Volition - Fall 2023

Volume 35

CONTENTS POETRY & PROSE Katherine Perschau

The Abbey Graveyard | 2

Brendan Knapsack

Hallowed Ground | 5

Nasrin Ali

an elegy for zaynah | 6

Rory

Varvara Mikhalchuk

Wooden Stake | 8 Midnight Melancholy | 10 The Stirring of Dormant Memories | 15 Fallen From the Nest | 12

Georgia Gary

The Devourer | 19

Felipe Casas

Eclipse | 22 Iluminando el camino | 31

Mark Cochrane

to be a chair | 24 - 26

Ryn Shoemaker

Cicadas in the Summertime | 28

VOLUME 35

ART & PHOTOGRAPHY Chris Amaya

A New Creation (Distorted) | Cover Elevation | 4 The World Outside | 20 All Things are New (inverted - version 2) | 21

Chrys Sotos

Nourishing Mother | 3 Wings of Sorrow | 11 waiting… | 18

Ronald Alexander Payabyab

mama y papa | 7

Panah Neshati

Kites | 27 Bazaar | 14 - 15

London Massey

Schlossplatz | 9 Public Devotion | 23 Edge of Summer | 29

Marie Guagenti

Daisy | 13

Kenza Houhou

Elizabeth | 14

Keryssa Ward

Up and Early | 30

MISSION STATEMENT Volition serves to elevate the creative capacity of the Mason community by fostering freedom of expression across diverse mediums.

FALL 2023 1

The Abbey Graveyard Her voice is a gull’s cry Echoing across the waves, Clattering down the cliffs.

She is in the wheat fields Making noise like rain; She is keeping the hills green.

A hundred Marys lie beneath the ruins– You cannot hear their voices; They have been drowned out by the sea.

| Katherine Perschau 2

Nourishing Mother | Chrys Sotos | Digital Photography 3

Elevation | Chris Amaya | Digital Photography 4

Hallowed Ground As the soldiers sang, And the cannons roared.

The valley rang, As the angels soared.

Distant troops charged, While the widows wept.

The pale horse barged, As the roses slept.

Such a peaceful life, Though a violent death.

Playing that melodic fife, Till their final breath.

Up above the ravens perched, Watching boys' heaven bound.

Those who remained had searched, Upon this hallowed ground.

| Brendan Knapsack 5

an elegy for zaynah in loving memory of my grandmother, a guiding light whose love and grace will forever illuminate my journey

In her last days, a pamphlet whispered the truth, "Gone from my sight," echoes the void's bitter ruth, Yet an ethereal thread still ties us near, Within my grandma's arms, a sacred space, Her presence fades, a whispered goodbye, my Cancer's tempest roared, yet her spirit held dear, grace, Twilight skies witnessed my vigil, so quiet, Within sterile halls, her gaze reached far, Sunsets painted solace in hues of soft violet.

Verses from sacred pages whispered like a Cancer, once distant, now walks by our side, star, Grandmother's change, from glamor to pure Her tender grip conveyed love's embrace, guide, A bond unbreakable, a memory we trace.

Elegant attire traded for humility's plea, Tears flowed, etching truth's heavy weight, Kohl eyeliner yielded to authenticity, Impending farewell cast shadows, our tie to Radiant smile, unmarred by life's bumpy abate, ride, Yet her courage stood tall, unwavering and Perception reshaped, life's essence clarified. bright, From anger, gratitude emerged, raw and Each day marked a step toward that distant tender, light, Cancer's lessons sculpted wisdom, a lifeMonths unveiled her legacy, a beacon innate, rendering blender, Compassion woven through challenges we Her beauty illuminated even in death's warm navigate. embrace, Within sterile air, cocooned in soft pink, Tall figure clad in white, confined, yet her Amid familiar pages, we'd share thoughts in grace, sync, Arms crossed, face aglow, her smile a sweet Frail fingers turned pages, a smile took sender, flight, A fleeting memory, forever etched in my A whispered "thank you" lingered, love's sight, emotional lender.

One night, an ambulance's wail, resistance A touch, a farewell unsaid, as shadows fall, in sync, Now forever "gone from my sight," but love's Her voice echoed defiance, a love that won't threads still enthrall. shrink. | Nasrin Ali 6

mama y papa | Ronald Alexander Payabyab | Film Photography 7

Wooden Stake i’ll kiss a stranger who wants me less than you just to feel a different shade of blue if you don’t want me i’d rather be wholly unwanted, display myself to the masses like a gruesome horror let them burn and prick me let them hold their noses and avert their eyes let the mud fling onto my skin from wheels passing in a hurry let me see you stand before me, watch as the tears claim a path on my cheeks a look of great pity hiding in your gaze and with a smile and hands i’d forgotten just how gentle and kind, you’ll untie me from this stake lift me as my knees hit the ground and when I look up with shameful desperation, you’ll still refuse to touch my face

| Rory 8

Schlossplatz | London Massey | 33mm Film Photography 9

Midnight Melancholy late night melancholy lingers like the smell, the stink of cigarettes and boys who think they’re men melancholy fills my lungs, pollutes my very breath, stings my eyes with its smoke before it’s in my head I taste you on my lips, delicate and sweet the way you scald my tongue just keeps me on my feet oh dear melancholy, are you a victim of the night? trap me on this balcony, i’ll scream until sunrise oh familiar melancholy, will you call to me? drag me down this well with you, drown me while I dream? oh my melancholy, it’s so good to see you go I’ll miss the way you touched me, but won’t let anybody know old melancholy of midnight how unpleasant to see you here, unannounced and expected, an early mourning dove (not once have you been more gentle than his love) melatonin, meet melancholy, feel that acidic atmosphere, I hope to god and to the stars you’ll find weakness in our bond morning, melancholy i see you’ve stuck around can’t leave without goodbye, without a bruise (like from his mouth) | Rory 10

Wings of Sorrow | Chrys Sotos | Digital Photography 11

Fallen From the Nest In the second week of the new year, Ellis tumbled off the rooftop and there was no snow to cushion his fall.

Which was strange, because not since moving up north six years prior had we seen a snowless winter. I remember our first blizzard, on Ellis’ twelfth birthday as it happens —I would have been eight then— and he, king of the day, had dared me to press my tongue to Mr. and Mrs. Garcia’s flagpole —they were super patriotic, Mr. and Mrs. Garcia— and it stuck fast.

“I saw it in a movie,” said Ellis by way of apology as Mom poured boiling water all down my front.

When he fell he’d just turned eighteen, and I was straddling our pitched roof like a horse, reins of Christmas lights in hand. There had been a scrape, a gasp, a thud.

“Just sit tight,” Dad called to me from the ground, which was what he always said whenever things were going wrong.

For the first time in my life I actually did sit tight, presiding over our street. A sweaty jogger shuffled along the pavement, puffing out gray like a smoker. A trio of kids from the cul-de-sac took turns dragging each other noisily down the sidewalk on a plastic sled. There’s no snow, idiots, I wanted to shout. A door slammed somewhere inside the house.

It was one of those white-sky days, when everything is softer and feels like a dream. I had just gotten to imagining I was a baby bird, under the downy wing of my mother, when behind me a window slid open and my actual mother’s trembling, featherless hand stretched out toward me. I let her pull me through the window and right onto Ellis’ unmade bed. He didn’t like anyone to come into his room when he wasn’t there, and I told her as much, but she was already running out the door, shouting at me to stay inside.

I slid off the bed and brushed the ash from my jeans —Ellis had taken to using his windowsill as an ashtray because he thought Mom and Dad wouldn’t know,

12 | Varvara Mikhalchuk

but they definitely did— and stumbled downstairs just in time to see the ambulance arrive, its red and blue lights flitting through the front door’s peephole like a kaleidoscope. “Gentle, gentle.” After our first snow had melted away into spring, Ellis found a baby bird fallen from its nest in the tree in our backyard. It sang a little trill every few seconds, like a ringing phone. I wondered if anyone was going to pick up.

“It likes me. It keeps looking at me.”

“Its neck is broken, dipshit,” he said, lifting the contorted body from my cupped hands with featherlight touch. I thought I heard him sniffle, but it might have just been winter’s last dregs of cold. “It has no choice but to look at your ugly mug.”

When they lifted him up on the stretcher, he was looking the other way. I went back upstairs and smoked the rest of his cigarettes, then threw up a little bit and went to sleep in his bed. I dreamt I was holding a bird with a broken neck, and that it was singing like a ringing phone, and then I woke up and the phone really was ringing and I picked it up and Dad told me that Ellis was alive but things were going to be very different now. By the way, did I see the snow?

I went into the night in my bare feet, hearing the crackling cold but not feeling it. The day’s white sky had turned a deep black by then. It felt darker than the nights before, since all our neighbors had taken down their lights already. I didn’t know it but for three weeks, the days had slowly been yawning wider, pressing flat the dark nights.

Beneath the fine veil of snow, half our roof glowed red, and from it a long string of lights marked Ellis’ path to the ground. The bulbs burned hot like embers in the dark. One of them were cracked. I cradled it in my hands. Gentle, gentle. I thought: once upon a time in these hands, the broken body of a little bird grew cold. The light poured warmth back into them as snowflakes fell.

Daisy | Marie Guagenti | Steel

13

Elizabeth | Kenza Houhou | Darkroom Photography 14

The Stirring of Dormant Memories and no matter how you beg and plead, take shears to your hair, razor to your cheek, you cannot shed who once was, who always will be you will feel a clawing from inside, ripping holes in your stomach, scratching your esophagus, blood pooling behind your teeth as memories crawl out you will feel it in the way walls have eyes, in the way dust from pillows can hypnotize, the peculiar taste of milk will awaken your senses to the past, and who was will never pass there is a stain beneath your nails, a stubborn scab, an itch that doesn’t stop, a bruise that only yellows with time, so you can shed sweat and skin and clothes, pray and gamble and dream and die, scream or hold an oath of silence, hold your breath or refresh in a storm change your name, your handwriting, your eyes still, you will hear whispers from the day

| Rory 15

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Bazaar | Panah Neshati | Digital Camera 17

waiting… | Chrys Sotos | Digital Photography 18

The Devourer You humans are obsessed with skies and its endless stars.

To stare, ensnared, and envy from afar.

You coo and you awe at the sky without limit.

You study and gawk, to wonder what lies within it.

Your planet and your constellations and your endless repertoire.

You humans like to know what lives from afar.

You like to poke and prod and see if things can blow.

To sprinkle water on a tree and watch it grow.

You watch and you wonder and you study with rigorous row.

To control something you cannot — to see if your garden can grow.

But these stars you wish to plunder are not for your wonders.

I apologize! I’m afraid I must contest!

For that is my appetizer, I wish to collect.

The constellations are strings of cottage cheese.

To slurp and savor and enjoy with ease.

The sun that shines like a fire, growing ever so sunny is my drink that is sweeter than the sweetest of honey.

Your tiny crack of a treacherous rock is nothing to me but a sheep in my flock.

Your planet of magma is a place to rest my feet, and your world of rings is my favorite place to eat.

Your planet of chill, of icy waters and lakes of condensation is the ice in my drink to ease my trepidation.

I stomach your planets like porridge, and eat without abandon.

Your planet looks so tasty. Do you mind if I land in?

| Georgia Gary 19

The World Outside | Chris Amaya | Digital Composition 20

All Things are New (inverted - version 2) | Chris Amaya | Digital Composition 21

Eclipse En las pocas noches de eclipses, el sol se encuentra con la luna.

Hablan y se cuentan estrellas hasta que la luna vuelve a su lugar en el mar.

En los pocos días de eclipses, el sol espera a la luna.

La ama tan desesperadamente que no aguanta otro día sin verla.

En los pocos días y las muchas noches de eclipses, se ve al sol arrojándose al mar. Él nunca aprendió a nadar y la luna sola, en la noche, con la culpa permanecerá.

| Felipe Casas 22

Public Devotion | London Massey | 35mm Film Photography 23

to be a chair More than twelve thousand people have run past the 11th mile water stop, but the most noteworthy is the one who can’t.

All the volunteers that make a race happen – the big ones, the marathons and half marathons through cordoned-off city streets – show up before dawn, and many will still be cleaning up long after the slowest runners finish. There’s more to a race than a start line, a finish line, and a stopwatch; there’s hundreds of workers making it happen. Registration, signage, handing out bibs, medical stations… Of course the water stops, eight tables each of water and Gatorade, spaced out roughly every two and a half miles for a half-marathon like this one. You got fifteen thousand runners going by, so figure twenty, thirty volunteers per stop pouring cups, handing them out – there’s a lot of humanity. Often hours go in a blur.

I’m working the 11th mile station, the first water table in front of the snowplow. That’s how they close off the side streets to traffic – just park a snowplow or dump truck to block any cars. You learn the tricks of the trade doing dozens of these over the years. On one corner’s an auto parts shop, which oddly is open, like they didn’t get the memo about the half-marathon and aren’t pleased to discover all their Saturday morning business blocked out. The other corner’s a coffee joint, with at least some foot traffic.

The big rush is past. Takes at least an hour for the quickest to reach eleven miles, closer to two for most. I’ve spent those two hours filling paper cups by the hundred, until it becomes meditation.

There’s a certain satisfaction targeting those reaching arms from the rumbling mass of runners and slapping a cup in the hand – some folks like to shout encouragement, too – but it’s not my task this cool morning. I’m stretching my legs after the last big gaggle, taking a few steps into the street, why I’m the first to meet her.

Like I said, these aren’t the final stragglers; these folks are going hard. A few dozen paces behind the herd comes a woman, looking wobbly. You know those hoofed animal babies, newborn and able to walk but not quite? I see her and I think she sees me, and I start to the water table. Ten feet from me, she drops to the pavement.

There’s EMT volunteers as well, in the medical tents and on bikes along the race route. Somewhere – not here, not now. I’m on the ground with her, trying to cradle her head without jerking her around.

Dehydration, you think first, but there’s other things that cause fatigue and collapse in a runner.

| Mark Cochrane 24

“Are you alright?”

Heat stroke, but it’s a chilly morning and she’s not bundled up. Gotta replace electrolytes you sweat out. One runner told me the best thing after a marathon is a banana and some chocolate milk.

Can you hear me, ma’am?”

It strikes me as peculiar – this woman could be having a medical emergency, and my mind’s stuck on bananas and chocolate milk. She’s not unconscious, however. “Yes. Yes.” There’s other volunteers around us now. Another has gone for help. When people faint, it’s a good idea to get their heart and head at the same level, or so I seem to remember from years back. She’s supine, head in my lap, as if we weren’t perfect strangers.

“Do you know where you’re at? Do you want us to call you an ambulance?” There’s lots of such questions, all running together until I don’t know which I’ve asked and which came from others.

Some she answers. Seems not to be concussed by the fall, anyways. Scraped up some. “Umm. Ron. Call Ron.” She’s got a running belt and zipped inside there’s an energy gel packet – unopened, naturally – and her phone. I can’t work it, but another volunteer unlocks it by holding the screen to her face, still in my lap, and scrolls through the contact list.

“Can you help me sit up? I think I might throw up.”

We’re by the curb. The nearest tree’s fifteen away and has one of those metal guards around the trunk, no good for leaning. The snowplow’s a stone’s throw the other way. The runner gets on all fours and her arms quake – if I set her on the curb, she’s going to tip over and conk her head.

Somebody’s fetched a folding chair from the water stop but the way runner’s muscles are quivering, she’d slide off it like a scoop of ice cream falling off its cone.

There’s some partner stretches where a pair stands or sits, back-to-back. That’s essentially how we end up on the asphalt before the water stop, her back to mine, elbows linked so I can bear the brunt of her weight. She leans against me and I keep her propped up. Water’s been given, help’s been called.

Nothing to do but wait. The runner could lie back on the road, inviting the stares of the next few hundred racers, or feel a little more human. What she needs now is a chair, and so that falls to me.

Head tilted, I keep talking to her. Dumb chitchat, not more questions. I don’t want her to faint again, so we talk. She’s coherent and telling me about races she’s run. How she doesn’t eat as much

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before a race as her friends say she should. When the tension in her arms slackens now and again, I lock my arms tighter.

Someone’s gotten a hold of Ron – whether he’s the husband or whoever, turns out he’s already finished the race, and now is heading backward. A pair of EMTs on bikes is on the way as well.

I don’t know the runner’s name, but I can feel her breathing. A bit shallow. I think I can feel her heartbeat too, but there’s so much going on around, noise and excitement, later I’ll think that must have been imagination.

For the best part of half an hour, maybe forty minutes, I keep the runner propped up. Can’t very well plop her back on the ground, and sitting and talking seems to be helping her get her bearings. Pretty soon, Ron and the EMTs will decide an ambulance is the way to go, and we’ll walk the runner on her jelly-legs past the snowplow so they can load her up, snug in one of those gurneys that glide so easy, the people in them seem weightless.

For now, though, I’m the most rudimentary form of support. Close enough to feel the sweat wicked in her running clothes. Chitchatting, watching the last of the legion pass by, the mind wanders, contemplates. A volunteer’s job is to be of service. How oddly human it is to be objectified, to be a chair; an ignoble task, when one is at their most noble.

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Kites | Panah Neshati | Digital Camera 27

Cicadas in the Summertime Summer air smells distinctly like a memory.

Warm winds engulfing your arms, blanketing your legs, soothing your senses by peppering kisses across your face. the deafening buzz calms my anxious mind trees dancing to the rhythm cicadas screaming melodies in the summertime. as each night illuminates new colors overhead emanating that distinct summer scent from wet woods nearby, pre-pollution, that know how whimsical clouds inform of the coming weather, cicadas flying through the sky.

Setting sun will bring cold chills and lightning bugs that shine stars in my backyard, a rather opulent private show with a roaring through your bones cicadas rumbling in their orchestra pit.

Hot days with small trees for shade cicadas as the chorus line hiding in the leaves, screaming melodies in the summertime.

| Ryn Shoemaker 28

Edge of Summer | London Massey | 35 mm Film 29

Up and Early | Keryssa Ward | Photography 30

Iluminando el camino Esto de ser el primero, se me hace muy solitario.

Hermanos, ¡Lleguen ya!

Pronto seremos más, y esta soledad acabará.

Esto de ser el primero, me rompe la espalda.

Hermanos, ¡Lleguen ya!

Pronto seremos más, y este dolor acabará.

Esto de ser el primero, oscuro se puede tornar.

Hermanos, ¡Lleguen ya!

Pronto seremos más, y el camino terminaremos de iluminar. ¡Lleguen ya!

| Felipe Casas 31

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ARE YOU INTERESTED IN PEER REVIEW, EDITING, GRAPHIC DESIGN, PUBLIC RELATIONS AND/OR SOCIAL MEDIA OUTREACH? VOLITION MIGHT JUST BE THE RIGHT PLACE FOR YOU There are four major teams that make up Volition: Art & Photography, Poetry & Prose, Graphic Design, and PR & Social Media. If you would like to gain experience in any of these areas, Volition is a great place to start. We offer positions for volunteer staff, peer reviewers, and student leadership in each section.

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STAFF Executive Editor Natalia Romero

Faculty Advisor Jason Hartsel

Prose & Poetry Prose & Poetry Editor Naomi Gordon

Sariya Scribner Erin Zellner Steven Thompson Jay Sapinski Semira Benyam Olivia Dantzler Amelia Williams Kai Sharpless Gabrielle Hoover Danielle Hill Grace Wood Emma George Serenity Bassett

Art & Photography Art & Photography Editor Sydnee Jiggetts

Trisha Dahal Ninita Chandrasing Shea Carrol

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Public Relations Public Relations Chair Amani Jefferson

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