Chameleon 2018 Issue

Chameleon

2018

The 2018 Chameleon Editor-in-Chief Mary Beth Davis

Faculty Advisor Sean Prentiss

Special Thanks Michel Kabay, Crystal Drown, and Annee Giard

The Allan Nason Prize Allan Leonard Hastings Nason (1889-1970) was a Norwich graduate of 1920. Nason was an untamed spirit, and it shows in his writing. He wrote about war and soldiers, and his characters are not respectful of authority. Typically, they are trying to find a way to come out ahead, though not at the expense of the war effort. His accounts of war focus on an individual in relation to the whole war machine, and the way the machine grinds all down. The Allan Nason Prose Prize goes to the best piece of prose that deals with Corps of Cadets life or war.

The Robert Halleck Poetry Prize Robert Halleck is a 1964 graduate of Norwich University. He lives in Del Mar, California, with two retired racing greyhounds and fills his days with poetry, golf, and volunteer caregiving with a local hospice. He has written poetry for over 50 years and published three poetry books. His latest, Cabbages and Kings, is available as an e-book on Amazon. His works appear frequently depending on the level of rejection notices in various magazines and poetry blogs. The Robert Halleck Poetry Prize is awarded to the best poem by a Norwich student.

The Chameleon Award for Outstanding Achievement in Creative Writing The Chameleon Award for Outstanding Achievement in Creative Writing is decided on by Chameleon editors and highlights the best creative writing written by a Norwich University student.

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System Failure, Madison K. Lumbra ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������5 Void, Charles Dodos �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������7 How to Get Ready for a Funeral, Erin Viera ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 11 The Rush of Snowboarding, Joshua Lewis ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 15 Precision, Anthony Trigilio ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 17 Introduction to Writing, Erin Viera ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 22 Roots, Celeste Robert ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 23 Loneliness, Celeste Robert ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 24 Be the Porcupine, Zachary Kidd ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 27 Lake George, Carly Menges ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 29 K, Alison Cable �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 30 Dead Plants I, Erin Viera ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 31 Dead Plants II, Erin Viera �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 34 Interview with Jonathan Wriston, Mary Beth Davis ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 35 Found Poem: Hana Malallah’s City History and Experience, Jonathan Wriston ���������������������������������������������������������� 37 Truth, Honor, Service, Jonathan Wriston ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 40 Cadet’s Tongue, Jonathan Wriston ������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 41 PHOTO CREDITS: COVER - Spiral, Rebecca Friend; 3,4 - Semblance, R. Friend; 7-8 - Definition, R. Friend; 10 - Black Out, R. Friend; 11-12 - Nature Is It’s Own Architect, Alison Cable; 13,14 - Intoxication, R. Friend; 17-18 - The Black Castle Guard, R. Friend; 20 - Delineation, R. Friend; 21 - Tripping, R. Friend; 23-24 - Reflection, GianCarlo Greco; 25 - Wounds (with word art), R. Friend; 26 - Warrior (with word art), R. Friend, 29-30 - The Lake, Carly Menges; 32 - Fields of Gold, R. Friend; 33 - Black Eyed Beauties, R. Friend; 35 - Photo of the Poet , R. Friend; 38 - The Sky Fell Low, R. Friend; 39 - National Pride in the Wind, R. Friend; 42 - Regiment, R. Friend; BACK - Looming Lighthouse, R. Friend

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I See You, Crystal Drown 4

System Failure Madison K. Lumbra

Greg just lay there on the cold, hard pavement. His eyes followed his old baseball cap as it tumbled down the road away from him. They were yelling at him to go get it. “Get up! It’s getting away, you idiot. You’ve had that hat since college, and you’re just letting it roll away. Useless, lazy pile of shit!”

Greg wanted to go after it, but he couldn’t move. His clothes felt sticky on one side, and he suspected that maybe they had glued him to the ground. They were always doing mean things to him like that.

BEFORE THAT, Greg was going to take it. He really was. He reached into the bottle and had every intention of putting it in his mouth, but then thought he heard something. He listened harder. “Poison,” they whispered sharply.“ They want to kill you, poison you, but we know better. We’re smarter than those doctors. Don’t be an idiot.” Maybe they were lying but he didn’t want to take that chance. He was going to take it but instead he threw it away in the trash.

BEFORE THAT, Greg was so excited. They hadn’t yelled at him in over a week now. He could finally hold a conversation with the doctors without their interrupting. He packed up his bag full of clothes that had been donated to him and said goodbye to his friends. Before heading out the double-locked doors of the hospital floor he was handed a little brown paper bag and told to take what was in it once a day. The lady said that it would help him.

BEFORE THAT, the nurses fought to get Greg into restraints. The police had brought him in after receiving a call about a naked man who was holding up a store with a knife. He was thrashing and screaming, yelling that “they” were after him. This wasn’t the first time these nurses had seen Greg. Every few months he’d come in, each time worse than the last. It really wasn’t his fault. There was no system in place for people like Greg. No way to help him after he got back on his meds. They would keep him for a bit, get him under control, and then he’d be released again. There wasn’t much else that they could do for him.

BEFORE THAT, it was the night of his big performance, the night when he’d get to perform the piece that would determine his success as a musician. He walked out and confidently took his place at the piano in the center of the stage. This was it. His professors, his classmates, his mother, everyone was watching. He could feel his mother’s eyes boring a hole in the side of his head, expecting greatness to erupt from his hands. He began to play. His fingers moved across the keys in an elaborate dance. The crowd sat in awe of his abilities and his confidence swelled. Nothing could stop him now, but then they started. Whispers of doubt and

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disapproval began flooding his head, causing a finger to slip and hit the wrong note. “Wrong. You’re doing it wrong.” they hissed, “This isn’t what we practiced”. He tried to play through them but the voices were throwing him off. With each wrong note the voices only grew louder until their screams drowned out the sounds of the piano. “You’re messing it up! Embarrassment. Failure. Wrong. Wrong! WRONG!” The music halted abruptly “Stop it!”, he screeched as he grabbed his head with his hands. He stood up and shook his head repeatedly. “Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!” he yelled desperately.

There was no hiding it anymore. Now everyone knew about the voices in his head. He was destroyed.

BEFORE THAT, the wastebasket in his room was spilling over with crumpled up paper. He only had one more week to complete his final piece but he hadn’t written a single note. He was at the top of his class and everyone expected greatness from him but no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t come up with anything. The pressure was crushing him. He could feel the panic rising in his chest as scenes of his mother’s hand whipping across his face played through his mind. He could only imagine what would come if he returned home a failure. He knew that soon he would start to hyperventilate. That’s when he first heard them – small whispers echoing around the room. He grabbed another piece of paper and began to write out the notes as the voices filled his head. It was a masterpiece. He picked up the phone to call his mother.

“Shhhh” they said, “Don’t tell.” They were right. Nobody could know that it wasn’t really he that wrote it. It would be their secret.

Before that, Greg was a promising young musician. 

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Void

Charles Dodos I knew this was the way it would all end. Just maybe not as slowly as it was happening.

I brought my hand before me and flexed the appendages once more. My pinky was the only digit that did not respond. It remained stationary, pointed outright. My arm floated lazily back to my side, and I peered into the darkness. Reds, blues, violets, oranges, greens...the colors. Oddly enough I found myself admiring the view. I even enjoyed the quiet that came with this setting. The unnaturalness of it all lent some excitement, and I suppose if this was the way to go, maybe dying here wasn’t that bad after all. I could have been lying in some hospital cot alone, or on the street corner of some forgotten colony like Tiras or New Rome. Haha!

Tiras... God she’d been beautiful. I saw her in the colors then, dancing, her dress the whites, her eyes the blues, her nails the greens. Vibrancy so delicate by the expenditure of her emotion, it had made my heart flutter. It did so now, and I had to smile. I even laughed. She’d made my world for one night seem so small. In the morning I returned to the chaos that was life. I never forgot her entirely...it just took all this to remind myself of her. I wondered then if she’d survived what happened on Tiras, when they had begun glassing the major cities. Probably not. After all, real life isn’t as generous as the stories. I smiled still, despite that bleak probability. Maybe she’d be waiting for me, when the end did come.

An eruption of orange and yellow caught my eye then against that dark veil before me. Another followed the first, then a third. A moment later one massive eruption ended the sporadic crawl of bursting light.

The blues and reds ensued once more. I closed my eyes. I longed to be there. Not Tiras, but there, among the colors once more as I had been before. It had been my life, my sole purpose in existence to control my own array of shades. I imagined myself once more behind the controls, feeling the throttle between my legs, the armaments responding to my trigger squeeze, the sight of orange and yellow licking the hull of my own craft as I sent my contenders to Hell to meet the other bastards I’d iced. I opened my eyes just as two such craft jettisoned past me. Had that been Cosach and Reinholtz?

Those idiots, oh my! I saw their faces then as well, laughing at me, crying for me. I saw them hugging me, saw them throwing me in the air on Tiras as the music reverberated through the streets and she called out my name. Why did that place keep coming back to memory? Is that what happened to dying people?

They remembered one thing and then it consumed them for the duration of their passing? If that was the

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case, I was going to lose it. Nah, probably not. It was too peaceful out here to lose it, too beautiful and exciting for that. I should enjoy the end, not despise it.

How many people could say they’d died in a space fight millions of light years away from Earth? If you knew people like that, you’re probably crazy because they’re dead and dead people can’t talk. Cosach, Reinholtz, Blister, Medusa, Karina...I saw them all. But Medusa was dead. She’d died in orbit of Tiras fighting them. I cried for her then. I didn’t now. Instead I laughed. I remembered how she’d beaten the shit out of Cosach when she’d found out he liked her. I laughed as hard then as I did now. The steam of my breath clouded the suit’s visor, which I knew from countless hours of training meant my suit was failing. Duh, I knew that. That put my mind to thinking of Blister. He had been such a smart ass, that guy.

The way he’d state the obvious just to make you feel like a complete idiot. Medusa kicked the shit out of him as well, the last time being before the battle of Tiras. He’d died afterwards in the med-bay. Massive contusions to his brain.

Cosach, Reinholtz, and Karina were all that remained, until today. I watched as Karina’s ship erupted in a ball of slow moving flame again. The eggheads say flame can’t exist in space. There’s no oxygen to oxidize the reaction, but that’s where they’re wrong. The oxygen within a ship’s life support is enough to combust with the fuel after it is superheated from the shells of an enemy star fighter’s fucking weapon system.

Trust me, I know. Tell Karina, tell Blister, tell Medusa, for that matter, that it’s not true. She’d kick your ass.

I laughed again. Why. Why did I keep laughing? I should be crying! She had cried, the day I left. I had to leave; I couldn’t stay like she wanted. I had to go off and protect her, even though I had no intention of returning. That, and, well, try telling the Navy you weren’t coming back to duty because you were in love.

Hah! It would be easier for me to pass through a black hole than do that. I suppose I created a black hole when I broke her heart, leaving her like that. No one understands, no one ever understands why we do what we do unless they’ve done so themselves. I found myself not understanding why people didn’t understand things. What the hell is going on? I felt drunk.

The battle raged on. The longer I floated, the drunker I felt. At one point I was upside down watching the dogfight between the enemy and my fellow pilots, their canons spraying one another with superheated, condensed .1050 caliber fusion rounds. I watched a squadron of said allies break from the main fight to hover over the engagement, perhaps to lend support at some other location of the massive battle. No sooner had they maneuvered to this overwatch position then the enemy ascended upon them, and the crafts blended together like angry wasps. I couldn’t tell who was who. Our hulls were generally a chipped shale hue, with highlights of silk white interposed. Theirs were pitch dark, the color of midnight, the color of shadows. Against space’s dominion, they might as well have been shadows at midnight.

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The wasps kept fighting. Emissions of orange and yellow hiccupped in the dark as one after the other crafts disappeared. I wondered if they felt the same I did in that instance before the explosion consumed them. Scared, lonely, confused, pissed, helpless, and for some reason joyous. I watched as a piece of my craft came into view, pondering that thought. Though licked by flame on most of the surface and heavily dented, I could still make out what the decal read. Warpath. I chuckled. Silly names. How clever we all thought we were coming up with them. In the end, it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

Bleak! Too bleak. I felt a shiver crawl through my body. This was it. Cosach, Reinholtz, Karina, Medusa, Blister… and her. I’d see them all again, some sooner than others. Static interrupted the silence I’d been basking in now. That had been true, no noise seemed to dare break the silence of this abyssal void I found myself in. The coms in my helmet came to life though, and I could hear voices. Some cried, some were boisterous, others melancholy, and one said my name. Not once, not twice, but many times. I couldn’t move my lips. The tiredness dulled my ability to function. I tried to lick my lips, but the dryness of them split the flesh as I attempted to open my mouth. I’m dying, aren’t I?

The voice kept calling my name, and at first it had sounded masculine. Now, I wasn’t sure. It seemed to change with the tide of battle. It was Cosach one moment, then Medusa another. Reinholtz pleaded next, Karina following, and Blister’s sardonic tone as well. Hers came last. The melodic tone made music in my ears. She called my name through the chaos of the battle net, and I felt peaceful. My lips continued to crack as I smiled more, and before long my heads up display flashed with warnings. I didn’t care. She was there to save me. I knew I would see her again. Maybe if I closed my eyes, I’d see her. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do, I thought. There was this light coming into view; it looked like a dark grey figure. Maybe it was an angel! Maybe it was her! I thought of my pinky then for some reason, and then nothing but light became my world. 

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How to Get Ready for a Funeral Erin Viera

Before you can even think about going to the funeral you have to shop.

Go to the local department store and pretend to smile when the nice old lady working in the dressing room tells you, “That dress looks stunning on you!” in a voice dripping with sunshine. Buy the dress. Stop by the shoe sale rack on your way to the checkout line just to spend a few more minutes under the fake fluorescent lights. Try on high heels that make your calves look nice. Try on what your grandmother would call “sensible” shoes. Buy the sensible shoes. In the checkout line try not to buy any fuzzy socks or big coffee mugs, you already have too many. When the happy man behind the cash register asks you if you are going to a party when you hand him your dress and “sensible” shoes just smile and nod. Then you can avoid the apologetic glance and sad eyes; there will be too many of those later on anyway.

Take your bag and walk to the car as if you’re on your way to a party, no tears. Get in your car and drive home. Do not stop at the flower shop. When you get home call the flower shop (still no sad eyes) and order an arrangement to be sent to the funeral home, purple ribbon, her favorite. Take your new dress out of the bag and hang it inside your closet so it smells like you didn’t just buy it for this occasion. Remove the price and size stickers from your shoes and leave them by the door. You don’t need to break in “sensible” shoes.

Forget about the shopping, the dress, the shoes, and the funeral. Go make dinner, watch the news, and go to sleep.

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Wake up and shut your alarm off. Turn the sound off on your phone too, you don’t want that going off later.

Take a shower. Wash your hair. Turn on your hair straightener. And then turn it off again. Today is not the day for fussy hair. Twist your hair into a tight bun and secure it with too many tan bobby pins and a silver clip. Put on moisturizer and makeup. Skip the eyeliner and mascara (sad eyes). Look in the mirror and decide you might be silly for caring about how you look. Apply lipstick anyway. Slide into your new dress that still doesn’t smell like the rest of your clothes. Realize you don’t like it as much as you thought you did. Check your (silent) phone and realize you are running late.

On your way out the door slide on your “sensible” shoes and be glad you bought them as you run to your car. Get in and drive five minutes to the funeral home. Do not listen to the radio. As you are about to exit the car remember you forgot those little packs of tissues.

Open the glove box and grab a few Dunkin’ Donuts and Subway napkins and shove them in your purse. Shut the door.

Lock the car. And walk inside with sad eyes. 

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The Rush of Snowboarding Joshua Lewis

My first-time snowboarding was at a winter festival being held by Hillberg ski area, which is a small hill operated by the Air Force on Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson near Anchorage, Alaska. For one day only, anyone and everyone could rent skis or snowboards for no charge and also get a free lesson.

Hillberg is exactly what it sounds like, a hill, not even a very big or steep hill. But she still got the job done when you just wanted to carve.

I was hoisted to the top by a a ski lift that went slower than a 150-year-old grandma in the rush hour traffic of California. I felt as if I could have walked to the top, skied down, and walked back to the top before the lift got me there. The only reason I didn’t do that was because unnecessary physical activity is a no-go from Houston! For the first few hours, my feet refused to cooperate, so my butt was used more than the board as I practiced snowboarding, and by snowboarding, I mean falling.

After I became quite competent in using my back side as a means of transportation to the bottom I eventually put my feet to work and started snowboarding. According to my dad, and Google [that took two reads to get it], I picked up snowboarding faster than the average chap. By the end of the day I was cruising down the hill from side to side and having a great time.

The adrenaline I received from skiing Hillberg was epic. From Hillberg my rush came from trying new jumps and pipes and by epically failing at crazy tricks that I wouldn’t recommend to someone especially not when they started snowboarding two days prior. From the top I would jump down and go as fast as I could just to abruptly stop and start spinning in circles. People rushed by flying down the mountain like they were in a huge hurry, while there I was, in the middle of the mountain, spinning around and around.

Friends who snowboarded at Hillberg with me said I was crazy and looked ridiculous, but I did not care at all. I was there to snowboard for me, to enjoy what I thought was fun, not to look good for other people.

The five-minute ride to the top just to rush down to the bottom in five seconds and be done – that also inspired me to take my time. To do that, I floated down the hill from side to side, doing a 360 spin whenever I wanted, hitting jumps that happened to be in my way and flying off the ground, landing again like a cloud coming down the Rockies. However, I had no clue what would be in store for me when

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I started snowboarding on real mountains at real resorts. Standing on top of my world dangling one foot off the edge I stare out across the valley and take in the breathtaking beauty that surrounds me. I look down onto the Turnagain arm and watch as the water slowly flows back out to sea; bending and winding over and around the mudflats creating many small rivers and streams. The wind grabs at my jacket and pants with invisible fingers trying to drag me off the top of the mountain. The pleasant aroma of sea salt follows the wind like a lingering perfume after a beautiful woman walks by leaving the air smelling like the vast open freedom of the ocean that no man can claim. From my throne, I see birds flying home for the night as the sun dips down behind the valley in front of me. From left to right, I gaze upon the massive mountains that brush the sky with their enormous snow-covered summits.

I am trying desperately to ensure that not a single detail is left out of this beautiful picture painted just for me. Not a cloud mars the sky as the sun dips behind the earth, leaving the last streaks of angelic orange and yellow light that illuminate the peaks and reflect off the water. Then, I fall. Powder puffs up to greet me as my board lands on the side of the mountain.

Carving from side to side, I turn the mountain into my playground; spinning and jumping going as far to one side as possible then rushing back to the other. I fly down the mountain bending lower for more control and speed. With the dancing lights of the sun behind me, I carve into a steep passageway that takes me into another world unlike any that could ever be described by words. With such speed that the board seems to float on the side of the mountain, I cut across the steep face onto a goat trail barely wider than my board. Bouncing all around, I manage to make it to the other side and slow my pace to cruise the winding “S” road before I take a sharp turn off the side doing more jumping and turning than gliding or carving. I make it to the valley I saw below me and look up to see the mountains towering over me, threatening to enclose all around me making a ginormous tunnel. I cruise down the valley until the area narrows into a natural halfpipe that cuts me off from the rest of the world, forcing me to focus on every sharp turn and massive bumps that appear out of nowhere. Narrowly making it through unscathed as my heart races, thumping harder and louder with each beat, I fly down the mountain. Arriving at my destination five minutes after my start, I collapse in exhaustion, panting like a dog that just sprinted miles in the dry, hot, sun of Arizona. I gather my breath with a fierce inhale, and in one final burst of excitement, I throw my arms into the air screaming, “YEAH!” With a grin wider than the Grand Canyon, I unclasp my boots and slowly walk back towards the hotel, adrenaline still rushing through my veins faster than the untamable waters of Niagara Falls. 

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Precision Anthony Trigilio

Stop and take a look around at the environment. There could be items on a desk, furniture in a room, surrounding buildings, trees swaying in the breeze, or people walking along going about their lives. There is some precision, strong accuracy, or exactness, in these examples as well as beauty, attractiveness or providing intense pleasure or satisfaction.

Those who understand the beauty in precision can help individuals appreciate the finer details in their own lives.

Smack, crack, smack, sound the rifles as drill team members flip, spin, and twirl their ten and one half pound M1 Garand weapons in the air.

Each member is present and looking ravishing in their uniforms where all items are placed with exacting precision. Together, the armed-services drill teams make up an art like no other that is attractive, exciting, and beautiful to watch. It is no wonder that so many spectators are drawn to these drill teams because they exhibit an element of precision that observers find beautiful.

In addition, the military flying teams have inspired millions across the country. The maneuvers conducted in flight are not only extremely difficult and dangerous, but require a great deal of precision that demonstrates what man has achieved beyond just the miracle of flight.

In the century since the Wright brothers, man has advanced flight technology by developing aircraft that are capable of velocities beyond the speed of sound and executing maneuvers like those done in flying demonstrations. Everything about the aircraft and the show right down to the weather for that day of flying is so incredibly precise that it is not seen at first. But for the millions who have been inspired, they have seen the beauty in that precision.

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Staring down the sight picture of a .22 caliber skeet rifle with ear protection creates an environment of extreme concentration and exacting precision, where the only thing in the world that matters is blasting away that orange clay pigeon. All parts of the body that fire the weapon, from the heart, to the eyes, to the trigger finger, work precisely together to produce a perfect shot. Thump-thump..., thump-thump..., thump-thump..., “Pull!” Whoosh.

Thump-thump... Click. Pow! Crack! Silence. The shooter surveys the range to admire the precision of his shot that has blasted the orange pigeon to bits and pieces and remarks, “Beautiful.”

It’s not hard to find precision in everyday life as well. Examine the small aspects of the day such as a well-made bed, or putting on pressed clothes for the day, or take a step back from working on a project and saying, “This is excellent.”

There is some beauty in these intricate details.

When something looks good because the time has been taken to make it that way and given the care necessary, it provides a satisfaction to the creator or completer of that task. That satisfaction is gained from appreciating the beauty in those small details.

There is even beauty in precision when meeting new people. If a married couple looked back upon how they met and fell in love together, a very specific order of events would have had to have taken place for them to meet. If their parents by their actions or the couple at different points of their lives by their own actions were to change something that would alter their future, they might not have met. But it’s beautiful that they did because they have come together on the account of all those events that have brought them together.

Beyond the scope of the military and everyday life there is even precision in the entire universe or as much of the universe as man has come to understand. Examine man’s use of time, clocks specifically. Time is really myth.

It is a representation that man has created to help measure the speed at which the universe moves in relation to the earth. What is beautiful about it is that man has created this concept. Man has created a precise representation of the speed at which the universe moves forward.

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Math is another concept. Like time math is a myth as well, a representation of how man can understand the universe but math comes together so well logically in its precision that it is a beautiful science. Man has a created something to better understand the universe and that is absolutely precise, incredible, and beautiful. All the numbers and processes fit together when done correctly. And the satisfaction gained from completing a difficult problem is like a shot of adrenaline. But the precision of the numbers coming together, the ability to solve problems, and understanding the universe is a beautiful concept.

It is astounding that even in the smallest details an aspect of precision can be found within that detail and there is some beauty to be recognized in that precision. The military continues to be a proponent of precision in small details because even if something like a clothing fold or a rifle movement is off by a small amount, it detracts from the discipline necessary to complete a mission and keep people alive. When those elements do come together in the military, they make for a beautiful presentation and they keep people safe.

Lives cross paths every day. When friends take time to reflect on their relationships, they begin to see the beauty in the precision of events that brought them together. The group becomes more connected.

Finally, beauty is recognized in the precision of the universe and the tools that man has invented have helped man come to understand as much of the universe as man knows today.

Everyone can appreciate the beauty in precision. In doing so, individuals gain a greater appreciation for smaller details and the bigger picture of actions in their own lives. ď Ž

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Introduction to Writing Erin Viera

I ask you to take a pen, a pencil, even a crayon and hold it in front of you, imagine using it or letting it work on its own.

I tell you to lay it on a paper and watch as it maps it all out, or feel it in your hand and don’t wait for inspiration to strike.

I want you to doodle and cross out across the surface of the paper, paying no mind to stray lines or words.

But all you want to do is hold the eraser in your other hand and fix “mistakes” right after they are made.

You begin tearing holes in the paper, trying to make it perfect.

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Roots Celeste Robert

She did not look back; sadly, she did not look forward either.

Alone, she marched, closer to the emptiness of the world.

Making fun of her looks, her voice, the way she acted, she thought that maybe one day the bullies will go away, but until then she kept her head down with the sole companion of her shadow that dragged reluctantly behind her.

Clouds rolled in and filled the sky. Her shadow hid away.

A cold wind sailed the air; she felt nothing.

Thunder struck the sky, illuminating the horizon.

All she wanted was to free her soul, let the insults vanish.

One by one, her tears cascaded onto the earth, nourishing the roots of her problems.

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Loneliness

Above the Clouds, Bailey Beltramo

Celeste Robert

Now that hockey is done, the emptiness creeps in.

No team stands in front of me.

No crowd cheers me on.

No lover welcomes me home.

At 4 p.m. I go to the rink to ride the bike. No one is there, the locker room near empty.

At 6 p.m. I cook chicken and rice, I eat it on the couch by myself.

Introduction to Writing--Erin Viera I ask you to take a pen, a pencil, even a crayon and hold it in front of you, imagine using it or letting it work on its own.

I tell you to lay it on a paper and watch as it maps it all out, or feel it in your hand and don’t wait for inspiration to strike.

I want you to doodle and cross out across the surface of the paper, paying no mind to stray lines or words But all you want to do is hold the eraser in your other hand and fix “mistakes” right after they are made.

You begin tearing holes in the paper, trying to make it perfect.

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She’s lying. She wants attention. She’s a whore. She led him on. It’s her fault.

And they wonder why we don’t speak out.

D G S s d g s D G d f g D G H g h d s G d s f s d f a s s a f a s f a s f a s f a s f a

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Her words transformed her into a warrior.

SFsafGsdgSD

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Be the Porcupine Zachary Kidd

Being tough is not easy.

Being tough is something an individual develops because they are not in the best situation. For the author, growing up just over the established poverty line and working 40-75 hours a week in a blue-collar town made the author tough. Friends of the author became tough because they had to be able to handle themselves in the streets.

So how exactly does someone get tough? How can one become a prickly little porcupine? It starts with finding a motive for being thick skinned. Perhaps an individual is tired of being bullied? Or perhaps love plays a factor? Possibly hate? Find a motive to fight for because that helps people stick to their values.

Then learn to have control over emotions. If one were to fly off the handle and start a brawl like in every movie set in the 1950’s with a greaser as the protagonist, chances are that person would look quite immature and stupid. Rather than get carried away with the rage that builds up and causes an individual to see red, take a few deep breaths and look at the situation. Chances are, this person will make a better judgement call.

However, emotions aren’t all negative: they can be positive too by providing an individual the motivation to keep going. Above all else, keep any pain locked in a box. Show no tears no matter the pain. Do not grimace with pain or shake tired muscles as this is a sign of weakness. Look determined, cold, and motivated always. Appearance is the next step in being tough. It is not intimidating, usually, when someone sees a business suit. However, don’t be the leather jacket, jean wearing, suede shoe guy either.

For dressing to be tough, simply show them self-discipline and wear clothes that describe who the individual in the clothes is on the inside. Also, remember that the being intimidating is nine tenths the battle. So if one is dressed with somewhat of a porcupine attitude of “Don’t touch me,” chances are no one will try to mess with that person.

Another big help to make others think twice before starting anything is to advertise. This means if an individual has any tattoos or scars, try to show them off. Nothing can be more intimidating than someone with a pair of hands that have scarred knuckles and a tattoo saying the name of the last jail they stayed in on their forearm. Be prickly like a porcupine and the predators will leave.

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Knowing when to use words and when to use fists to disarm a situation is crucial to being tough. Fighting all the time will result in more harm than good. The fighter will be viewed in a negative light. When being threatened, try to diffuse the situation by talking tough. Tell the intimidator how they’re in for a world of hurt if they try to start anything, tell them anything that can be backed up by one’s actions is fair game.

Remember, one has to be prepared to back their actions up if their bluff is called.

When it gets to the point of no return, however, fight like a wild animal. It’s a fight! Anything goes, anything can be utilized as a weapon. Chairs, bottles, tables, even other people can be utilized. If one becomes overwhelmed and beaten, make damn sure that whoever they fight remembers the absolute ferocity of the fight and make them think twice before fighting again.

Knowing when to run is almost as critical as knowing when to fight. Run away when there are other outside factors that could ruin your life, such as being arrested, or when the enemy is too strong, there is no shame in running to fight another day.

Being tough is a job. One will always have to look tough by appearance and represent this toughness through actions and thoughts too. They are going to have to be on alert all the time for others who have issues with them and want to beat them. Being tough honestly sucks; there is never a day off.

Not everyone is meant to be a porcupine. 

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Lake George Carly Menges

An American flag proudly waves from a dock, where Adirondack chairs rest with sun-drying towels strewn haphazardly across their backs, mountains loom across the lake where a white church perches on algae-covered stone, behind it lush trees form the choir singing songs of the wind, the waters of the lake ripple as boats streak across its surface, the sun’s reflection paints hues of magenta and creamy orange across the watery canvas, stars begin to fade into sight warning that the last glimmers of daylight are ending, stars will soon dot the sky a Seurat masterpiece, the moonlight lulling the lake into tranquility.

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K

Alison Cable With you in sight I hear the drum The length of rivers is your hair Miles of skin change color in the sun Only to see when you are bare Feathers painted down your arm A sound of foreign in your voice Yet a deep bellow beckons no harm A chief of tribal intercourse History shines through those spheres The ride of stallions your strength hails Your face so stern I cry no tears As you pass aside my bitter wails 30

Dead Plants I Erin Viera

Wet potting soil smell fills the crowded air that he breathes as he walks to the far corner of the garden section.

Four shelves high and barely visible behind luscious elephant ears and vibrant cosmos hide the plant sale shelf.

A sad brown, gray, dry contrast to the color and life of the surrounding aisles.

Small cracked plastic pots, home to withered leaves and drooping thoughts of flowers clinging, barely to transient life.

He picks up a browning plant with remnants of flower buds, faint orange hues hide under dead outer leaves.

“Marigolds are my favorite” he smiles, and places the once-upon-a-time flower in his cart.

Confused, I touch the plant and a lifeless leaf falls to the ground.

Three more forsaken lives make it into the cart, and home.

To a porch touched by the sun, even in the furthest corners.

The sad brown, gray, dry shell is shed, driven away by love, water, sun, and care.

“No more dead plants,” Dad says, as he fills the orange watering can yet again.

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Dead Plants II Erin Viera

Genesee, the cheapest 30 rack at the local supermarket.

And so I walk in, ready to make my weekly purchase.

Two weeks after Valentine’s Day means a sale on themed cupcakes and cookies.

I pause, stomach grumbling.

My eyes wander to the clichĂŠ roses, stacked and marked 50% off.

One white hyacinth, that looks as thirsty as I am, sits in the midst of the red forest.

My dad used to buy dead plants, four or five at a time.

Always on sale, always sad brown, gray, dry.

And so I find myself walking out of the local supermarket, balancing cheap beer and my new plant.

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JONATHAN WRISTON INTERVIEW Mary Beth Davis

Jonathan Wriston recently was named the inaugural Richard S. Schultz ’60 Colby Symposium Fellow. He will present his research, a short collection of poetry based on oral histories conducted with Iraq war veterans, their spouses and families, and Iraqis at the 2018 William E. Colby Military Writers’ Symposium here at Norwich University. This year’s Colby Symposium will focus on the theme of ”Won the War, Lost the Peace.” Jonathan will present on his work and his research process during the Colby Symposium on Wednesday, April 11, from 11-11:50 a.m. in the Todd Multipurpose Room.

When asked by the Chameleon how he got involved in this prestigious fellowship, Jonathan says the reason he believed he was able to apply and achieve this goal is because of Professor Prentiss, a writing professor on campus. Professor Prentiss pitched the idea of applying for this fellowship, and Jonathan asked for more information, which Professor Prentiss gladly gave him.

When asked by the Chameleon how he came up with the idea for his fellowship, Jonathan said that at this time he was taking a class on poetry with Professor Prentiss and was reading a book about war poetry. The book, Here, Bullet, by Brian Turner was Jonathan’s inspiration for his fellowship project.

The title has a lot of meaning about Iraq and was Jonathan’s first experience with this style of poetry.

Jonathan was used to reading poetry on older wars. Here, Bullet is a book about the modern style warfare used in Iraq today.

Another thing that influenced Jonathan’s proposal was that Jonathan spends a lot of time in the Sullivan Museum and History Center, and he has seen all the information and history about foreign studies and oral histories people have shared with Norwich over the years.

After some thoughtful consideration, Jonathan then pursued the idea of doing oral histories, which would allow him to interview people related to the Iraq War and then transcribe those oral histories 35

into a collection of poems. He describes his process as two-fold, as the end result gives the reader an oral history of a culture (either the Iraq culture, the U.S. military culture, or the culture of someone in the Corps of Cadets) and a work of literature describing this experience. Jonathan says Professor Prentiss played a big role in helping him narrow down his ideas and cultivating his poems.

When asked by the Chameleon about how he heard this fellowship, Jonathan says that he heard about the Schultz Colby Fellowship from Professor Prentiss. He was encouraged to apply for the prestigious fellowship. After completing a written application and a panel interview, he received a phone call from Professor Travis Morris, who leads the Peace and War Center at Norwich University.

Professor Morris was informed that Jonathan’s project was selected to be incorporated into this year’s Military Writers’ Symposium. Morris told Jonathan that he needed to start planning since the project needed to be completed by April 11th. A few of the major things that Jonathan said he needed to work on was planning his budget, expanding his ideas on his collection of poems, and staying in contact with his mentor, Professor Prentiss, who would help him with the process. Overcome with joy about hearing this news, Jonathan spoke with his father and family about his wonderful opportunity.

For Jonathan, his process starts with an interview of someone related to the Iraq War, whether a US serviceman, a family member who had a soldier overseas in Iraq, or an Iraqi who experienced the war. Jonathan asks these men and women for their experience in Iraq. He says that talking to his interviewees will not be difficult because not many people really listen to the stories these war veterans tell. He will transcribe his oral history and turn it into a poem. Jonathan will sit down with Professor Prentiss, who will help form his ideas and read over his works. This will allow Jonathan to expand his thought process and accumulate new ideas.

In terms of what is still to come, Jonathan said that in the near future, he will be traveling to Fort Rucker, where he will meet with several men who served in the Iraq war. Once on sight, Jonathan will do a majority of the oral histories. Jonathan also plans on traveling to the Pritzer Military Museum in Chicago to view some of their oral histories and gain as much information as possible on his subject, the Iraq War. After all the work is complete, and he has checked and rechecked his work, Jonathan will be asked to do a formal reading at the Colby Symposium where he will read his final poems, some of which are included on the following pages.

These poems, along with the great honor of being a part of the Colby Symposium, have been honored by the Chameleon. These poems have been awarded the Allan Nason Prize for best writing about the Corps of Cadets or war.  36

Found Poem: Hana Malallah’s City History & Experience Jonathan Wriston

Malallah answered: “I am living in Baghdad a city that was, burned many times during its history and now I am seeing closely this burning and I am seeing closely the looting of my city museum all these images [sculptures, artisanry, history] I see, I must record them in my works as a document” [as a dead sea scroll for Iraqis to be read later].” *This is a ‘found poem’ from an excerpt titled, Sophisticated Ways, Nadje AL-ALI. The excerpt is from the book We Are Iraqis.

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Truth, Honor, Service Jonathan Wriston

Morning dawn and evening dusk, we bear our sacred banner.

With perfect rhythm and a silent beat, with disciplined movements and regimented feet, we bear our sacred banner, wearing sharply pressed class A’s and dove white gloves we bear our sacred banner.

Up steps we march up to hallowed ground, we bear our sacred banner, with movements crisp and motives clean, we bear our sacred banner.

Proudly we raise her to the sky, these stars and stripes, our sacred banner.

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A Cadet’s Tongue Jonathan Wriston

In cadet-speak, there is no breakfast, lunch, or dinner, Only chow.

The word for freedom is leave.

We don’t have dorms, rooms unkempt, and without order, Only barracks with hospital cornered bunks.

Here, we are not freshmen or sophomores, we are rooks and corporals.

Instead of hats, we wear, garrison covers, service covers, berets, and patrol caps.

First names only exist for administrative work, since here we exist as last names.

Bedtime is for children; atop our bunks, we are lulled to sleep by taps.

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To submit pieces online, please visit the Chameleon online at Norwich University’s College of Liberal Arts website.