This issue of Fountain Spray is not just a collection of poems, stories, and art—it is a testimony. A record of resistance. A letter to the past, present, and future selves who once sat in silence and now have found their voice.
This is my final year at Georgian Court University, and as I prepare to leave this physical space, I carry the weight and wonder of all it took to get here. I speak as someone who has walked through fire, literally and metaphorically. Displacement, injury, mental health battles, and financial uncertainty. Each curve in the road has shaped my understanding of what it means to survive, to be seen, to begin again. Georgian Court, for all its challenges and complexities, became not just a backdrop, but a battleground for healing. It reminded me that finishing what you started is a radical act.
As a Black Woman, I was taught at a young age that my existence is political. That simply showing up whole, bold, and unbothered is a form of resistance.
Fountain Spray stands as a reflection of that same radical act. Of choosing expression when silence might have felt easier. Each contributor has carved out a piece of themselves and offered it to the page, unfiltered and unafraid. And in doing so, we declare that art is not neutral. It is deeply personal and inherently political.
Naima Towns
To create in the midst of crisis is revolutionary. To write while overwhelmed. To paint while heartbroken. To edit while exhausted. Our magazine, like its creators, is shaped by resilience and rooted in truth. Whether your work shouts or whispers, whether it protests or prays, it belongs here.
I offer my most heartfelt thanks to my extraordinary E-Board, a brilliant collective of visionaries whose creativity and dedication breathed life into these pages. Without your hands, your hearts, your unwavering efforts, this book would remain only a concept.
And to Professor Kristen Wedlock—advisor, mentor, muse. Since our very first class together, your presence has been a light. You saw a spark in me before I knew how to name it, and you taught me that gifts are not meant to be hidden, but given. For that, and so much more, I am endlessly grateful.
As you flip through these pages, I hope you find fragments of yourself. I hope you remember the power of your voice and the necessity of your rest. I urge you to keep your faith close, whatever form it takes. Stay curious. Communicate fiercely. Lead with compassion, but never shrink to fit the mold of what’s comfortable. Tell your story, shout your name.
This is your canvas. Your community. Your time. Pour into it, but never forget to pour into yourself, too.
The bartender told him it was called house lager, but when Matthias looked into the glass, he saw houses. Actual houses, miniature and perfect, floating in the amber liquid. Each time he blinked, they rearranged themselves into new neighborhoods, new histories. “All our patrons see something different,” the bartender said, wiping a glass that seemed to contain nothing but shadows. “What matters is that you drink it.”
Matthias had found the bar while trying to drive home on Route 44. The highway had suddenly kinked itself into a shape he didn’t recognize, depositing him in a parking lot he was certain hadn’t existed before. The bar’s sign displayed no name, just an arrow pointing in two directions at once. Inside, every patron had the same drink in front of them. The same size glass, with the same amber color. But each person stared into their glass with a different kind of horror.
“Mine shows the Great Swamp Massacre,” the woman next to him said without looking up. “Every time I take a sip, I see it from a different perspective. The last swallow will be from the viewpoint of the perpetrators. That’s how it always ends.”
“How many times have you been here?” Matthias asked.
“This is my first time,” she said. “Also my fifth. Also my hundredth. Time doesn’t work right in here. Look at your coaster.”
His beer mat displayed a date that kept shifting: 1675, 1938, 2016, 2024. Below each date, a different name appeared: Anawan, Canonicus, Fritzcarraldo. The names bled into each other until they became unreadable.
“You should drink,” the bartender said, suddenly behind him. “Everyone has to drink their history.”
Matthias lifted the glass. The tiny houses were arranging themselves into what looked like a concentration camp. Then a border wall. Then a reservation. The transitions were seamless, as if these structures had always been the same structure.
“I don’t want to see this,” he said.
“That’s why you have to,” said the woman, who was now wearing clothes from a different century. “The house lager never serves you somebody else’s history. It’s always yours. Even the parts you pretend aren’t yours.”
He noticed that everyone who finished their drink remained in their seats, but grew slightly translucent. He could see the wall through their bodies. Their empty glasses refilled themselves with the same amber liquid, the same private horrors.
Cotton Mouth Sabrina Halk
Little Red Saves Herself in This One
Amari Morales
He saw her as if she was his world. He knew she felt the same, felt it in his bones every time she rode by. Wolffe of the Walnut Forest was madly and hopelessly in love with Little Red. He had seen her ride through the woods on her way to her grandmothers, every Thursday, for the past six months.
He knew the only reason she visited so often was so Little Red could have a glimmer of a moment with him, dreamt it in his lucid dreams. The teasing she was doing didn’t fit well with Wolffe. He finally wanted her all to himself, and knew she would feel the same. He planned to whisk her away so that he could have someone to hold, a companion to end his most lonely days.
“A forever lo- a forever lover.” he manically whispered to himself as he stared dully towards the winding, ridden path. The sounds of her bike could be heard in the distance. Wolffe inhaled as he felt the scarred tissue of his stomach churn with anxiety. His wounds had just healed from being kicked out of his previous pack; they just didn’t understand him like Little Red did.
I’ve waited so long. Finally, Little Red and I will be together forever. She doesn’t need anyone else but me. He crouched and waited a moment until she started to round his discrete corner, then pounced.
Little Red shrieked with such terror that Wolffe was startled. Did she not remember the looks, the whistling, the humming she tortured him with for months, why wasn’t she crying from joy that they were together at last?
“Stop my love, all is well now that we are together! We can finally leave this town and go explore like we always planned.” He purred in her ear.
“Please! Please let me go!” she sobbed as she writhed in his grasp.
“What do you mean, my love? We are to leave as soon as possible!” He said as he pulled her up from the dirt while she sobbed.
Good, he thought, there are those tears of joy. He hauled her towards his makeshift den in a forgotten part of the woods far off the trail. She was limping from a broken ankle. Wolffe stared down at it in disdain. He hated seeing her in pain. “You shouldn’t have been riding so fast my love, the fall would have been much smoother if you weren’t acting like you had no clue I was coming to get you.”
“What are you talking about?” she shrieked. “I have no idea who you are, but if you let me go, I promise I won’t say anything to anyone. I- I simply fell off my bike and had a spill!” she tried to persuade herself out of
this terrifying predicament.
“No, my love, your family will tell you that you shouldn’t be hanging out with the likes of me and manipulate you out of our love, I can never let you go after I just got you.” He simply stated.
Little Red paused for a moment; could she play this made-up fantasy in her favor?
“O-oh yes m-my love.” She muttered out with as much confidence as she could, “I just wish to say a last goodbye to my grandmother, she lo-loves you, you know this. I just wish to say goodbye very quickly.”
He paused and turned to look her over. Oh, why did the Gods bless her with such beauty? The small tear stains flowing down her freckled, sunkissed cheeks were going to be the death of him, he hated seeing her in pain. Wolffe thought it over; as everyone says, happy wife, happy life. “Ok my dearest, but only till noon. I don’t want you outside after daybreak, who knows what can happen.”
Like getting kidnapped? She sarcastically thought to herself. Good, let him undermine me, it’ll work. It has to. Little Red had made it a point to not show her physical fatigue. Her legs were shaking with each step because of her concentration. One more step, she thought, one more step…
This continued till she reached her grandmother’s house across the forest. She didn’t have much time left. It was bad enough that Wolffe most likely knew where her grandmother lived. This needs to be quick, she reminded herself as she caught sight of her grandmother on the worn-down wood of her porch.
“My goodness child! I’ve been worried sick!” Her grandmother exclaimed.
“Gra-”
“You took much longer than usual to get her- Oh Gods! What happened to your leg?”
“Grand-”
“What are you doing walking on that foot? It looks horrible, you need a doctor!”
“Grandmoth-”
“What happened?” her grandmother spewed out questions faster than she could get a word in.
For the continued story scan the QR Code!
Time
Thomas Sanchez
Time is a funny thing
Sometimes the clock is right but it goes too slow
You can talk to your friend for 10 minutes, but the clock says 2 hours You can go to war for a year, but the clock says 2 days Can you trust the clock or your mind?
When eating something spicy you can feel the burn for an hour, but the clock says 30 seconds
When you can’t sleep it feels like you’ve been up for 6 hours, but the clock says 15 minutes
The people who are with you and around you determine how fast the clock feels
When you are with that one person the clock just disappears, it doesn’t matter
The clock is no longer looked at
For that time it’s just about fun
Seeing your child grow out of their clothes in a week just feels like an hour went by.
But it goes fast
Sometimes it goes fast on the clock it’s the same thing
Until they start to change you feel the time dragging and go slower everyday Now it’s reversed it feels like you’ve been talking for an hour, but the clock says 2 minutes
Now she tells you she is pregnant the conversation lasted 12 days, but the clock says 2 hours
You decide to break things off and you will just pay the child support The only thing you look at is the clock, it’s now a countdown for 18 years
5 payments go by but the clock says it’s been 2 months
The longer you go without eating the slower the clock goes
As the clock approaches 18 years it feels like 35 years It also turns out it also took 18 years to find out the baby was never even yours
You hit the back of your watch and see the real time. It’s only been 2 weeks since she told you about this incident and she got the abortion anyway.
Yusafzai Roger Greiner
Malala
The Essence of Respect
Samantha Lonseth
We live in a world where differences divide, So respect we use as a guide.
Filled with thoughtfulness, care, and a helping hand, Bringing smiles to faces across the land.
Listening and learning about what makes us unique, Heightens the awareness that we seek.
Respect is a give-and-take, Fostering love in hatred’s place.
We come together stronger as a community, Respecting ourselves and those around us with the utmost unity.
Uncovering the truths of our planet and cosmos beyond, Each new revelation creating a time to respect and bond.
Weathered and worn but the memories thrive. I see us chatting and laughing just like old times.
I think of that night, when everything fell apart But please, you must know, I still keep you in my heart.
And so here I am, wishing to see you again as I stand alone In your old cardigan.
Gallego Wistfully
Dianna Gallego
Memorial Day, Asbury Park
Baileigh Rosenthal
There is something about New Jersey in November. It is too far from the height of the blistering summer and just right off the coattails of the romance of a local summer, and yet the days have been giving a whiplash of weather change. The crunch of leaves mimics the sound of my shoulders when I get up in the morning, because I can never quite get my sleeping position just right. I’ve drifted further into my mind, discovering the dark shadows and corners that hide within the wrapped-up feeling my head carries. There is never enough time, and my god, does time rattle my existence. Summer seems to last only a short time. I chase the midday sun, hoping to capture the feeling before the boardwalk blues strike my skin rough, as the wind always hits harder on a late fall day in Asbury. Back when I chased the streets of Ocean Ave, when I would sprint across the grass behind the Pony, and the night I was almost kidnapped in front of Paradise. The evening at Wonder Bar, I was squeamishly sinking the cheapest beer while watching women’s basketball because that felt like the only choice of drink that night. My old best friend, who left me haunted in Point Pleasant, was the highlight of the boardwalk scene. She knew all the bands and boys, and had me smoking cigarettes outside Johnny Macs every Friday night.
I would always drive, speeding way beyond the limit on 195, riding the high I had that night, hoping to find some meaning in my rundown Subaru. I didn’t even last a year with this feeling. My friends were slipping away from me, disappearing in Porta for a bump rather than sticking around for a dance. I saw myself following them down those steps if I didn’t get out soon. Memorial Day ripped my soul from my body, changing every way of who I was thus far, laying on the wet grass half-conscious, wondering how I’d get home. I gave up on all the vices that tethered me to that feeling, and lost my best friend in the end. Asbury still holds everything I am and love. I don’t visit the bars or the bands anymore, but I miss the feeling in my feet when our good drummer friend would play his heart out at The Break. I haven’t heard from anyone since that time in my life. They’ve become past characters in my story, and I’m always one for dramatic endings. I love nothing more than saying, “You’ll never see me again.”
“This boardwalk life for me is through You know you ought to quit this scene too”
Wannabe
Sabrina Halk
May
December
May:
Luana Fahr
When you were silver, I was gold. I was young when you were old. Did you forget that I remember? I was May and you, December? I ask you, does it matter still? You told me that it always will.
December:
You said I was your favorite song, But favorites never last too long, For when a newer song is heard, That melody becomes preferred. You can’t forget that I remember, You were May, and I December. You were spring and I was cold. You were warm and I was old. I knew I’d be your favorite song Until the summer came along.
Brooke Walker
Cat and Mouse
Sarah Woodworth
Bookends of Time
Baileigh Rosenthal
The clock on my grandmother’s wall
Time it was, and what a time it was, it was Creaking of the wicker chair on the patio
A time of innocence, A time of confidences Old German books holding particles from years before Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph If we spend so long hoping for time to stop moving; it will listen to us just for this once
Preserve your memories; They’re all that’s left you
Rabbit, Hare, Fox
Avery Masters
Rosa Parks Roger Greiner
Our Lady of the Rising Dragon
Mary Bilderback
Today she cannot say what skin she wants to live in. She browses through a virtual catalogue of decals, and images with suggestions.
Imagine, they propose: “a single red rose across the breast, a skull on the belly; words -- any language— names, dates, places; thorns, a sunbeam.”
Her mind undresses her soul-all she will ever know about herself— inside her skin, blank
empty, naked, a mirror to infinite formlessness as close to divinity as flesh— the only thing she owns—to give away.
Her eyes re-dress this mysterious invisibility with images of shocking beauty. She clicks on #10—never to be naked again.
#17-- a mountain scene, a valley with falling water. But she already is Earth.
She could map herself—toes to crown— already a masterpiece of creation. Every pore is an oasis, every lipid-glistening membrane sunlight on a dewwet field.
Soon life will leave its own marks-death, birth, the spontaneous art of “proud flesh” more impressive, longer lasting than ink.
*The “Rising Dragon” is a tattoo parlor in NYC
Tree Picture
Belynnda King
Once upon an indiscretion
Self Respect
Came a costly moral lesson. She came upon a knowledge tree And noticed what she hadn’t seen. Now within the light of day, Her budding flora in decay, Was surely caused by her neglect In nurturing her self-respect. She asked the tree how she could help To make amends and heal herself. The tree said she would shed her leaves, To live in patience; not to grieve. It taught her not to fear a thing, For there would be another spring.
Luana Fahr
Not-Thin-Enough
Sabrina Halk
My body has never been mine
Samantha Lonseth
My body has never been mine I sat behind while it declined
No carbs, no sweets, that was my rule looking back I was a fool
Thin as a toothpick and bones for miles, I can’t believe I was still able to smile
Tired and weak I became hospitalized even one day
How did I think I was healthy when every other word was help me?
Turbo
Cristina Ergunay
Seal Poem
Cristina Ergunay
Her kind is our hope,
Her broken, our boundless brave.
Sea her slice and soar.
Peanut
Aidan McCarthy
Born
Born of pain, the life in search of light, Breaking through a waterfall, Detaching from a lifeline, Screaming for salvation, Wriggling out of a stringy cocoon, Wondering why it’s such a struggle, An alien world, so far from its bubble, With open mouth and bulging eyes All fight to caress the life And draw from it, its innocence, Its youth, its truth. They sing to the life and want it to smile. It does, for its forgotten the tunnel, The pain and the tussle, The slither to earth, The trauma of birth.
Luana Fahr
Glass Jars
Kristen Park
Elizabeth tugged on the refrigerator door until its puckered release sent her stumbling back. Nearly empty. But cold. She set the bags on the floor as Willow thwapped the linoleum with her tiny palms.
“Who’s momma’s big strong girl? Sitting up so tall! Willow’s making music?” She plopped down across from the 7-month-old who on cue began to sing and slap the surface. Elizabeth held Willow’s tiny hands in her own – warm and fanning like little stars. “Clap Clap Tap Tap” she instructed.
Willow laughed full belly until she almost tumbled back but then righted herself all on her own. Elizabeth stooped and kissed the auburn curls as Willow began to crinkle the plastic grocery bag in her hands. She found a purple prune and an orange mango carrot Beechwood’s baby food and went to town shaking them like maracas and tapping them together in delight. Shake Shake Tap Tap.
Elizabeth turned to stock the fridge – eggs, a block of cheese, gallon of milk – all the WIC sanctioned items arranged in neat rows. As she felt the heat creep up the back of her neck – the burn of shame – like the glaring eyes and cold scoffs of the check out line patrons just moments before.
In one line they coo on about how beautiful her daughter is reaching across the bars of the grocery cart to squeeze her chubby little legs and in the next second straightening up in cold aloofness as the little vinyl purple folder splits open and reveals vouchers for food.
Elizabeth has everything on the belt in the exact order as the vouchers that she hands over to the cashier, but somehow, she is holding up the line, their lives, their days. Willow still claps and smiles their way, but Elizabeth can hardly turn around as the heat burns her ears purple.
“I am sorry ma’am but this seems to be the wrong brand of tuna. I will have to get a price check on it.”
“Nevermind—” but he is already announcing it on the intercom as a wave of sighs and scoffs erupts from the line.
“Those people—really ought to—if you can’t afford one then—”
Willow begins to cry and pound on the handrail as the voice crackles across the rafters.
“I don’t want it. Nevermind.”
The manager turned from the clueless cashier to Elizabeth with a glare. As the young cashier got sent off to restock, the manager finished her order inspecting each voucher and then her face and then the voucher for every item on the belt. Elizabeth wanted to snatch Willow from the cart
and just leave them all. Take her baby to the parking lot and nurse her and say forget all of this, all of them. But she knew she couldn’t. There wasn’t any food to go home to so she stayed and let them have their power over and pass at her.
As Elizabeth closed the fridge door and poured a glass of water, Willow tapped the little glass jars in sheer delight.
The crack was almost indiscernible, but the shatter – it was everything. The jars exploded across the floor and over Willow’s lap. Prunes and carrots clashed on her navy tulle skirt as glass glinted in the exposed bulb. Willow registered the horror in her mother’s eyes and mirrored it back to both of their dismay.
Elizabeth scooped Willow up and began to shake her as the puree plopped on the floor and shrieks set her in motion – screams that could split or could sustain – and these sent Elizabeth deeper into calculated response: strip skirt, cut fabric, extract shards with precision. Use hands to survey the skin – the places the eyes might miss: puckered, cold. Swaddle the child and remove one last sliver from behind the ear. Rock in the ancient wood where many mothers soothed before. Sleep in each other’s arms until you hear the key turn in the lock.
For the continued story scan the QR Code!
Longing
Juliana Zielcke
Shoes on the floor
Suspended shirts
Medals on the wall
Unspoken words
Longing
Steps in the hallway
Voices that echo in the empty house That the wind takes away
And the memory doesn’t allow to go away Are you here or there? Where are you?
Life that disappeared in minutes
Leaving eternal memories Who am I? I am a daughter
My eyes Samantha Lonseth
The Voice
Samantha Lonseth
Strong but weak
Happy then meek
Scared at every turn
Unsure of its return
Always trying to get in my head
There are so many things unsaid
Rather than coming out as words They fester in my brain like germs
The worries keep me up at night
Their little voice far from delight
When will this all end, who knows they sadly have become friends
The Point of it All Baileigh Rosenthal
This pen does not work. I am waiting for the ink to dry out with each word I put on the page, but I may have been wrong because each letter is scripted with the same effort as before. The hope for this continues on. I spend hours writing out cards for my friends. I’ve never been in love, so I like to say all my pent-up love gets spread out to my friends. They cry and admire the words I use to sculpt the image of them I have in my head, hoping their partners would only speak of them the same. Why is love so hard to come by? I find myself changing more than the seasons lately; as the roots in my hair grow out like the ones in the ground, I’m more disconnected than ever. Each time I read my favorite book, I am a different person, and I worry if I reread it, it won’t be my favorite anymore. My hair was red the last time I read it. Now it’s blonde. My natural hair hasn’t seen the light of day since my eyes met the words on those pages. I used to throw crystals in my bag before I left the house, and now it’s lipgloss. Is it wrong to mourn the person I was but not want her back? I worry that the next time I read my favorite book, it won’t be my favorite anymore.
It was as though a piece of me died in the fall, sunken into the leaves and buried in the stone-cold snowy ground. I’ve always hated the winter, the bone-shaking cold, the emptiness in my soul, and the lack of sun that makes my pale skin glow. It draws me back in time and I’ve never learned to catch up with it, chasing after an end I’ll probably never find. I can see the hope dangling in front of my face like some hypnotist with a watch trying to convince me I’m inching closer to grasping it within my hands, but this is the one thing I’m always too late for. Though I’ve convinced myself I’m doing better, I have sculpted the perfect life and the perfect day. My smile shines bright, my hair falls perfectly, and my shoes are always tied just right. I hold myself to a higher standard now. Did I brush my teeth twice this morning with whitening toothpaste to ensure the brightness? Was I up until 1 AM blow drying my hair to make it straight and smooth? Did I switch out my laces before I left for work so they did not look dirty? I have sculpted the perfect life, but no one will ever see the time it took. I’ve convinced myself the effort is care rather than a distraction.
Eagle Picture
Belynnda King
Birthed by the same Creator, Begotten an immortal hater
On the path of gravest sin, The piper led his merry din. Fallen from a splendid sky, The dawn of evil drawing nigh.
The Piper
Succumb to the depravity Or save us from iniquity. Though the choice was never stated, Saying love was overrated, Made us seek a lesser god, We realized was feigned and flawed.
And then upon awakening, We came to see a greater King Our hearts no longer weak and hollow, Have a choice of who to follow.
Luana Fahr
Brielle Pleva
Art
The Man in the Moon
Baileigh Rosenthal
I’ll turn up again when it’s all easy; the breeze’ll hit my face rather than my back. I’ve become friends with the man in the moon; he greets me kindly each night, illuminating my greatest dreams and biggest fears. He holds my tears in his hands, turning them into stars that hold promises for a better tomorrow, but just like my energy, they melt away as the sun overtakes the night sky. “The night is for dreamers,” he tells me, the ones who can’t be expected to be there but are always on time. I ask him to let me sleep for years and wake up when time is okay with my existence, let me leave forever, find myself in the mountains or trees, meet the old ways, and then maybe I’ll come back. He speaks to me about the importance of life and how the universe will open her wide, peaceful eyes and welcome me in caressing my soul with love if I just give the daytime another chance, to hold onto the sunrays a little longer, give time to the birds as they sing their sweet song of tomorrow and, let my feet rest in the pathways of my future. You can look around at your life, he says, and see that you have no one, but you still have the promise of time to lean all your troubles on, to carry your anxiety with you, and put your hope forth. Time is of your being; time is all you write about; stop fearing time and all it has to offer you. Don’t stop looking for me in the night. Though, when you call out, your voice might echo with no response. I’ll still be there sitting and watching as we dreamers watch, learn, and listen. When the time comes, we greet each other like old friends.
Broken Bells
Sabrina Halk
Where Pain Meets Light
Naima Towns
There is no ceremony for the body breaking. No applause for the ache that grips the spine, no chorus for the nights spent in silence, watching shadows stretch against the walls.
The body speaks its own language. a slow whisper of protest, a crack of a bone. Pain doesn’t shout; it lingers, a patient visitor who overstays its welcome.
But there, in the stillness just at the edge of surrender— is where light begins.
Not a burst, not a flash, but a slow gathering of warmth, tiny and persistent, filling the hollows pain carved out.
Humor comes softly, unexpected the way a joke stumbles out of a tear-streaked face, the absurdity of laughter breaking the tension, as if joy itself said, “Let me in.”
Healing does not happen all at once. It is felt in fragments the touch of a hand, the sound of a friend’s voice, a moment where breathing becomes easy again. It is the body, bruised but resolute, learning its way back to wholeness.
It is the heart, deciding, again and again, that it will not close.
This is where pain meets light not in perfection, but in the spaces, we choose to soften. Here, we begin again.
Journey Back in Time
Skylar Rosen
A journey back in time is what she longed and waited for. A journey where she could go back in time or go into the future and see what awaits. Jaiden was a girl in a small town. She lived with her mother, brother, and two dogs. Jaiden had lost her grandmother to a rare disease about eight years ago. The day she passed, her world shattered to pieces. She did not have many friends; her closest friend was her grandmother. To this day, she sits in sorrow, wishing she could see her. One hot summer’s day, she stumbled upon something that looked like a cylindrical metal container. The cylinder metal was quite small, and she tried to pick it up.
“Ouch,” she blurted. She tried to pick it up again after she let it cool down by pouring water on it from the bottle in her backpack. As it cooled down from the summer sun, she began to take a closer look at it. This metal cylinder had purple accents on the sides, her grandma’s favorite color. As she thought about her grandmother, she closed her eyes thinking of all the memories of her and the impact she had made on her. “Oh, how I wish you were here, Grandma,” she said in her head.
As she opened her eyes, she was distraught with what she was seeing right in front of her. “Grandma? Is...is that you?” she asked.
“Yes, dear. What do you want for dinner, sweetheart?” her grandmother asked. Jaiden had awoken at her grandmother’s dining room table. Her grandmother was only a touch away...but how? Jaiden began to freak out. She was so confused, yet so happy her grandmother was in front of her eyes. She ran to her and gave her the biggest hug. “I missed you so much!” said Jaiden.
“I’ve been here the whole time my sweet girl,” said Grandma. Jaiden tried to figure out just how this was possible. She thought she was in some sort of dream, but
she did not want to wake up from it just yet.
Jaiden asked herself... “How did I get here?” As she retraced her steps she remembered where she was before she had touched that cylindrical metal container. “How can a container bring me here?” she asked herself. The smell of her grandma’s chocolate-chip cookies filled her nose. As she tried to find the cylinder again, she could not help but try her grandmother’s sensational cookies she had missed every single day. As she took a bite, she saw the cylinder at the corner of her eye. When she picked it up, she had hoped that this cylinder would not only bring her back to the way it was before but also bring her grandmother back with her. She closed her eyes and wished to go back to her family with her grandmother.
She opened her eyes and, although she was back home, her grandmother was sadly not with her. “Grandma!” she screamed. She kept closing and opening her eyes, hoping that her grandmother would be in front of her again. When she went to talk to her family about what had happened, they could not believe it. “I saw Grandma, I really did!” Jaiden cried.
“Honey, what are you talking about?” her mother asked.
She showed her mom the cylinder and tried to prove what she was saying was true. Jaiden noticed something different about the cylinder. She saw that it had a compartment that opened. As she opened it slowly, she found a note she had not seen before. She pulled it out and read it aloud. “Hi my dear Jaiden, it is me, Grandma. Thank you for visiting me! I know it feels like sometimes I am far away, but I am always with you my sweet girl. Never forget, Grandma loves you.” She began to break down in tears. Jaiden realized that her grandmother had been with her all along.
Big Dreams Bigger Vision
Angela Batchelor
One of These Things is Not Like the Other
Sarah Woodworth
On the tabletop, ever so still.
Sat two oranges, with plenty of room to fill. One big, the other so not.
Freshly ripe, nowhere near rot. What may be the difference between the two? Some may wonder...
When the big one drops, does it sound like thunder? And the little one in the front, does it contain less juice? Even less than the big one can produce?
These oranges may not be like the other. But do they come from the same mother?
Girl Magic
Angela Batchelor
Fragmented
Victoria Clarington
I look out the window and I see Adrenna and Kai standing underneath the tree. I watch as he tilts her face up to look at him and I can’t help but feel that I am intruding. Looking away, I feel a pain in my chest as I am reminded of painful memories. I close my eyes trying to keep the thoughts at bay.
You look so peaceful, like you simply fell asleep under the stars. As I stroke your hair back away from your face, all I can think of is that there’s so much blood staining your clothes all over. As the tears fall from my eyes, I wipe them away with the back of my hand. Pain shoots through my right eye as I remember the open wound. A shadow falls over my bent head, making me tense only for a moment, but I simply stare at your face. I don’t have the strength to look up, whoever they are is unimportant.
If they have come back to kill me as well, I welcome the release so I can hear your voice once more.
“Little sparrow,” he says in a voice just barely above a whisper. Anger courses through my body as he kneels next to me. I feel him waiting for me to look at him, but I can’t. He’s too late. She’s dead. As he puts a finger underneath my chin, tilting my head up to meet his eyes, anger courses through my body.
“Where were you!” I yell, breathing fast as I push his hands away, my fist repeatedly hitting his chest. “I called for you.” I am met with silence as my eyes blur with tears. I turn to stare at my mother’s lifeless body once more. The anger I feel is no longer directed towards him, but to me instead.
“It’s my fault.” I whisper “She told me not to go there, not to be seen, but I didn’t listen. Foolishly believing it was because she was ashamed of me like everyone else. In the end, I am the reason she’s dead.” With a final cry, my body slumps against his, and he wraps his arms around me, pulling me tightly against him. My breaths slow and the anger begins to leave me, and all I feel is exhaustion. In the next moment, I am being lifted into his arms as he tucks my head underneath his chin.
“Sleep” is the last thing I hear before my eyes drift shut. A tear slips down my cheek and I wipe it away, quickly shaking my head as I let out a sigh of frustration. The memories are like a stain, forever marked in my head. They may fade with time, but the pain of them never truly disappears. I dance with the shadows of my past, constantly searching for answers I thought I once knew. I remember everything else. Remembering everyone else’s past. Yet I can’t seem to remember something as simple as his name.
Echoes of Us Roger Greiner
You waited for me in the rain of eternity, A lost soul in the stars. Standing on the edge of a dream, I felt your kiss light years away... such beauty was I struck by. We pulled each other close, Our souls in remembrance, We loved forever.
Bird Picture Jenna Haines
Funny
Thomas Sanchez
The story may have been ended for several months
It was almost like a punch
But I still won’t forget all of our time we spent I might just need to vent
I won’t ever talk bad about you Even if most of them were true If you ever need anything I’m right here Don’t hesitate to call me, I’m all ears
If you need food I’ll for sure be there I’ll be closer than far I’ll be near If you ever need a dollar, I’ll give you five Don’t worry I’ll put it in the drive
I always wonder why we split I’m not your enemy, not even a little bit I thought we could still be friends at the end of the day
But I guess I was wrong is what I’d have to say
I wish you the best I’m still right here if you need me
I don’t know if you’ll call me, but I guess we will have to see
How to tell a true love story
Thomas Sanchez
A lot of people think that a true love story is told by saying two people fell in love, and they fell happily ever after.
But this is far from true. I’m here to tell you how to tell a true love story. During the beginning of the relationship, you guys will both see each other as friends, and then close friends, and then best friends, and then a relationship starts.
During the relationship, you see them as a partner, you both have a good time, and then go home. This goes on the same way for about eight months.
During those eight months, you have the time of your life. You two are both happy, but you don’t realize it yet…
After those eight months now, you start to realize that person is the only person; you can’t see anything without them. You’re not happy, not even a little bit, not even at all. You’re just sad when you’re not with them.
From about eight months to a year, you two are both happier than ever. You both see stars whenever you look into each other’s eyes.
Then something gets in between you two. It could be one of their friends. Who starts feeding rumors into one of your heads. In the beginning, you don’t even believe it, not even for a second. However, they become so persistent they constantly annoy you. You’ve given in. You start to believe those rumors
Then you will start questioning everything; was this year a lie, or do they actually truly love you back? Then the person starting the rumors will start to tell you to ask your partner some things that don’t even make sense. Then a fight occurs between the two of you, however, at the end of the day, you two both forgive each other.
You come home and tell your friend that everything is OK, and they are FURIOUS.
Absolutely filled with hatred that their plan didn’t work. They will then tell you to do something else and you listen. They try about 4,5,6 different times, then the other person suspects something “You’re not the same person you used to be,” your partner will say. However, after every argument, everything within one hour, you both saw stars again when looking at each other’s eyes, the smile never went away. There’s always someone who is jealous that you are happy. But you don’t see it that way. You see it as a friend who’s trying to help you, and you believe them. The worst part about betrayal is that they were never an enemy.
After a while, the betrayer is now filled with steam, telling you to call off things right away, break up with them over the phone, they tell you You listen because you think they are your friend. One second after the phone call you feel horrible, and you know the other person feels horrible too, as the two of you were happy and now it’s not there anymore
For four months straight, you don’t stop thinking about them. You start to see them everywhere. You even hope to see their car in the parking lot just so you have an excuse to say hi.
For four months straight, you’re not happy anymore and again people will tell you the same thing:
“You’re not the same person as you used to be”
Then you see your partner move on, and that’s the breaking point. Because the way you saw them, they were perfect. In fact, you still see them as perfect. You saw nothing wrong with them. You two were both happy together, but you let something come in between your mind.
You reach out again and again, but after being betrayed so many times that person will never look at you the same way. Your partner does have the courtesy to open the door because even to them they were confused. Why did things end so badly?
You tell them everything and they still won’t take you back. They have moved on, but clearly you haven’t. When you become sad and depressed, you know for a fact, you are in love.
With someone or something, it could even be yourself, but when you become sad now, you’ll know for a fact, you are in love.
When you start to have panic attacks, or when you start to lose weight because your appetite isn’t there anymore, or when you don’t wanna do anything anymore, or when you’re simply not happy anymore, you know, for a fact, that you are in love.
You can keep trying and trying, but that person will never look at you the same again as they’ve been betrayed multiple times.
When you start to sacrifice things for yourself such as food, happiness, or time spent doing things even sacrificing your pride
If your heart aired on a radio, with the bass booming and the drums pounding, beatings of your broken heart will rise to first place on the charts
This is another indicator of love
However, there is only one way to know if that person will love you the same way.
If they take you back, then you can live happily ever after.
If they don’t, you won’t stop trying, eventually you would like to stop trying, but that’s not the realistic scenario.
You mentally can’t move on and start to question. How on earth can I go on? Living life, comparing each girl I know, right back to you? Knowing they aren’t you.
But eventually, you’ll have to move on, and you’ll say to yourself the same thing everybody says.
Never fall in love until you get married, because I fell in love once and after she left, that’s when I met my wife.
And only when you realize that you can now tell all your friends that, you know how to tell a true love story.
Dock
Sabrina Halk
A Story for a Statue
Christine Marie Stevenson
I walk to Apollo to tell him about my day to catch him up on the latest to tell him I’m okay
You see, I told him about my fig tree and how I gathered all the fruit I turned it into jam and froze it in little cubes
At first I feared he’d spread the word about my long list of worries but he kept my secrets close and told me to focus on my stories
So now I walk to Apollo like he’s a dear old friend I tell him all of my troubles and wait for the season to end
Statue Picture
Braeden Tighe
An Orange Sky Naima Towns
An Orange Sky is the last thing I see. Countless memories of jasmine scented dreams rush in.
Harmonies of soft words spoken, Starting out peaceful and becoming shrill. Warm touches from hands that now feel like ice shards.
Gestures and promises now seeming like threats.
The wind wrapping around me like a blanket, yet forceful enough to guide my movements. An orange sky is the last thing I see.
Sky Picture Jenna Haines
Window Picture
Jenna Haines
Listening
Thomas Sanchez
‘You have one hour starting now, I have a lot of clients, now tell me about yourself, anyhow.’
Thank you, I heard you had a good word from others, should I tell you about my family more specifically my brothers.
But never mind that- My name is Christian, I’ll tell you my whole life story I’ll just jump all in.
I have two siblings John and Jude, me and John are cool but Jude he’s a little screwed.
I don’t know why I’m going around the bushes with you, I know you’ll see right through.
I did something bad to someone I know. To my wife, I didn’t hurt her no, but I did threaten her with a knife.
I threaten her and I beat her. I know that I’m not right, but I just like to grab her tight.
But last week I hit her, I punched her, and it was all a blur.
I don’t know what I did, I only wanted the best, staying confused, not knowing is the only way I confess.
But I please ask you, what do I do?
I look up at the therapist, and it was almost as if I didn’t exist.
He is snoring sound asleep, it was worse than a knife knee deep.
The timer goes off, he wakes up with a cough
“Ok I think this is all for today, it’s time for you to be on your way.’
I leave with a smile on my face, as I told my biggest secret to someone who was in space.
Belynnda King
Colors
A clock ticks in the corner—
The Diagnosis
Naima Towns
Time drips like water, slow and unsure. The minutes stretch, silent and long, binding breath to the beat of something wrong.
A mirror cracks across its face, fragile lines splinter, a disjointed space. Once familiar eyes reflect the break— Whose body is this? Whose strength did it take?
The doctor speaks, voice carved from stone, a quiet truth that chills to the bone. Words land heavy, they linger and stay, writing a chapter I can’t turn away.
This body, a map I no longer read, with fault lines deep where the pain will bleed. The bones ache, the muscles weep, a restless heart fights, it cannot sleep.
Yet within this weight, a shadowed seed, rooted in fear but craving to breathe. For diagnosis is not where a story ends— it’s the pause before the healing begins.
The clock still ticks, the mirror remains, but hope stirs softly, breaking its chains. The body is fragile, but the spirit will fight— through splintered cracks, comes a sliver of light.
Light Wolf
Belynnda King
Memoir
Ellianna Nardini
I recall when I was younger learning about World War Two from my Nonna. She described her life in Germany as a young girl at the age of six. I was so interested in hearing about the history of her life and what she experienced; about invasions of countries and the rise to power of the Nazi Party. I remember thinking she was so young. She would recall the moment when she came face to face with a guard. He was recruiting my Nonna and her younger sister into the Hitler Youth. They were both eligible because they had the features of blonde hair and blue eyes. He said to them on the corner of their road “Are you both in school? You should be a part of our school.” When my Nonna and sister went home and discussed it with their mother… At that point their mother knew they could not stay. Being a refugee of the war, her mother would not take part in the ideologies of the new German government. So they fled. I would think how nothing like that would happen again, because the world has changed and so have people.
When I was in middle school, I would hear news about things going on overseas in Afghanistan. It was so hard to imagine because it was not going on here. The gravity of the situation there couldn’t be understood. For a young girl like me, I knew we were at war but not knowing what the goal was or how it started. Growing up, the impacts of the news took a different toll on me after the COVID 19 pandemic. It has changed my outlook on life and my goals. Therefore, I had an epiphany: I couldn’t stay in my house anymore. I needed to see the world and experience something new.
My friends, Suhail and Peter, from my previous university, were studying in London for the spring semester of 2022. Before the spring semester started, I went up and visited my old university where I saw them and discussed their new life in the new year. I thought how cool it was and how much I wanted to be over there with them. Since I told them I wanted to go there, they discussed me coming. Peter and Suhail would text and call me all the time to talk about when my spring break was and where I would want to go. So on Black Friday, I booked a roundtrip flight to London. We wanted to travel to as many countries as we could while I was there, so we all decided on going to Germany and Italy along with my time in England. My flight from Newark to London Heathrow will take off the night February 23, 2022. Since England was several hours ahead of the U.S, my landing was at 7:25am on February 24, 2022. A war crime occurred in Eastern Europe at 5am on February 24, 2022. At 3:40 am on February 25, 2022 the three of us would fly to Berlin, Germany as our first country to visit together; thus meaning I was a country away from a war.
When I stepped off the Heathrow Express in Paddington Station, I looked around for Peter and Suhail. Once we found each other, all of us hugged and laughed out of pure excitement. The gentleman they are, Suhail took my suitcase and Peter wore my backpack as we made our way to the Tube. We hopped onto the Bakerloo line to Maida Vale, which is where their flat is. On the Tube, we began to discuss the situation that was occuring. They explained that because they were studying abroad through the university, the flat doesn’t allow guests. This meant my identity needed to be a secret. The good thing was that we could hide my belongings in their closets. As we began to walk north on Sutherland Avenue, the two of them addressed the current news. The second matter of business was my phone doesn’t have international data and I did not have the news on my phone. That morning Russia invaded Ukraine, beginning a war. The comprehension of war was significant. I remember Peter saying to me as we entered the kitchen of the flat
“I know we might be getting ahead of ourselves but if anything should or does happen while we are anywhere, we need to come up with a plan.” I reflected on how I never thought about fleeing from something in this manner in my life. I remember my friends and I discussing all of the family in the EU we could all go to just in case. Peter has extended family whom we were visiting in Chieti, Italy and staying with them. Suhail’s brother was living in Paris. I have my Tante in Hamburg, Germany where I could take a train too. This was just a precautionary plan, because we didn’t know what the future would bring as it was my first ever day in Europe.
For the continued story scan the QR Code!
Solitude Jenna Haines
Short Story
Brianna Briggs
Mila and Kaya have been best friends since kindergarten. One day during kindergarten, Mila was crying because she had fallen off the monkey bars and had gotten hurt. Kaya heard her crying, calmed her down, and took her to the nurse’s office. Ever since then, they have become best friends. Mila loves to play soccer, and Kaya loves to play lacrosse. Mila and Kaya both got scholarships to the same school for their desired sports. They go to Brick View University. One day, something happens that changes Mila and Kaya’s friendship.
One day, Mila was in the gym because soccer had lift from 2-3 pm. After Mila was finished, Kaya walked in and Mila knew something was off. Kaya had a sweatshirt on with the hood up and was wearing sweatpants. This was odd, because Kaya always wore a lacrosse shirt and black shorts, no matter what the weather was. “Hey Mila, are you done with lift, and if so, would you like to go grab lunch at McDonald’s? I’ll drive.” Kaya says.
“What is up with you?” Mila asks.
“What do you mean?” Kaya looks away.
“I know something’s up because this isn’t you, what’s wrong?” Mila asks.
“Nothing!” Kaya insists.
Just then the gym puts the air conditioning on, and Kaya’s hoodie comes off her head. Mila is shocked to see a big bruise around Kaya’s left eye.
Mila stutters,“Um… um... K-Kaya… y-your e-eye.”
Kaya voices “Oh my god, it’s not a big deal, I just took a hard hit in practice.”
“You should see the trainer.” Mila suggests.
Kaya refuses and begins to scream. “No, because if I see the trainer I’ll get benched! We have a match in two days and coach is finally letting me start!”
“Wait, Coach Milon hasn’t seen the bruise?” Mila asks.
“No, and I want to keep this on the down low. He didn’t see it because it formed yesterday morning and we haven’t had practice. On game day, I’ll just cover it up with makeup. So don’t tell him.” Kaya explains.
Mila shrugs and says “Fine.”
Even though Mila had said she would not tell Coach Milon, she kept having this recurring thought that Kaya’s bruise would get infected. She decided it was in her best interest to tell Kaya’s coach about the bruise.
The next day, Mila went to the Athletic Trainer room to get her ankle taped because when she was little, her ankle gave out when playing soccer. Before games and practices, she has to tape it to stabilize it. When she walked in, she saw Kaya’s coach talking to one of the trainers named Willow. When Willow left and went to her office, Mila saw the perfect opportunity to talk to Coach Milon.
She went up to the Coach and asked “Hi, are you Coach Milon, and do you coach women’s lacrosse here?”
Coach Milon answers “Yes I do, why do you ask that?”
Mila responds, “I am Mila Rogerson, and I am best friends with Kaya Tarsia, and I thought I should let you know she has a bruise underneath her eye from practice the other day and I don’t think she should play.”
Coach Milan responds, “Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
The next day, Mila is in the library studying for her history exam. Kaya comes in and screams at Mila. “MILA!!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”
Mila says, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
Kaya says, “Like honestly you don’t know?”
Mila questions “Know what?”
Kaya responds “I’m benched until further notice, and I know that you went up to my coach and told him, because why would I be benched unless it was because he knew about my eye? I thought you had my back!”
Mila retaliates with “You left me no other choice. The bruise could have gotten infected. You weren’t going to tell your coach, so I did.”
Kaya says “Well from now on we are no longer friends. I will find a new best friend and I guess you will have to find a new one too because it won’t be me” Mila felt her heart shatter into a million pieces.
The next few weeks were awkward between Mila and Kaya because they were not speaking to one another. Every time they passed one another, it was like a cold draft was felt through the air. Mila wanted their friendship back but she didn’t know how to fix things because they weren’t talking. She then thought of something. Ever since they started college, Kaya had the biggest crush on Bryce, a sophomore at Brick View College. One time, in the communications class, Bryce told Mila that he liked the girl she always hung out with. Since Bryce and Kaya never interacted,Mila said to herself, “I’m going to play matchmaker!”
Over the next couple of weeks, she wrote secret-admirer notes. She forged Kaya’s handwriting so no one could tell it was hers. Mila slipped the notes to Bryce during communications class and asked Maddie, a junior on the women’s lacrosse team, to give them to Kaya. In one note, Bryce and Kaya were both asked to head to Olive Garden at 7 pm and ask for a reservation under Dole, which was Bryce’s last name. Kaya and Bryce both arrived and immediately fell in love with each other.
The next week, Mila saw Bryce kiss Kaya goodbye. “Aww, look at you two lovebirds! How did that happen?” Mila asks.
Kaya didn’t realize it was Mila, and says “Honestly, I don’t know, but I would not trade him for the world.”
Mila responds “I set you guys up. I wrote those secret-admirer notes.” Kaya says “No way! Oh my god, thank you so much for everything! I truly owe you! I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”
Mila responds “I have an idea; can we be best friends again?” Kaya responded “Of course!” They are now best friends again and realize they should not have had an argument over something so inconvenient. The End!
Sandwhich Stack
Sabrina Halk
Eating Healthy
Luana Fahr
The words you used were “so delicious.”
The sounds I heard were “not nutritious.”
Eating out or eating in,
Chicken with or without skin
Veggies steamed and no trans-fat.
Add some of this, but don’t add that.
Steamers trump a frying pan
Buy more frozen, ditch the can.
Humming to a different tuna,
Wishing I had done this sooner
Quinoa, couscous, and brown rice
Multigrain bread by the slice.
Toasted, wheat, or water crackers
Time to wake up all the slackers.
Exercise and do tai chi,
Meditate, walk by the sea.
Fast food out, and home-cooked in
Trying out a healthy spin.
Stop the cookies, chuck the cake.
Grill or boil, or roast or bake.
Fruit and tubers, healthy greens
But I still love cannoli cream.
Quirky Giraffe
Angela Batchelor
Poetry in the age of AI
A. Tabor-Morris
I danced around each word I chose for you reached my hand out so we together could be a ballet.
I was the other in the room I revolved space around each word the room spun as I became the axle.
It was for you I chose my words I weighed what I said genuine heft no panacea
I wasn’t sure I felt just a scrawl on a napkin back of the envelope
But you cupped my answer.
GCViews
Braeden Tighe
Overthinker
Samantha Lonseth
Overthinking is my enemy
I become my own worst frenemy
I jump to conclusions as a result of past lies and exclusions
Checking and rechecking, a never-ending cycle, it has me in a spiral
My thoughts are an addiction, messing up every decision I’m stuck in my head, for will I ever escape its dread It’s hard to move on and win the fight when your mind has more might
Pinecone Belynnda King
Somehow she knew this day would come
Naima Towns
Somehow she knew this day would come.. It was always a struggle to get her dressed up. Fidgeting and fighting to shove on frilly socks and tight shoes.
Tiny hands pushing and flailing, resisting oppressive materials.
Legs screaming to be free to run, jump, play... To get this over with! Her wild child.
A sweet sepia-toned face, deep dimples with raven curls that kissed her cheeks perfectly.
Unafraid of speaking her mind; a loud unwavering voice. Cursed to be born in a time where her voice, her existence, is a weapon, a threat. Unwelcome.
A loud unwavering voice, hushed by a world that can’t accept her resistance—her truth. A wild child.
Now, a still brown body. Free of struggle—free of resistance. Sinisterly quiet.
A sweet, forever sleeping face. It was always a struggle to get her dressed up. Somehow she knew this day would come..
Rosalie Fish Roger Greiner
For Emancipation; The Proclamation
Naima Towns
On this day I am told,
All persons
3/5ths of me, held as slaves Is given a choice; within any State or designated part of a State
In any time, the people whereof shall then be in rebellion against the United States In any place, that I choose. shall be then, Liberated? thenceforward, and forever free; Forever free. and the Executive government of the United States, including the military and naval authority thereof, Authority over my own body? will recognize and maintain the freedom of such per-sons, Protected by this law, and will do no act or acts to repress such persons, Protected by this country, or any of them,
Dedicated to
in any efforts they may make for their actual freedom.
Making me…free?
But…what is freedom?
What is freedom to a lacerated back?
To calloused hands,
To a scarred womb.
What is freedom to a broken family, to a lost family?
To memories of unspeakable horrors.
To looking over your shoulder after every move. What is freedom to knowing you will never know who your people are; That this is who you are now. A “free” American.
What is freedom to Long Hard
Days of
work
With little to no pay.
To waking up and knowing you’re “free” another day? Freedom! Right? Having the choice of where to go!
But where is the freedom if bondage is the only thing you know?
I’ll tell you what my freedom is. My freedom is resistance.
It’s protest.
It’s tearing down a building I built to show you that you will not forsake it. Unfortunately, my freedom is disturbing your peace, to receive mine. My freedom is justice.
Overall, my freedom is not for you to determine. My freedom is mine.
Every week I put on the green
Love Hate
To support my team, Seeing them win is always a dream. Every week when they step on the field, My eyes, skin peeled. So many years, so many regrets, My lovely New York Jets.
Blake Lucas
THANK YOU PAGE
A Special Thank You
President Eugene Cornacchia
Provost Janice Warner
Associate Provost Michael Gross
Dean Mary Chinery
Department of English
Art Department
Department of Communication, Graphic Design, & Multimedia
SMJC Library
Ethan Andersen of Princeton Strategic Communications
