and all the eyes that lay upon him as he reads. Honestly . . . he seemed to revel in yesterday’s headline sir. “I want to know more about that night, never mind yesterday.” He stared at me inquisitively, the smoke swirling and twirling about freely. Now I don’t know why Jeb and I decided last night that we would do our shenanigans, but regardless we did and neither of us slept much. Old Man Jenkins is damn near blind, I think he lost his right mind long ago. We were about to tie a rock to some fishing line to loop it around his front door, it’s good fun to pull the line and make the rock knock the door. It scares the jeepers out of him. But, that night we spared him from our debauchery. We felt bad for the Old Man because he done fell down and bloodied his nose the last time we wronged him. So we left to leave him be. “Why did you happen to be in the village square?” You see – we were walking through the village on the ridge, and Jeb decided that we should go down Center St to see what fun we could get ourselves into. The saloon was a good spot to catch a fight spurred about by irrational and false masculinity – Papa always said masculinity has nothing to do with being a man, but the drunken men with hopeless futures always found a major life victory in a meaningless fist to fist battle. 1
“Young man, what exactly did you see last night?” The tone was much more serious than prior inquiries. Well just as Jeb and I entered town, we heard some glass break off Varsity Drive, that Café was no more than a stone’s throw away, and we decided to head that way to see what the stir was. There he stood, at least his shadow, with a hand wielding a butcher’s blade, dripping blood. My heart started to run and my body went cold. That run turned into a sprint once the man turned the corner. He stood like a bull with shoulders as broad as a sword. He walked at a quick pace with an unforgettable strut. We ran so fast that we ended up right back in the village square. “That’s enough. Captain Holt, does the other’s story line up?” “Yes. I checked with the Old Man. Even that’s true. The other boy told nearly the same thing.” “Kid, you might have just solved a case.” In a few days’ time, Jeb and I were interviewed by the paper. We were winners of the $10,000 reward set for information leading to the arrest of the person who murdered Doc Brown. As it would be, it was Jim himself who did in Doc Brown. I reckon because Doc Brown’s murder would be big news in town, the attention Jim craved would be granted when he read the news out loud, with each word flowing off his tongue with a unique sense of ownership like the words in the paper were his own, and his task he set out to do, even if temporary, was a resounding success, I mean every eyeball in town was on him that morning, that’s the attention he desired. Anyways, that’s the whole truth and nothing but the truth! Yep, Jeb and I would never lie and put a neighbor behind bars for nothin’! And if you hear about how Jim once kept our ball which rolled into his yard, and how he always shouted and yelled at us for making a ruckus, well . . . that has nothin’ to do with what we saw that night. 2
Jeb’s Conscience (Present Time) I know what George thinks, but for once, I think he is wrong. Now, Mama always said that I was the brightest one. “Do not confuse George’s abundance of confidence with intelligence” she always said. Frankly, his response to any question is so quick, and natural, and suave, that you cannot help but believe him . . . most of the time. His ideas are great, and we followed through on one the other day perfectly. But, I think . . . I think it was bad. What feels just is not just, Our stupid power lust. (Back to the interrogation room a couple weeks ago) You see, George and I have a great deal of fun together, especially when summer brought recess. Jim was not a fan of us, in fact, I think he hated us. It started two weeks back when we received a new baseball from Pa through the mail, and so we played catch on the front yard. The ball got away from me and rolled into Jim’s lawn. I ran quick to snag it, but Jim came running out, hooting and hollering “Out of my yard! Out of my yard!” Jim slouched over and scooped up the ball and tossed it to his bulldog, Sergeant. George stood there tall and in a valiant rage, shoulders broad, his chest puffed. Boy did George turn red and boil, He schemed a plan, Jim the foil. It was the same day Doc Brown was murdered near Orange Cat. That night, we happened to be downtown, just down the Ridge, off Center St, the darkness was cut away by street lamps and the moonlight beamed through a break in the clouds – I imagined how it reflected across the Niagara, as it flowed into Lake Ontario. When the glass broke, We dropped our smoke. 3
To the noise – we did run, and a shadow we did see, but who we saw – now that was not up to me. George told me the body was like a bull, and he walked with an unmistakable stagger. The smoke swirled about in the light, It brought my mind a great delight. “So, you saw a man standing like a bull that walked with an unmistakable swagger?” No. I said stagger. “Yes, I think you just solved a case.” And I was released with George to go home. Jim was put on trial a few days later and was convicted for murder. Weeks passed and we received a $10,000 reward for information leading to the capture of Doc Brown’s slayer. But, after Nikola was murdered, the brilliant man who wanted to use the power of the Niagara for electricity, and who used the Ridge as his place of research, I realized what Georgey and I did. It has devasted me ever since. Each day that goes by is a day that I wish no longer to live. We ended a life, or at the very least . . . tarnished it forever. People don’t care about something you didn’t do. I sat hand in hand with darkness, my sin, your sin, our sin, for over a week. The weight of humanity rested on my chest, clenched my heart, and made each and every breath hard to take. No, I didn’t lie, I just believed what was told to me which happened to deceive. But, a life was at stake, and George . . . George and I went too far. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped us. Mama, I must tell you . . . “You’re scaring Mama again with the pause.”
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Mama, George and I told Captain Holt about some general things we seen the other night, and we did see something, but not necessarily how we described it to him, a . . an . . . and . . . before we knew it, Jim was convicted and sent to prison for something . . . something he probably didn’t do . . . Mama we ruined his life! His reputation . . . forever! “I’m not sure who I’m more upset with, your brother’s ignorance, or your own conformity.” Mama took a deep breath, “We need to see the captain, and tell him the truth, and nothing but the truth!” Yes, Mama. Mama . . . “Yes?” Please don’t write to Pa. Silence followed.
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Aubade: Oil City
Crystal Pierce
Trees line streets as rural highway curves Into urban Front Street that proceeds Along Allegheny River. Oil City, cradled in confluence Of Oil Creek, is obscured By mist that rises off river. Twin spires of St. Joseph’s stand Full of pride; these pierce fabric of fog. Daylight descends western hill as sun Ascends from behind opposing hill, Catches crosses on spires, and crowns them With morning gold. A pair of bald eagles dances An intricate pattern of freedom In sky while you bridge river, Follow creek, and chase sun to your Destination and not a bridge too far.
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Devil’s Hole
John P. Sauter
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Blackberry Bush
John Walker
walking barefoot, buckets in hand, feeling the sun beat more of a burn than a tan weaving through tall grass, looking for last year’s paths, unknowingly creating tomorrow’s trails finally, our bounty in sight, springing forth from soft, loving soil many hands navigate the tangle of thorns, a maze designed to thwart the unworthy, reward the diligent rich in hue, bursting with tang, each treasure placed in hungry vessels or escaping to empty mouths brought for inspection– they met their apex, the surplus preserved for future cravings
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Canon in D Shannon Borkowski
The frosted tulle My corset waist A scorching flame of light
Reflection shy She hides, abstains She’ll praise until destroyed
Their shadow masks— Are intimate Attending for their pride
Ancient toe shoes Rosy satin Disheveled masterpiece
The buds—they soak A salty rain Of mother’s ocean tide
A waltz across— The broken floor Like summer’s river stream
With loss of breath My beating drum I see the end in sight
The rush to change From first number My feet—bruised, bloody, numb
To feel as though— I’m infinite The curtains know my name
A string of swans The babies’ nest Turn out their first position
—and shut them closed To brush my cheek Degrade me through her eyes
Handwritten note My story says— “I’m off to see much more”
They make me weak I itch for strength My passion beats the odds
No more nit pick Empty stomach Deprived of selfish love
These ankles, weak Forgot to breathe My tights, stained with red wine Behind the tape I watch her . . . still My solo silhouette
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Sheltering Pines
Crystal Pierce
A boy walks on a path flanked by two rows Of white pines sheltering him from a wind Out of the west dragging its big belly Across tree tops bending them, not him, To its wild wintry will into nighttime. Pines spread faint blue shadows on snowfall In the fading light when a white-tailed doe, Trailed by two yearlings, steps into the path Of the boy who stops breathless in the cold Watching deer that were checked in fear. The doe raised her tail like a white pennant Then vaulted for a neighbor’s woods; yearlings Matched her mute movements to find their rest While the boy ran to fetch the story home.
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New Found Land Edward Yong Jun Millar
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Weekday on the Slopes
Sabrina Di Marco
From my office window I had watched the snow fall early in the week. Big, fat, white flakes floated down onto the ground, retuning the panorama from early spring grass and cement to a winter wonderland. Acting as a mix of meteorologist and math wizard, I calculated that I would indeed be able to squeeze in an extra day on the slopes. Work and so many other commitments demanded attention, but so too did those big white snowflakes coming back for a final hoorah and unexpected season finale. A tribute to them was necessary. Later that week I was thrilled to indulge in my ski day. Yet I was concerned that the beautiful flakes of snow from earlier in the week would not be enough to provide good conditions on the slopes. On the ski lift I spoke with a woman who had been there all day. She came up with her two teenage kids. She was telling me about how they exhausted her because they were not as passionate about being out on the snow. Sometimes they wanted to ski and sometimes they didn’t. Now they were in the chalet playing video games while she indulged in a few solo runs. She was a radiant, real woman. I asked her about the snow. On this April day, knowing that the resort wasn’t making snow this late in the season, I feared barren or icy patches, or terrible slushy snow. As she paused I could see that she reached deep inside of her emotion from the day in order to answer me honestly. She said, “well, it is really . . . amazing!” and released a big, happy smile. Not believing her at all, I thought that it was great how positive she was. She was the epitome of all those inspirational memes on social media. She was taking a spring condition ski and making lemonade.
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I sat on the snow at the top of the hill to put on my binding and savor the panorama. The white snowy run was filled with coniferous trees; the Tyrolean ski village below; the beautiful blue waters of Georgian Bay and the bright blue sky: they were absolutely stunning and so very peaceful. For those who love the calm and thrill of alpine, this moment confirmed what a good idea it was to have made the escape from my over busy life and be here right now, indulging in the blessings of nature, sport, and adventure. As I headed down the run, I quickly picked up my ski legs, and before I knew it I was grooving and carving in the snow; playing with speed. I became conscious of the snow underfoot. It was fabulous! That lady that I spoke with was not just super positive. The snow was lush and smooth and made you glide and groove. It felt like feathers, pillows, and kittens under your feet. It was indeed Amazing! Two words: Snowboard Salsa. That’s right. I was grooving so much that my upper body got involved and indulged in the play with gravity and friction. I often have Salt ‘n Pepa’s song Push It looped in my mind when I come down a run. But today, with this fluffy, beautiful snow that allowed for so many nuances, I was singing salsa songs in my head. As I came down the slope carving and playing with gravity, my upper body accented my movements with flow and style. This playground unleashed courage and ambition. I enjoyed returning to snowboard fundamentals: engaging my core and maintaining bent knees to control my board over snow bumps. My focus on the basics resulted in the taunting lure and promised thrill of pointing the board downward.
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Winter 1946 Crystal Pierce
After painting by Andrew Wyeth A boy, arms flung wide in abandon, Runs with his shadow along ruts in a field After these crest the hill. I knew that field, Or one akin to it, where you race, not away, But to an unknown destination. You woke early, dressed for the weather As your mother told you, and ventured Out to the barn for chores. Breakfast is waiting, You know, yet the field draws you to tramp Along the fence line out and away. Aroused to all the possibilities Beyond the crest of childhood, you learn What lies behind the crest is unchangeable. You run through a bare field with patches of snow, A midwinter thaw, toward spring.
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Day Dreaming Evan Fleming
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Armondo Olivia Cinquino
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Winter Coat
John Walker
Painted in a gown of white, made anew, a heavenly sight. But the cost is laden on her children who lose the sustenance of her den. And so we see the earth without the life that it is all about.
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A Winter’s Nap Evan Fleming
After a trounce in the snow, After a cup of hot cocoa, After a hearty stoke of the coals, After a chapter of ThoreauI succumb. And the world goes black . . . After that.
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Rapid Reverse Evan Fleming
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Larch Cone John P. Sauter
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Not So Great Expectations Claire Wanzer
Writing Studies sounds like the study of J.K Rowling or Moby Dick. If I had to pick a logo for writing studies, it would be a straight mustard yellow pencil, with a dull pink eraser on one end and a sharp black triangle point on the other. Writing studies smells like grammar—like the bitter coffee breath of my 6th grade teacher explaining conjunction junction, but I can’t for the life of me remember the function. It tastes like a pen cap and Orbit gum that’s been chewed for too long. Writing studies feels like my sweat-sogged in-class essay on wide ruled loose leaf, wet with blurry pencil smudges and smears and words trying very hard to mean something important. Writing studies sounds like the written part of the SAT, a writing sample, or simply an in-depth infatuation with the greatest American writers of all time. Writing studies conversations go like this: “I like to write and read. So I will be an English major.” “And what will you do with that major? Teach English or be a writer?” “I am not sure. I just know that I’ve always liked my English classes.” Writing studies teachers wear glasses. It’s a non-negotiable. They quote Shakespeare. They read for fun. God forbid. The tools of writing studies are: 1. Dictionary, 2. Thesaurus, 3. Back Up Dictionary, 4. Never ending supply of Englishy terms like metonym and predicate and register and anaphora. Writing studies is only applicable to writers, teachers, writing teachers, and my grandma who insists that grammar in schools must be going downhill compared to back when she was a kid. 21
But these are merely expectations, stereotypes, limits, and boxes. Writing studies is every day, everywhere, and so much more than a 5-sentence paragraph or subject-verb agreement. Writing studies is looking a little bit deeper at human interaction— communication, signs, symbols, words, slang, texts, emoji, essays, résumés, tweets, journals . . . the list goes on and on. Writing studies is more than just grammar; it is an exploration of our lives and how words shape and define, construct and maintain the ways we live. Using critical analysis to understand social norms and power distribution between races, genders, ages through Instagram posts and captioning— writing studies. Looking to understand why genres are a thing—writing studies. Diving deeper into the use and reception of different symbols for public bathrooms, road work, and deer crossings—writing studies. It’s very difficult to say what isn’t writing studies or what can’t be explored through a writing studies lens. Expectations we have from the term constrict writing studies to something narrow and academic, something most people look forward to leaving behind in high school or in a mandatory Writing 100 class. But embracing writing studies as a pivotal way to explore human nature through words and symbols provides an opportunity to be better, to make strides, and to become a more just, caring, and fair society—that is the true purpose and definition of writing studies. Too bad it gets so easily written off. No pun intended.
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Stories
Edward Yong Jun Millar
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Redamancy Morgan Oun
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Alexander Had it Right Liam Cuddy Alexander had it right, when he said he was moving to Australia. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that little Ginger haired dreamer was really onto something. After all, a terrible horrible no good very bad day Is no joke. I’ve had terrible days, and even horrible ones. I’ve experienced bad things, had feelings That were no good. But to have a cocktail firmly shaken With all four spirits accompanying each other . . . Well that just sucks. I can see why he wanted to make the move. I too plan on making that move. Hitting that button with two Parallel lines, transporting myself into a world unknown. Where knives sparkle, teeth yellow, skin darkens, And everything kills you. So often have my dreams been my parent’s nightmares. Where I see freedom, they see incompetence and poisonous snakes. Where I see clarity, they see confusion. Where I see experience, they see a lack of funds. Sometimes that is just that.
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I envision a more muscular being crouching, On burning sands. Staring off into the distance With wise eyes that tell the tales of weary travelers Wise eyes that know bad days. It’s only then when I feel like I will figure things out. So don’t hate on Alexander, please. Some see him as young, immature, and stubborn. I see courage. I for one can only aspire and dream of the day, Where Eliot’s words ring true. Where I arrive where I started, And know the place for the first time.
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Dad
Brianna Gauthier
I am six years old, sitting in the backseat of my dad’s white Lumina. The grey felt of the backseat clings to my arms in the summer heat. We’re driving home from church listening to “Top of the World” by The Carpenters. My long hair is whipping in the wind from the windows as I sing at the top of my lungs while my dad smiles as he sings. Eleven years later, I am suddenly brought out of my memory by the worst words I have ever heard.
“There’s nothing we can do. I’m so sorry.”
Calling 911 and different relatives to come help didn’t change the outcome of that night. I clung to the cold white countertop and traced the short lines of the grout between the tiles to keep from crying. That was it. My dad was dead. My aunt burst through the door and ran to me and my sister. I couldn’t keep it in any longer. He couldn’t be dead. I had just seen him a few hours ago before I left for dance. My life wasn’t supposed to change so much in just four hours. My mom and aunt helped me to the couch where we waited. For family. For time to go back. For a change that would never come. That was Wednesday. The next few days were a blur of picking out his suit, casket, plot, flowers, and finding a venue for the brunch that was to follow his funeral. I bottled up my emotions almost completely until Saturday. The day of his funeral. I went through the day feeling numb. The tears did not stop flowing. I had never cried in front of anyone who wasn’t immediate family, but that day I cried in front of a church full of over 150 people and gave no thought to the others in the room. My only thoughts were about my dad and how I hoped I put on waterproof mascara that morning.
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I wanted to be the strong one. I always thought I would be. I’m the older sister. I was supposed to be the rock for my mom, who lost her husband of 18 years, and my sister, who was only 15 at the time. But when I looked at the closed casket, it was too final for me. I would never hear his laugh again, have him help me with my math homework that never seemed to make sense until he put it in his “Dad Terms.” I would never practice math facts in the car to stay awake on a long car trip with him. He would never give me ridiculously hard math facts like 42,565 x 178 so I would have to pull out a pen and paper from the backseat to figure it out. I would never sing with him in the car again. I also thought about the future events that he wouldn’t be a part of, but was always supposed to. He would miss both of his children’s graduations. He would never give me away or dance with me at my wedding. He would never see or play with his grandkids and teach them all the things that my grandfather taught me. I had never thought about death before this, especially the death of the one man I could always count on. He was strong, resilient. He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t an old man. He was 52. He wasn’t supposed to go yet. He is supposed to be here. It’s been three years now since I heard those horrible words from the paramedics. I think of that memory every night before I go to sleep. I try everyday to live up to the standards he and my mom instilled in me since my childhood. I try to work hard and achieve everything he wanted me to accomplish. Since he’s died, I graduated high school with honors, enrolled at Niagara, and became a dance teacher. My sister and I are closer now than we were before and I know he’d be proud of us. He always used to say “Keep dreaming Princess and reach for the moon. Even if you miss, you will land among the stars!” I just hope I’m reaching far enough to make him proud.
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Golden Gates Olivia Cinquino
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Adila
Claire Wanzer
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Denim Overalls
4. Our small home atop a hill on Lake Isabella, fishing like Dad taught us. Your memory, probably better than mine . . . Always being your shadow. My denim overalls— full of dirt and grass stains from days like the one where you left me on the dock, confused and naive. . . And brought me a bucket for my fish. 10. Mornings were the darkest when we waited for the bus. The milky frost soaked tennis shoes when we’d cut across the lawn. The CD player repeated the Tarzan soundtrack — school days felt like a broken record. On weekends, I’d cheer for you on the sideline and dance during halftime. 16. You came home with a beard and did homework on Christmas. Mom can’t stand teaching me how to drive so we took your car just the two of us.
Shannon Borkowski
A couple years lost not knowing who we were. Days got shorter when we got older. 18. I followed your steps, Took them miles west. Where snow fell twice as hard, each face unfamiliar every road a foreign adventure. I had homework on Christmas and lonely nights, full of distress. My car tires, stuck in snow The dreadful drive— frozen at a rest stop On my own, no one there to show me the ropes. Finding hope to climb… 20. You wake up in the dark mornings and teach kids the ways of life the way you taught me. We wait months to catch up when our faces mature Hours away, a man with a face similar to mine. Wise and dedicated— A person I hope to be.
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Hewn Hues
Edward Yong Jun Millar
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Celebrate Yourself
Philip J. Sembert II
Your power and purpose is unique Each individual has their own technique, To do this or that–from east to west, Wherever you are, you’re more than the best. You are the lightening in the night sky, The whirlwind outside the hurricane’s eye, The energy within our life giving Sun, You are the Universe, never are you done–
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Lake Ontario Sunset from the Cottage John T. Overbeck
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Not a Perfect Person, but a Good Man Liam Neaverth
I believe in never giving up and being a good man. In high school, just like any other teenager, I struggled to find my identity. I didn’t know what my fundamental belief could be and what I was alive for. I always believed I was alive for a reason, but a reason largely unknown. I knew I was here for more than taking exams in order to become a productive member of society. I was sixteen years old when I saw the second Captain America movie, and I fell in love with it, and the Marvel Cinematic Universe. The second movie intrigued me enough to the point of me wanting to see the first Captain America movie again. In the first movie, the audience sees Steve Rogers, a scrawny guy, constantly ignored or treated unfairly because of his size, but that didn’t stop him from continuing his mission of wanting to make a difference in World War Two. There’s a specific scene that always resonated with me where Steve Rogers, who would become Captain America, sits down with the chemist, a smart German man who will make him the perfect soldier. Steve asks the chemist why he was chosen. The chemist, responding in a roundabout way, says he doesn’t want Steve to be a perfect soldier, but rather, a good man. Steve was brilliant, but ignored by society—he hardly had a shot at being successful in his own mind. That scene shaped what would become my reason for living. Steve achieves his ultimate goal by never giving up no matter how many people recommended he give up, and it all happened because he had morals and ethics that were a large part of him. He had this moral duty to stand up for those who couldn’t stand up for themselves. This idea revolving around never giving up goes hand in hand with having morals. If you treat people the way they should be treated you will find inner peace and no guilty conscience. Treating everyone as an equal or better than you is humbling. Living by only judging people can be stressful and leads to an unfulfilled and unhappy life. 35
The goal in life whether it be difficult or not, should be to find your own happiness and when nothing can be too bothersome or can interrupt your inner peace, happiness will slowly arrive. I went from not knowing what path to follow to being completely devoted to following these two truths no matter where I am, or how I’m doing. Inspiration came from an unlikely source, but it also gave me a reason to be brave in times of hardship, and to be a light for other people in order to help them guide their own way. A person who can be counted on to do the right thing is someone who will always be needed and therefore will always have a place in the world. Never giving up and being a good man are also the highest moral high grounds that a person can live on—it trumps any other questions or concerns regarding a place in the world.
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Waves
Olivia Cinquino
# 37
Pearl White
Liam Cuddy
As ruffled bark and mossy stones slip by Like driftwood in steady rapids, I find myself craving adventure, craving Experience. Heart snapping like a snare, Lungs Rhythmically collapse and expand. Thoughts of everything, and nothing Burst into my head. I consider the magic of The World’s End. Vacationing in Hingham Was always a vibrant spark of orange on An otherwise powder blue summer. Upscale twine coils my feet like boas. Pendulum arms cut through the thick Salty air. Massive stones play dead, Lending me their still carcasses to use As cheap thrills along slithering paths. Spotted sunlight washes over my face, Bringing a color show meant for one. Blotted vision cloaks the ocean as the Clearing draws near. The cliffs grow more Foreboding with each mighty stride. Cresting the peak, never proved Unsatisfactory. Winds push back knappy hair As eyes narrow and vision clears. A figure in the distance snaps a still frame of What I assume is a significant other. He too, tries his best to retain beauty, When beauty is ever-present. Though there was immense beauty to be found Not on a face, or in her toothy grin. Nor looking miles Past the dimming sun, perched in limp hues of gold and sage.
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But the pearl white steed, with two mighty wheels That sat humbly in the backdrop. Silver rims, and spokes Resembling petite skeletal fingers. Thick, sturdy handlebars, begging to be gripped. And the mirror, positioned to reflect on what had been conquered. I found myself at a standstill, The battle is put on pause, as I admire Beauty of both new and old. The photographer Takes note of the uninvited guest. I blink, and look onward Before I too become stuck in time. Not knowing what it meant then, The standstill lasted a moment or two, the battle Wasn’t over quite yet. But that snapshot of the photographer, The model, and the vehicle would remain with me for years to come. Pleasantly haunting days where education failed to entertain. Thinking back, it stood for more than just A moment of beauty. The marbled pearl exterior Was just as clouded as the future I thought about In between breaths. So many times, did I think of Putting it all on pause, and revving down an open road. Absolute freedom, though ever available, may always be a dream. And in that moment, the dream was a motorcycle, a camera, Human devotion, and an infinite amount of risk. The orb of fire sank, the drums stopped snapping, and eventually, Eventually I could breathe again. Yet every now and then, I find myself slipping back to the end of the world, Hoping, just hoping for one simple, clear moment, To hear that snare drum snap again, And to know, that I am not alone in this pursuit.
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Succulents
Claire Wanzer
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The Angel Within
Loreana Armenti
35 years old, seems like nothing has changed It’s been a while, but you still feel the pain You’ve tried to move on, yet still feel ashamed Over the years, you were simply taught to refrain Oh, sweet angel, you still hold your dignity I promise you, this will not go on for infinity Do not let this haunt you, for you are not to blame He does not define you, you make your own name You have a voice and a bright spirit too Release your fears and live your life anew
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Belle of Louisville John P. Sauter
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Contributors Loreana Armenti wrote this poem addressed to Debra Anne Davis,
one of the many women in this world who have been sexually assaulted by a man. Growing up, Debra often shrunk her voice and embodied the role of being a “pleaser.” Her devastating experience made her realize that it’s not always a good thing to be kind to everyone. Loreana’s poem is meant to inspire Debra, along with all the other women out there to never hold themselves back and let their voices be heard.
Shannon Borkowski is a senior in the College of
Hospitality. She loves traveling, writing, and dancing. She grew up in many different homes, which gave her the confidence to travel abroad and immerse in different cultures. She believes she wouldn’t be herself without her friends, family, and her pets. In the future, Shannon wants to visit new countries, learn new languages, and write more.
Olivia Cinquino is currently in the academic exploration program
at Niagara University. Throughout high school, photography was one of her favorite hobbies. She loves to find unique places in her hometown, Amherst, NY, to photograph.
Liam Cuddy is a senior at Niagara with plans of
travel after graduation. He enjoys writing short stories and poetry, and hopes to one day publish a novel.
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Sabrina Di Marco M.S.Ed (2020), MBA, BES (Hons.), is a proud
member of the Niagara University community and cherishes her connection to the land of the Niagara Escarpment and Golden Horseshoe. Her parents immigrated to Canada from Italy and the Commonwealth of Dominica. She is currently writing both fiction and non-fiction in the field of multiculturalism. Sabrina works as a consultant, realtor, and educator. She lives in the Greater Toronto Area.
Evan Fleming
developed a passion for photography and poetry because of his hobbies—hiking, kayaking, biking, travel, and a love of animals. He aims to capture random and rare moments outdoors, often overlooked in the rush to arrive at a destination. Slowing down, observing, shifting perspective, allows the capture of unique and often unexpected images. Evan’s photos reflect the subtleties of the varied landscapes, bodies of water, flora, and fauna of the places where he has lived, visited and explored. His photographs have been displayed as murals for Yahoo Inc.’s data center, selected as art work by publishers Wolsak & Wynn, and featured on the RootsRated hiking website.
Brianna Gauthier is a junior Birth-Gr. 6 education major. Brianna
is from Cheektowaga, NY, where she lives with her mother and sister. Brianna spends her free time working with children, spending time with her family, or working at Can Dance Academy, where she has danced for 19 years.
Liam Neaverth is a senior English major at Niagara University. He is a former honors student at Canisius High School where he discovered his passion for writing in an advanced creative writing course. He is pursuing graduate school for technical writing in the near future. This is his first submission to the Aquila.
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Morgan Oun is a freshman Gr. 5-12 math education major with a
minor in history. Photography has been her hobby for many years because she uses it to capture the beauty around her. Her favorite photos to take are close-ups of flowers because the details on each petal and leaf amaze her. When she’s not taking photos, she can be found studying or listening to music. “Redamancy” was taken at the Cornell Botanical Gardens a few summers ago during a vacation to Ithaca. It is part of a series which includes two other photos of bees pollinating flowers also taken at Cornell.
John T. Overbeck ’75 is a retired Faculty Fellow from NU’s College of Business Administration where he taught marketing, sales leadership, and management. He currently serves as a member of Niagara University’s Board of Trustees focusing on academic affairs and enrollment management. He is also retired from the IBM Corporation where he spent 32 years in sales executive roles. John’s first submission to the Aquila was while an undergraduate at Niagara University in the 1970’s.
Crystal Pierce
is a poet and writer. Her poetry and short stories have appeared or will appear in the Aquila, The Bridge Literary Arts Journal, and Olive Trees. A poem, “Fishing Lesson,” took Honorable Mention in the 2019 NY State Fair Poetry Competition. Cris resides in Marcellus, NY. A 1975 graduate of Niagara University, she majored in political science.
Philip J. Sembert II studies English at Niagara University. He enjoys few things more than a good story.
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John P. Sauter
is the Assistant Dean for Academic Affairs in the College of Arts & Sciences. John rediscovered his love of drawing, pen and ink, and urban sketching several years ago. He is active in Urban Sketchers Buffalo, helped found the Student Affairs Professionals Art (#SAProArt) community, and regularly presents on creativity, art and innovation at regional and international conferences. John teaches sociology of higher education and developed a new course on urban sketching which will be offered this fall.
John Walker
is currently studying at Niagara University for his Bachelor’s in accounting. He enjoys writing poetry, playing video games, and listening to rock music in his free time. He has lived in Western New York his entire life but hopes eventually to travel the world.
Claire Wanzer is a senior communications major with a minor in
English. When she is not practicing or playing on the women’s basketball team, she’s probably writing. Both her photography and written work can be found on her personal blog: lifeclairified. com.
Edward Yong Jun Millar is the Curator of Folk Arts at the Castellani
Art Museum. Originally from Clifton, New Jersey, he previously lived in Singapore, Ireland, and Newfoundland before settling in Niagara County. Edward enjoys photography and is an avid gamer. “New Found Land” (2012) was taken in the small fishing community of Keels, Newfoundland; “Stories” (2019) features a streetscape in Il-Belt Valletta, Malta; and “Hewn Hues” (2019) was taken on a hike near Marsalforn, Gozo, and shows storehouses carved into the cliffside.
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Look for our call for submissions in fall 2020!