Chameleon 2016 Issue

Norwich University’s Chameleon Literary Journal

2016

The 2016 Chameleon Editor-in-Chief Kendall Manning

Faculty Advisor

Professor Sean Prentiss

Editorial Board Kate Cipolla, Olivia Coots, Danielle Franco, Sonjia Jordan, Katy Rutkowski, Kenneth Sikora We would like to give a special thanks to Jacque Day, Michael Kabay, and Kathryn Alberghini!

The Allan Nason Prose 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 care giving 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.

Chameleon Award for Outstanding Achievement in Creative Writing

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

Table of Contents The Orphanage, Kendall Manning....................................................................................1 Steam in the Snow, Connor Maher....................................................................................2 Forever Gone, Never Forgotten, Caleb Hartley.................................................................3 Ic Þe Þancie, Kenneth Sikora.............................................................................................7 Goodbye Fisherman, Kendall Manning.............................................................................8 Dreaming of Nightmares, Meghan Mason........................................................................9 Scars and Camoflouge, Sheridan Steiner.........................................................................11 Endless, Andrew Beattie..................................................................................................12 Love: A Mother-Daughter Relationship, Meagan Snyder...............................................13 Endless Reflections, One Living Memory, Jesse Gillette.................................................15 Haunt, Kate Cipolla..........................................................................................................17 Accidental Balance, Sheridan Steiner..............................................................................19 Habit, Jerry Passalacqua..................................................................................................20

“What you see and what you hear depends a great deal on where you are standing.

It also depends on what sort of person you are.”

-C.S. Lewis

The Orphanage Kendall Manning

The dirt got redder with every minute we were on that bus A drive never seemed so slow Eyes stinging with anticipation, or was it the air?

It isn’t fair that I can’t share this place with everyone A few familiar turns and a hard left that put me somewhere I knew Somewhere I’d walked with lumber on my shoulders and rebar in my hands Somewhere where I knew smiles were awaiting I could have jumped out that window and ran there I could have passed out from the incredible pace of my heart I could have died at the sight of Pommerin and been the happiest person to ever live Tears coming from all those around Tears of relief and appreciation all at once I stepped off the bus and had warm arms of my family wrapped around me A roof and walls...the ground we laid beneath our own feet We walked the halls of the amazing home of the children to be We sat down to pray and I didn’t want to close my eyes because I couldn’t see their love But it’s reality I was happy and alive, all at once And suddenly I knew, I knew I never would have known what happiness was without this place When it’s one in the morning And you’re in the middle of Africa, you stop to think How did I get here?

How do I deserve this?

And you realize it doesn’t matter because you are HOME

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Steam in the Snow, Connor Maher

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Forever Gone , Never Forgotten Caleb Hartley

A crisp breeze swept over Brian Little as he attempted to load the new shipment of food onto his cart — he did this every Monday morning, in the back of his small “Mom and Pop” store, nestled in the center of an old town in western Massachusetts. This cozy shop was owned by two other families before him and was used for the same purpose by each owner. After signing off on the sup-plies, Brian brought the cart into the back room and unloaded everything, organizing each item by type. Canned goods were placed into one corner, separated by brand, deli meats were immediately placed into a refrigerated area, and so on and so forth. Having this down to a science, it did not take Brian long before he had everything where he wanted, and he left the room to meet his regular morning customers.

The floorboards creaked, a reminder of the numerous years this store experienced and stained by the footsteps of its loyal patrons. Making his way to the cash register, Brian ran his fingers along the edge of the aging countertop, feeling every bump, crack, and chipped piece of lacquer.

Every morning, at exactly seven o’clock, Mike Ward would walk in, grab a medium black coffee, and read the Hilltowns Gazette—the local daily paper. The old Vietnam veteran always sat in the same rocking chair next to the entrance, his left leg crossed over his right. His thick

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eyebrows furrowed into a frown the moment he began to read, and he muttered disapprovingly under his breath about the goings on overseas and the empty promises made by washed out politicians. It was the same every day, save the occasional anecdote Mike would share about his grandchildren; from time to time, one of his older grandchildren would accompany him on their way to the bodyshop and entertain Brian with their bad language and lack of political correctness as he organized and reorganized everything within the store. They were a lively bunch, always loud and warm-hearted. The Wards fit the “hillbilly” stereotype, with their overalls, Chippewa work boots, and baseball caps. Because of their demeanor, some might assume they were all stupid, but each one of them held at least a bachelor’s degree or vocational training certificate and they enjoyed using this to confuse outsiders.

Today was different from the usual, however, and Brian was not greeted with the gruff, “Good morning” and abrasive humor with which Mike always graced him. When the clock reached 7:05 AM, Brian stopped and turned toward the door, realizing no one had walked in yet. He thought this strange, and stepped outside for a couple minutes, his arms crossed. The breeze was cool, carrying the fallen leaves across the newly paved road and into the small parking

lot in front of the small store. Brian took a deep breath and looked around at everything he had, from the worn bench next to him to the old store’s sign, which read, Hart & Son. The weather was splendid, the sun was rising behind a crest of pine and spruce, and the birds chirped happily in the distance.

After about fifteen minutes since opening that day, an old Chevrolet 2500 rolled into the driveway.

Rust formed around the chrome grill of the truck and the bed squeaked as it bounced on bumps in the pavement. The brakes squealed as the truck came to a stop and Tom, a middle-aged man, stepped down from the cab, wearing a faded Patriots cap and the stereotypical attire of a New England hill town hick. His dark blue flannel was covered in sawdust and grease stained his torn blue jeans. He limped a little as he walked toward the door, nodding at Brian as he entered the store. Brian followed close behind and stood by the cash register, awaiting his first sale of the day.

“How’s your morning so far, Tom?” asked Brian, in the usual welcoming tone he used for all his customers. Tom looked over and Brian could tell something was wrong. Despite his age, Tom’s eyes were always bright with energy and excitement, but today they appeared sunken and dark. Some of the skin under his eyes was red and irritated, as if he just recovered from hours of sobbing.

Turning around, Tom struggled to fight back more tears. His hands shook uncontrollably and he cleared his throat a couple times before speaking.

“I’ve got some bad news, son,” Tom said. He paused

for a minute, trying to piece everything together.

He brought his left hand up to his mouth and stroked his chin as he continued to speak. “Mike had a heart attack last night. This is the second one within the past two months and his body couldn’t handle it this time. His kids are still trying to figure out when they’re having the wake and the funeral.”

Brian stood for a few ing in shock. “When’d

minutes, gapthis happen?”

“About 9:30…I still can’t believe it. It’s a damn shame. Mike always made it through things… he’s a survivor,” Tom replied, his eyebrows raised concernedly. Placing his right hand on his hip and forcing a chuckle, he proceeded. “Hell, when we were in Vietnam, he pulled two slugs out of his left shoulder with his bare hands!

Just goes to show how fragile our lives are.”

“Yeah…”

“You gon’ be alright, son?” Tom asked, seeing Brian’s blank expression.

He placed his hand on Brian’s shoulder.

Looking up, Brian composed himself and said, “Honestly, I’m not sure. That man has come in here every day since I was a little kid and my dad was running this place. He even sent me care packages while I was deployed.”

The two men walked over to the rocking chairs in the corner and sat down in silence. Brian continued to mull through his thoughts, unsure of

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what else to say. Why wasn’t I there for him more?

What could I have done to prevent this? He was in utter shock and couldn’t process anything in his mind but innumerable questions. Mike was the reason he joined the service, the reason he volunteered for his second tour, the reason he felt such strong patriotism, despite the overwhelming amount of shit he had to endure just to get where he was. Brian enlisted as an infantryman in the United States Army right out of high school, deployed once to Iraq, and transferred to the Army National Guard, so he could be a full-time college student. Despite being the kind of man who preferred keeping his problems to himself, Mike was the one person with whom he could relate. Shortly after graduation, Brian deployed again to Afghanistan, where he lost one of his best friends to an IED (Improvised Explosive Device). His father also died while he was overseas and, upon returning to the States, he found it

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difficult to deal with the memories, but Mike was always there to help him move on and accept the circumstances. Using the money he made on deployment, Brian took over his father’s business and reconnected with the townsfolk. Now that his source of solace was gone, he was at a loss and he didn’t know how he was going to recover.

“Why him?”

“We may never know, son. All I can tell you is we all have our time,” Tom replied. “There is a time to smile and a time to cry, a time to live and a time to die. The only thing we can do is choose what to do with the time that’s given us. I wish I didn’t have to be the one to tell you about Mike, but that’s life.”

After a few moments, Tom stood and walked toward the door. “Wish I could stay longer, but I’ve gotta get to work. If you need to talk, don’t hesitate to call.”

His thoughts would constantly move back

“I appreciate it,” said Brian figured that out early and forth from fighting in the streets of Iraq Brian. The two shook in life, though the pain of hands and continued loss grew exponentially to throwing the first handful of dirt onto the with their day. After Tom over the past few years. graves of his father and lost friends. left the store, Brian turned After losing so many loved to the back wall and ones, he became numb. He placed both hands on the counter, his head bowed could be with a group of friends and family, yet be as he stared into the worn out countertop. Looking alone, lost in his head with little to console him. His at all the bumps in the wood and the cracking thoughts would constantly move back and forth lacquer, he saw the breaking down of age, the loss from fighting in the streets of Iraq to throwing the as one. Chills ran down his spine. The thought of first handful of dirt onto the graves of his father losing another friend was stunning, but this was and lost friends. Though the physical battles were far from the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last. over, the mental one raged on. It was a constant brutal fight that he was dedicated to win, though he One thing he learned through the years was that didn’t always feel strong enough. Talking about it it wasn’t about how many friends you’ve had or wasn’t something he did. A fake smile and a deepwhere they came from, but the impact they left on seated anger in his eyes was all anyone saw when your life. Through all the bullshit life leaves you they’d pass by him. Innocence was foreign to him; with, the memory of those lost leaves the most all he knew now was rage and disappointment. influence, the greatest pain, and the best reward.

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Ic Þe Þancie Kenneth Sikora

In high Hollis House he hid his hoard— That peaceful prof ’s perfect, painted place Held bracing beams, book-bearing boards bent And warped with weighty written wisdom.

Nimbly giving guidance, great guardian Kindly adding advice, all aid abounds as Youths’ tepid, terribly typed texts this Old English expert ever expertly edits.

Up squeaking stairs step somber scholars Does he hold humane help? Humble, his Rich mind makes many muddled matters Manifest for feeble, fumbling followers.

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8 Goodbye Fisherman, Kendall Manning

Dreaming of Nightmares Meghan Mason

The room is spinning, colors blur together into a rainbow making it impossible for me to properly navigate out of the crowded room. Like a heartbeat, the bass blares out over the stereo keeping the party alive as long as it goes on. Muffled voices surround me, and though I am in a crowded room, I feel alone.

I remember back to when I was in high school, when I was shy, invisible, unpopular, and alone.

How I hid in the shadows of the hallways, making my way through the day ignoring the rumors and lies they spread, finding myself surrounded by the cold metallic walls of a bathroom stall as warm pools of water collected in my eyes till they overflowed onto my checks. How I had longed to be anything but this, how I had wanted to be popular, to go to parties, to experience the fantasies of my novels. Now I was there.

People are moving around me, as the colors finally begin to take on their humanly shapes. away. As I make my way through the hot maze of bodies I hear the friendly greetings, see familiar faces, and I am embraced by some. These are my friends, or at least that’s what I think, or thought.

Who were these people exactly? My mind raced searching for the answers only coming up with the generic stereotypes that they had been labeled. He was a football player, she was a slut,

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those guys were Corps boners, the list went on but not a single identity went further than that.

In every book I had read, every show I had watched, even from observing the kids at my high school these friendships seemed so close. Everyone would embrace each other, make jokes, laugh; they all seemed genuinely involved, loving, caring and ‘friends’. From afar these encounters looked fulfilling, like everything I needed, but now that I had I realized that I had been wrong. The hole that was there when I was younger had only grown deeper with the shallow encounters that were offered and these so called ‘friends’ only dug it deeper.

With the realization of the shallowness of my new world I became overwhelmed, the clarity of everything had sobered up my thoughts and I could no longer stand it. I quickly stammered over to the nearest bottle I saw and took a swift swig letting the alcohol burn down my throat. This was not enough though, the instant gratification I was so desperately hoping for did not occur, so I went in again, this time longer. Shortly my head began swimming again but the thoughts that I so longed to be free of would not go away.

Why couldn’t I just be happy? I had finally gotten what I had longed for, what I’d wished for so many times,

“Slowly the crickets chirp took over mixing in with the peeper’s song in the distance, a stead breeze pushing the leaves to dance freely upon the open ground.” and now that I had it I wished I’d never known it. The shallowness of the room overwhelmed me as I looked from person to person realizing the emptiness of the interactions taking place across the party. Their brains where swimming in pools of alcohol, leaving the bodies free with the repercussions only to come tomorrow. But who would remember the memories of tonight? No one.

Every person here was here to forget, not remember.

I could no longer take it, the shallowness and loneliness of every person in the room seemed to engulf me. I fled to the nearest exit, never taking my focus off of it for fear that I may lose it and be trapped in this mindless house under the control of the bass pulse. Carelessly pushing through the hot maze of bodies I made my way to the door, to freedom. Breaking away from the tired-muggy air infused with a multitude of undesirable body odors and cheap booze, to the crisp, refreshing embrace of the autumn air outside, feeling an instant relief.

Relief flowed through me as I separated myself

from the party, listening the pulse grow weaker and weaker as it lost its control over me. Now nature had taken me in, and it held me like the friends I never had, lifting the burden of the social standards and loneliness that had been inside.

Slowly the crickets chirp took over mixing in with the peeper’s song in the distance, a stead breeze pushing the leaves to dance freely upon the open ground. Through the darkness I walked, letting the moon’s light guide me through a dew drop field. I let my mind reflect. I never had belonged to that party, to the shallowness of the attendees, to the bass pulse, I might have wanted to but that was not where I belonged. Walking here I had everything I had been looking for, the embrace of friends, the love that fills the hole that I thought had been empty, my place was in nature. Among all of the songs, lights, and mosquitoes that came with it. No matter how much I tried to be with the others my age, I could not be like them, I had nothing to forget, but everything to remember.

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Scars and Camoflouge, Sheridan Steiner

Endless Andrew Beattie

The large globe glowing Here now my lover,

Then, in the reflection of it, a small piece of it, Becomes less, less opaque and more clear

Removes her shirt so she Can feel the wind more freely She thinks with her hair Laughing as the cool breeze takes it So I smile I don’t know what to make of this Or do I? I am unsure The hair is free I am smiling at it Yet I feel shackled by the chains of our love

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Love: A Mother-Daughter Relationship Meagan Snyder

I LOVE HER and the way she sings Mary Poppins and dances through the house. I love the way the sun shines in her hair on a hot summer’s day. We go to the beach and cover ourselves; tanning lotion for her, sand for me. Manic. Maniacs. My mother and I. It is 2003, I am turning 11 at the end of the summer, and we can’t get enough of each other or the beach. Waves crash on the shore in sync with the beer crashing in gulps down my mother’s throat. I am high-spirted and happy, naïve.

I LOVE HER with hesitation. It is 2005, 2007, 2011. She is drunk and I love her, but I am scared.

This is not her usual drinking, these are what I call “drink to die” nights, because she gets closer each time. Limp, like the squirrels on the side of the road we would poke as children, my mother this last time is motionless. I believe for a split second that she is in fact dead; could the screaming of my little brother really become my burden to bear? Unexpectedly the vomit comes. She is alive, and like a wild dog turning on her young, she is furious. Alcohol is poured and I go from beloved daughter to enemy #1. A bird yearning to take flight, but caught in a storm; I am trapped by my mother, a bond inseparable regardless of how drunk she gets, left wondering, do I love her?

I LOVE HER bare naked out of her womb like I love the drugs she’s taken throughout her pregnancy; a perverse love, my codependency.

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If I don’t love her, what kind of monster does that make me? I love her voice, her touch, her warmth, and I don’t know not to. My instincts pull me; so natural and inherent is my love that I follow my mother like a goose migrating south in the winter. I follow because I believe it is safe to do so.

I LOVE HER even though she’s pretended to be Santa for all these years. I’m eight and this year my mom needs help stuffing stockings for my sister and me. Little soaps, socks, chocolate coins.

Everything must be wrapped perfectly and even though this is my first time wrapping anything, I catch on quickly. We stay up until early in the morning and watch movies with other people pretending to be Santa. She gained custody of me back this year and it is our first Christmas truly together, and oh how I love her.

I LOVE HER because she is the only person I think I have. My dad leaves when I am eight, my sister’s dad leaves a few years later, and my family is estranged for the most part. By the time I am 16 we have moved six times since I started living with her. No place lasts much longer than a year. In 2006 we live in an apartment and my room is so tiny I make a sign for it that reads “Welcome to my closet.” I am only angry when I am not taking care of my siblings, when I have time to be. My mother has back surgery, and even though I’ve been taking care of my two siblings

for years, this is when I officially take charge.

I LOVE HER in 2004 when she is sober. Pregnant with my brother, she even fights to quit smoking. I love her that winter when a glimpse of the mom I knew she could be is there. Even though Nicholas is only a newborn we go sledding and my mom, as patient as can be, sits in the car keeping Nick warm while my sister and I sled. Snow crunches under little toes, bodies slide, screams, giggles, CRASH at the end of the hill, start again. My sister and I forget about the politics, the screaming, and the drinking because our mother is happy, and sweet, and so wonderfully full of love; so are we.

“I love her that winter when a glimpse of the mom I knew she could be is there.”

I LOVE HER in the basement of our new apartment. Over NCIS I tell her that I’ve had sex.

She questions, wants to know, not why I didn’t wait longer, but how I felt about it. I love her for this. At night I come home, feed the kids, put them to bed, do the dishes, and finally, at ten at night, start my homework. I am sixteen and in charge of the house whether my mom is at work or not.

If you ask me, my mom is my best friend; we are a team. Raising a family takes a village; I raised myself so I could help be my mother’s village. In this same apartment, I refuse to unpack boxes.

I share a room with my little sister and the only things unpacked on my half of the room are my

school books. I know we will not be here long; we are never anywhere very long, and so why unpack?

I LOVE HER at 18 when she kicks me out a week before my birthday. I love her even knowing that I will never live with her again. I love her because if she thinks I don’t, then she won’t let me see my siblings; the siblings that I raised since I was 12, the siblings that I protected from strangers, but also from her. I live in my car. I curse just about everyone. I am strong and strong-willed. Fuck becomes a favorite word and I say it with vigor.

When my friends ask if I want to try something to “make me feel good, help me forget” I refuse, not out of self-righteousness, but because I am afraid I will like it too much. The fear of becoming like my mother consumes me and during this time I am more like her than at any other time during my life. I am bitter, sarcastic, manipulative even, and nobody loves me.

SHE LOVES ME months after my friend dies in a drunk-driving accident. She loves me when I am broken. I call five minutes into driving for the first time in a month and she gives me the strength I need.

I am terrified of driving, drinking, drugs, and most of all, of love. It is autumn and the crunch of leaves and black walnuts under my tires cause cringes and goosebumps down my arms. She loves me when I come home every weekend and sob. It does not matter that she kicked me out months before because sometimes you just need your mother.

SHE LOVES ME through labor and delivery. She loves me even though I am born with a heart

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condition. I have surgery at six weeks old and then she loves me desperately. She loves my little toes and my innocence. She doesn’t love me enough to stop the drugs though. Smack bottom on crack with a baby in the house, she really loves me. High and dazed and happy and alive and buzz buzz buzz, crush it up, smoke it up, she loves me. She loves me so much that independence is instilled early on, my grandparents take me and my mom does not notice I am gone for two days. I guess I have always known how to take care of myself, thanks to her love.

SHE LOVES ME when I come home with my “All About ME” project. I wrote about my mommy and how she is my hero because I get to live with her again. I write about those Mary Poppins songs we sing together early in the morning. I am in fifth grade with Mrs. Buswell and she loves me because I raise enough money for us to go to Maine to get real fish for our class touch tank. I beam with pride that my mom AND Mimi are both on the trip and for the first time in my childhood I prance around like a spoiled rich kid, flaunting my family like we are the Cosbys and belong on TV. I jump from rock to rock and look at the sea life, feel the ocean mist, and everything is peaceful by the ocean with my mom.

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SHE LOVES ME because I am her best friend.

At 15 she can tell me anything, and I agree wholeheartedly and without any opinion of my own. My report cards get redundant because they are always A’s and B’s. I have been in a steady relationship for two years now, and although she still has not found her prince, she loves me. I run the house and she knows it. When we go grocery shopping she asks what we should have for dinner that week because no doubt I will be cooking it.

SHE LOVES ME even though I bad mouth her and tell her I hate her. I hate the drugs and the alcohol and we do not see eye to eye. I am 18 and I tell her I wish I was never born. My anger consumes me and when she kicks me out I am happy about it; free. She tells me she loves me more than breathing and I want so badly to believe her, but I don’t. She loves me because, if she doesn’t, who will love her?

SHE LOVES ME at 21 when I tell her I’m pregnant.

Terrified and shaking she holds me and promises everything will be alright. She can’t wait to the future and her grandchild she’ll say. It’s spring and she misses the brunch to plan my baby shower.

My mother-in-law helps me because she loves

Endless Reflections, One Living Memory, Jesse Gillette My mom can’t seem to get out of bed, a toxic mix of depression and pills keeps her bogged down so that, no matter how much she loves me, her will is gone.

SHE LOVES ME on the playground when I fall and scrape my hands and legs. Gauntly like a baby dear I can’t adjust to my adolescent body. I fall and trip and my clumsiness follows me to this day. She takes me for ice cream after shots and gets me cocoa when she gets coffee. She shows me what hard work means, and I learn early on that life is not fair because it does not have to be.

My mother teaches me about what being down on your luck means. She teaches me, without knowing it, what playing the victim looks like too.

SHE LOVES ME now. Twenty-three-yearsold and my mother still loves me. She loves me even though I took her old house and made it mine. When she abandoned it, full of furniture, my fiancé and I renovated it and made it our own. Lily is one now and has no idea who her grandmother is, this woman who left when she was only three months old. I got the call just over a month ago that my mom is in jail.

But she swears she didn’t do it. My 16-year-old

sister is living with us now and even though I know it’s not true, my mother says she loves me for what I’m doing, for what I’ve done? I look at my mother’s choices and wonder how I still love her.

I LOVE HER. Eight pounds six ounces, 20 inches long, my daughter is born and I love her.

It’s true that you forget the pain of giving birth, even of having a C-section, because you are so overwhelmed with love. I love my daughter more than I have ever loved, and sometimes I worry about having more children because I fear I will not love them the same. My daughter is the truest love I have ever felt aside from Adam. To watch her grow, play, laugh, and love makes me whole. She is the balance in my life, the universe made up for whatever happened in my childhood the day I gave birth to Lily. I dance with her to Little Einsteins and read her Winnie the Pooh.

I watch her learn and connect over the rim of a coffee cup and I love her. All this love makes me wonder what I felt before, and how we define love.

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Haunt Kate Cipolla

if i had breath to hold i would count to ten but instead i will watch you clinging to your breath like an old miser to the money he has replaced everything worth something with. this is my house it was my house before it was yours and it was my house before it was the owner’s before you and it was my house when i built it if you knew you would disagree but your incorrect opinions are of no concern to me. i watch you slip silently feet quietly moving across the wooden floorboards that i put down you think that this house is unique to you but you are wrong. i have watched you since you first took the tour of this house since the real estate agent showed you around and neglected to mention how the previous owners had left due to sheer terror i remain proud of that. but you. you are so very mortal and so very young i have seen wars come and go since before your grandparents were born i built this house even though i could have paid to have it done for me because i hold pride in craftsmanship a place that i can rightly call home

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because it is a home i have touched every inch of. and yet you fascinate me when you sit in the window seat i built for my wife and watch the cars down on your street and even though these cars are no longer interesting i know you are never bored. you are not a concept someone for me to fall in love with to achieve my way away you are not a tool to be used for i long ago accepted that my lot is to stay here in the home i knew better than i ever knew my children until it is long since crumbled into the ground and perhaps even after. you are not someone to wave away the loneliness i have never felt (i loved my family but i enjoy solitude) to befriend me with a charming smile as you cook on the counters i installed. no. you are a person living in my house you breathe and you eat and you laugh and you cry and you do things i have not done in many years. this is not love. this is not envy. this is curiosity.

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Endless Reflections, One Living Memory, Sheridan Steiner

Habit

Jerry Passalacqua

To cry without reason, to arise in the darkness in order to weep, to wait for the hand on the body of the clock to tick once more, transforming one dull day to another.

Is this a blatant habit?

Some believe in the supernatural, some in nothing. Believe, you said. Afterward we’ll float between two worlds-many disturbing men, waiting for their turn in a grimy night club, drugged by lust: If I came back as a flesh hungry beast, I’d remember that-Until everyone we love is safe, is what you said.

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The Water Slows as Daylight Goes; Dusk Over Canal Grande, Jesse Gillette To submit pieces online, please visit The Chameleon page on Norwich University’s College of Liberal Arts site.