Fountain Spray Art & Literary Magazine Spring 2025
Letter from Editor
To all who have the pleasure to read this issue and engage with the pages of the extraordinary work of numerous individuals, I wish that you may be touched by the writings and artwork that encompass this magazine.
In our creative pieces, lies our most authentic self. Everyone’s life journey is unique yet encompasses aspects that individuals can connect to mentally, emotionally, and physically. Our creative works can resemble a piece of the life puzzle and mirror an aspect of our own lives or the lives of another—drawing from the past, remaining in the present, or reflecting on what can be, the ready-to-be-molded future. In the world around us, we can find inspiration and capture that inspiration in our writing, artwork, photographs, etc. Additionally, in our surroundings, life experiences, and self-discovery, we can find every emotion, depending on the moment, and those emotions can drive us to create.
The Fountain Spray Literary and Art Magazine gives everyone the platform to have their voices heard and their talents displayed, captured, and witnessed. I will never forget my time on the Editorial Board of Fountain Spray including the memories I made and experience I gained as an Editor, then Managing Editor, and now Editor-In-Chief. As my time at GCU comes to a close, I hope the Fountain Spray legacy continues to thrive and the Editorial Board proceeds to germinate.
I thank all who have contributed their works to this year’s issue, and I hope that this magazine inspires people to contribute to the issues that follow. I also want to express my gratitude to Professor Wedlock, Faculty Moderator, for her guidance and direction during the process of constructing this issue, and the entire student Editorial Board who worked so diligently and utilized their many talents to make this issue the way it looks as we hold it in our hands today, as well as for making my last semester in Fountain Spray one to remember.
Event Coordinators: Belynnda King & Rowan Krutchkoff
Reviews Editor: Baileigh Rosenthal
Budget Manager: Thomas Sanchez
Editors: Niya Barden, Briana Briggs, Jamie Hetzel, Belynnda King, Rowan Krutchkoff, Kayla Latendresse, Blake Lucas, Patrick Poulson, Baileigh Rosenthal, Thomas Sanchez, and Naima Towns
Faculty Moderator: Professor KP Wedlock
Cover Art by Blake Lucas
Layout & Design by Blake Lucas
Dedication to Dr. Louise Wootton
Georgian Court University Memorial Service, March 16, 2024
To Louise Wootton
To leave this world you had to empty your pockets of all the beach glass you collected, of all the sand dunes on Island Beach State Park you planted with dune grass.
To leave this world you had to let all the hot summer days— raking clams and scraping mussels in the mud of Barnegat Bay— squish out between the toes of your sandals.
You had to close all the books you’ve studied, forget all the chemical equations you’ve balanced, all the digital scales you’ve tipped, all the waters you’ve swum in, and the wonders that captured you— as you captured bait in seine nets— the sparkling wonders that you let loose in other people’s minds.
To leave this Earth you’ve had to leave a bouquet of native plants— their names a song you leave us to keep on singing: Ammophila breviligulata, Spartina Patens, Spartina altiniflora, Prunus maritima, Rosa rugosa, Rus radicans, Solidago sempervirins, Carex macrocephala, Carex kobomugi, Ambrosia confertiflora—better know as ragweed.
To leave this world you had to unclench the tools of your trade— the meter sticks, soil corers, Buchner funnels, hand lenses, scopes and rubber waders, gaffs, pitfall traps, calamine lotion, mosquito spray, sun screen, and all things kitten.
Continued
Where did you store all the blueprints for rain gardens, storm water basins, rain barrels, recipes for Tardi Gras parties— the famous Category 5 Hurricanes?
To leave this life you had to say FareWell to Family and Friends, Colleagues, and Beloved Students who made it easy to love life on this planet, and nearly impossible to leave it.
Thanks for leaving us the wealth and wisdom of a woman who loved this Earth and made of her life a gift of that love for others.
—Fondly Submitted by Mary Bilderback, RSM
Julian Rodriguez Lion Pamela Dong
No More Gloomy Days
Every day is given as a gift, please do not take this lightly. Yesterday’s problems may carry on, I know.
Days and days could build a trapping void deep beneath your captivating walls, Seeking to breach and let loose only to feel a glimpse of happiness.
Blessing, do not forget that you have a heart of sunshine. When your heart weeps, understand you are making a rainbow since you have grown and learned the simple storms of life. Know when days of sadness hit, that Joy, and the beautiful bliss of finally, sprouting your petals, are near.
For you are like a beautiful flower.
The storms hurt, leave you in pain; How is it you still bloom such a divine glow?
The importance of a new day is that you can make more than one move.
Take your time to heal the absence of presents and worry about the only present, and that is the present.
Forgive the past and let go of the chains clenched in your heart. Breathe so you feel your body fill with life, and exhale the hurt you feel in your soul. Tell yourself that today is beautiful. Even in upsetting times, A bit of happiness can go a long way.
Because from now on There will be no more, Gloomy days.
8 9
Mathematica Wings
Beth Schaefer
i painted the marks you left on me and now my skin bleeds a new color Jamie Hetzel
do you remember when your fingertips ran burning sulfur over the treacherous grounds of my skin? i wept as my arms burned blazing with scolding, ageless fire, tar melting in a pit below me, the tip of its flames only extinguished by the rapid surrender of my tears. do you remember the second the cursed words left the sanctuary of your bitterly silent tongue? i pulled our blanket closer to my lungs, and when your dark face numbed quietly, i wrapped my feeble arms around my waist, tied my hips together with the familiarity of your old touch beneath my cold hands.
do you remember the dress you sank your metal fingers in, the one your ripped to shreds as i held you? my fists closed as i stared at the window, shifting gazes to the women outside who had certainty sculpted in their bones — praying your silence wouldn’t bite my skin and tear it apart to uncover my organs.
do you remember
the day your car broke down and when the slosh of oil fueled your bitterness? i sat in the hospital room and slept, whispering under my tongue i deserved it — as the same tongue that felt yours dripped obsessively with the memory of your taste.
The power of the sun Julian Rodriguez
do you remember when your phone vibrated in the night like a flatlining heart monitor? i coughed the pepper of the dinner we’d had into my stretched palms — and when your justification came out a mix of twisted monologue pieces, i was contemplating if i cooked dinner right. do you remember the way your hands pinned my hips, like a child with a hand around its throat? and i crawled and fought and scratched, using strength i couldn’t control, to slide away from the fiery eyes
that ate my spirit alive, and kissed my chest, to tell me i’d be alright. do you remember every hand mark that landed on my skin, covered up by cheap drugstore concealer? i watched the mirror get destroyed, ripped from the wall, shattering in the sink, and as i’d stare at each fragmented glass — i turned on the faucet, to let the water find and sink the memories of you.
The power of the sun, I planted the seed of life, in a place where chaos reigns supreme.
A mass body of death and broken souls. But I have gave you life, and for this I must shield you.
I will be your protector, I can brighten your darkest days, let me be, Your sun.
Always providing, I give you nutrients And always adoring, I give you warmth, For I love you with all my heart, sweet creation of mine. When I set, Remember I will always find you. For in the deepest clenches of darkness, My light will always guide you.
I will make sure that when the sky is dark, I will shine my light at a mirror in the sky people call the moon, So, you may still grow when I leave. And last, my little sunflower remember, You are mine.
And I will never Hurt you...
Let us grow
Julian Rodriguez
Ava Ott
Let us grow
Stop being in a state where you cannot think. Let feelings drift, as you become nice and calm with your own body.
Stop letting clouds ruin your sunny days, we need the immense power of the sun to live and grow. So why are you living ... in the dark. Take my hand, Please
You shouldn’t have to suffer anymore that what you endured. I will be your safe space; I will be your light.
If I fail.
If I fail my task to bring you back, Just know that I’ve tried.
For some plants grow in the dark, but our leaves glow radiant.
Our future stands strong, we were meant to live and grow. I will not leave until my job is done, I will not back down, So please, Let us grow.
Detached
Till the day dies out Julian Rodriguez
Bright radient light awakes me from my hibernation like sleep.
Songs of birds and animals fill the air with a beautiful energy. Complications arise throughout my day, but yet I still breathe.
Through my eyes, Curses of realization and truth prohibit myself from becoming scorn in this world.
Deep breaths set my mind on course and yet,
Feelings of drowning flood in, Inflating my mind with wonders of my unseen truths. Faded is the night sky, and faded were my eyes, overturned with the illusion of happiness, I said goodnight to my pride.
The light is gone but our feet still stand, Fried and tired i say goodbye, and my heart will stay safe,
Till the day dies out.
The Gift of Life Kayla Latendresse
My story… What defines its beginning? What will define its end?
My first heartbeat, The moment my little body was filled with life and my blood filled my veins.
My first breath, The moment the air touched my skin and filled my lungs.
My first cry,
The moment my vocal cords made their first sound and the hospital room was filled with relief at its joyful noise.
As I grew, I made milestones and went through internal and external changes.
As I developed, I underwent life’s challenges and became stronger.
As I matured, I made mistakes and I learned.
As I evolved, I tried new things and discovered more and more about myself.
Self Portrait
Cassandra Scott
Moments in Time A Collection of Irreplaceable Items Kayla Latendresse
Objects tell a story, and they speak if we listen closely to them… My chosen objects are a piece of my life and represent memories I wish never to forget…
Each item holds a special place in my heart and triggers my mind to reflect on different times in my life…
When reflecting as I observe my objects, deep thoughts come to mind, and this is where the adventure of exploring special objects begins… Join along on this journey with me… Moving along yet standing still…
From the start, my heart danced…
My first ballet slippers, where does the time go? My feet were so small to fit into these ballet slippers a time ago. These dancing shoes are very special to me because they represent my start as a dancer. These shoes paved the way for my years of dancing and began me on the journey of discovering myself through learning and practicing the art of dance. Although I am no longer practicing dance, the art of dance will forever be a part of me.
Ballet was the first type of dance that I learned. When observing my ballet slippers and holding them in the palm of my hand, I am reminded of the place where I got these shoes and how excited I was to have my first ever pair that I could call my own. When learning to dance, I had to observe and follow the steps that my teacher would do and then remember the moves and positions for each class. At the end of each dance year, my dancing school would put on a recital. I would be filled with nerves and excitement as I would perform for the crowd and my family in the audience.
Now back to these shoes… these ballet slippers took me on an adventure to acquire the knowledge of the artistry of dance. While wearing these little dancing shoes I would be able to call myself a ballerina and this meant so much to me. The shoes I hold in my hand have touched the floor of my whole dance studio and the floors of the stage when I would have my performances with my age group. Although they look slightly worn, for the most part, they are well preserved. Once again I am reminded just how small my feet once were when I was just
a little girl to be able to fit into these small ballet slippers and how they must have easily slipped on my feet. I must have felt like I could have taken on the world with these special dancing shoes. A pink silk ribbon now holds the two ballet slippers together. Each ballet slipper is tied ever so elegantly together as they are not only bound with one another, for they never lose their fellow friend, but they connect my past self to my present self.
On top of my watercolors, creating my path…
An artistic piece representing the start of my expression of my creative side. Creativity makes up who I am and this watercolor painting, I believe, I made when I was in art class in elementary school as a young girl. I was directed by my art teacher how to sketch the two flowers with their pedals, but I was granted the freedom, along with the rest of my class, to add my own unique touch with the colors I chose to fill in my pencil outlines. I can see my pencil sketches of the flowers and their leaves, and when my hands were holding the paintbrush began with the paint and where it bled out its intended area. I remember wishing the watercolor would not move out of the lines I created as barriers, but now looking at my art piece I think the paint that drifted on the paper gives it character and makes the piece even more unique. Nothing is perfect in life including my watercolor painting and that is what makes it so special. I found this painting in my mother’s room. She has kept it all these years in a special spot on her dresser and I am thankful to her for keeping this creation from my childhood because I can now always look at it and be taken down memory lane.
One flower is white, and the other is blue with a purple outline. Each flower has a yellow center and green leaves with what looks like light green and dark green watercolor paint mixed together. The blue sky in the background fills some of the spaces, but some areas still show the white paper behind. This look of the blue watercolor being somewhat speckled, gives the painting a texture appeal. I wonder what age I was to produce such an articulate sketch and painting. It really captures the beginning stage of my artistic qualities, use of my imagination, and love of being creative. I have always loved creating and to this day I always want to create and use my imagination. Furthermore, I love flowers, so this artistic piece is me in a nutshell.
Art is for all, and to be appreciated, but the one This is meant for is ME.
For the future and in the veins in my heart, this is who I am deep inside.
Dandelion
Merri Schick
spores on the wind, how do you fly so freely? spread on the wing of some other calling, where your forebearer cannot follow.
when you soar beyond imagination, in search of a garden to call your own, do you thank the soil before you bury your roots? do you know the price paid for your freedom?
and so it begins: you float away. forever nurtured and protected, a miracle of her last bloom. does she want to let go?
can you?
oh, dandelion, how beautiful it is that you could say goodbye without guilt. i’ll watch you bloom from afar, perennially ruminating over my own reluctance to part.
i will belong forever to the pappus.
Part of Kitchen
Cassandra Scott
When America Looks in the Mirror Nnamdi Achebe
Self-Purification is our only salvation To Rebuild this Nation A Dark Reality
Where the only language we know is brutality Thus is the norm For our lives to be mourned What is an Isis When we cannot solve our own crisis We act we like we know this But have the faintest desire to notice We are animals if we riot But nothing gets done if we decide to be quiet We are in a battle for this country’s soul Yet no closer to the goal
Why We Riot Nnamdi Achebe
To them
We look like a sea of senseless
Agents of chaos
Reigning Hell upon Earth
To them
“We have gone too far”
However, I would ask them
Was it too far
When Mr. Floyd’s lungs were crushed
Over a supposed counterfeit bill
Was it too far
When Mr. Martin’s lungs were met
With a single shell casing
Because a simple cloth he wore over his head
Made him look “Dangerous”
Was it too far
When Mr. Brown’s body reeked
Of metallic sulphur
His hands up in compliance
Was it too far
When a minor traffic violation
Resulted in Ms. Bland believing that A garbage bag cutting off her air supply
Would send the message
Was it too far
When illegal entry ended with Miss Taylor having six rounds
Embedded in her chest
Was it too far
When seven year old Ms. Jones
Received rapid hot metal to her brain
Because of a suspected drug raid
One story above her
Was it too far
When Mrs. Till’s last image of her baby
Was a bloated body decorated with heavy mutilation
His right eye dislodged from socket
And his neck ravaged by the barbed wire
That had gripped his neck so tightly
All because he whistled at a white woman
Was it too far
When Ms. Lumpkin’s body endured Mr. Lumpkin’s penis
Force itself inside her
Resulting in seven children being delivered
In a cell littered with human excrement
So how far is too far
i hired a hitman on the person who killed myinner child
Jamie Hetzel
“who?” croaked the hollow voice in disbelief; his skepticism held with considerate knives — i answered coldly a testament to my sorrow and my various incapable, multimedia lives:
“someone took the girl by her shoulders, dressed her joy in slanted Bible verses. it justified her exponential exhaustion, until all solace she found was in their curses.
she conflicted fate with her cold temptation; as the sun soon became fluorescent, out roared the morning light in terror, until even its darkness became excrescent.
they ignored her only when she wept, her internalized agony scarred and void, they inflicted their designated importance on the things i begged her to avoid.
her once persuasive optimism melted by years of tear-contemplated fear. as peer pressure swallowed insensitivity, her life catalyzed by the none that hear.
brown waves of angel-finger-tipped grace soon became the host of her insecurity, her once kind gaze became overwhelming, full of aggression and malignant impurity.
but the worst was when i found her body, lifelessly sprawled on that hospital floor. she overdosed on that bottled empathy until she couldn’t hold her love anymore. kill the one who killed her kinder,
so the memory of her perpetual screams don’t become frozen with cruelty, etched endlessly in my surreal dreams.”
Nature’s Reclamation
Ava Ott
My Dear Luana Fahr
A scarlet stain upon the snow, erased by rain and sun. I hope you knew I wept for you, my darling little one. The tears that rolled down both my cheeks, were not just for you, dear, They ran for all the times you fled when you succumbed to fear.
You laid your weary head on roads and gave up your last breath. You did not know that you had found your vehicle of death. I hope that it was quick, my dear, so you were spared the pain Of seeing why you were destroyed for no apparent gain.
There are those that argue that when the numbers grow If there is no space, my dear, then where are you to go? The on purpose hunt for sport and accidental kill Make you such an easy prey and forever will.
Beer Ice Lottery Naima Towns
I’ve got a blank space, and I will write...
Naima Towns
“Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore”
And I’ll give you discounted liquor, Stale cigarettes
Lottery tickets
And false dreams.
Dreams that one day it’ll all get better. That you’ll make it big.
That you somehow have it in you to beat the powers that be. That one day the children you created will have a good reason to live.
That your grandparents will have been proud to fight for you.
That maybe one day this Bag full of discounted liquor, Carton of cigarettes & Lottery ticket
Will not be your American Dream.
Liberation.
I will write the names of all of you screaming to a world that doesn’t hear you.
I will write the stories, and traditions that made you who you are.
I will share the beauty of your nature, your humanity. My pen will be your key to freedom. The ink inside becomes blood, shed for a good reason. With my words you will know what it is to be liberated.
I’ve got a blank space, and I WILL write your name.
Poem Enlightenment
Juliana Zielcke
Pamela Dong
I found my face on that wall
Innominate face next to other memories
A cluster of dreams
900 years vanished in 2 days
1941. The squad didn’t knock on the door They entered our home
And there was fog, It darkened the village…
That’s when I lost my face
Oh face, why did you go away?
I’ve been walking around in a haze of wonder
There are piles in my labyrinth:
Shoes, hair, arms, numbers
Carved souls
Mute, I stare at my face on the wall
It survived the tempest, the fog, the slaughter
And now, it is whispering to me:
“I kept your soul!”
Written by Juliana Zielcke, April 20, 2011
Inspired by the Tower of Faces at the Holocaust Memorial Museum
Dear
God Nnamdi Achebe
Dear God,
I could feel everybody watch me
Like a pariah lost onto the street
We are supposed to help and protect
Yet these days we are indistinguishable from prime suspects
I don’t wear my uniform anymore with joy and pride
Because all people see is their loved ones die
Do you still believe Thomas Sanchez
In a world where The Bible, Scriptures, and the Scrolls are being known as a Literature, the Religious side is fading away. No one attends Church, with an empty classroom of a Christian school, every day. People say.
“I believe in the scientific method of the world being created,” then they celebrate Christmas.
So, are YOU Christian when YOU want to be?
No one gets ashes on Ash Wednesday, “I can’t, don’t have the time, I’m in a rush, got to go to work, I CAN’T BE LATE”
So, you are only Christian when it’s in convenience for YOU?
Now the Church is seen as, a place to be explored and people say it’s a sign of architecture. Everyone is welcome in,
“We are only here for research purposes and to know what people believed at that time!”
Well people, still believe in God now, right? Why don’t you ask the believers? You can’t! Do we not believe in the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ? No, only a few, most Churches are abandoned like this one, no Priests or Bishops entering. No one is learning about Christianity. Its only seen as history just like this one. Once a part of everyday life, now it’s just a stupid thing people believe in, right? The ones that do have a Priest inside, he just sits are reads The Holy Bible to himself, no one is inside anymore.
Baptisms? “I will not let my child be exposed to lies, I just won’t.” Catholic school? “No, my child will not be molested by the Bishops”. So, one bad egg means the chicken is dying, right? The Church is supposed to bring, Peace and Joy. Even on this computer the word Church has a blue line under it saying it not to be capitalized. You believe what you want to believe, and I respect that, now respect my choice to believe in The Father, The Son, and the Holy Spirit.
And remember the saying, God wants you in Church more often.
Stained glass
Pamela Dong
The Poetic Definition of Despair
Jamie Hetzel
oh, you should’ve heard the mother weep, her bloated face soaked like shattered rain; she cried out, “he was in his bed asleep!”, with a despondent unfamiliarity in her pain. she held that sweet boy who held void eyes, who spoke no sweetness and kissed no more, who slept on rainbowed-land free of lies, who faced an oath she never once swore. she stared speechless in swallowed sadness, her soul begging silently for sufficient mercy; and as her heart danced in agonizing fastness the reality blended and bent the controversy. until all care that was left was cold crimson, and no deity‘s defiance dared her darkness; her weeps a lament to her joy’s extinction, her once loving heart full of black starkness.
the blue bird doesn’t bathe its woeful wings in the surely-sizzling scent of scolding flesh; he flies above the damsel’s bound swings, her versed cries stinging, cold and fresh. and as those chilled obscenities turn obsolete, her blue eyes shift breathless and bruised,
the bird ascends in exit: ignorant and discrete, the witch’s wails calloused and abused. existence exists in the memory of words, showered by the victors’ false neutrality, to the point their vivid fear stomps in herds, shaken miserably by their mocked morality. age or beauty shields no flower from drought; yet there still sits an achingly vicious venom, hidden miserably in its miraculous doubt —
young fate decided by the corrupted plenum.
hark! the religious deceit swims in his tar eyes; his considerations war and peace in regard. he kneels before the slanted verses and lies, peoples’ calls of his misrepresentation barred. he begs and slices his skin to appease them; sinful stones thrown at the barbaric bother, screaming of some intolerant condemn, the relentless hunt on behalf of his Father. words only amplify one’s avert apathy — till their jaded jeers are justified by gentleness, swept sinfully in a skillful-silk tapestry, envy laced together with artificial blissfulness.
still, the morals in his chest hold critical jest, His angelic apologies sounding like mysteries, captivated in prophetic polarized crest, his soul’s death just one of the killed histories.
the voicemail is bound with her velvety voice; oh, mercy — how her once-opaque exterior is now showered with her transparent choice; the internal wreckage proves amnesia inferior. mistakes! meticulous, but merciless mistakes; exposed to the gossip’s grim gravitational, the fluttering of gazes soon critical stakes — their conversational sure to be configurational. guilt is like an endless guise of sank grace, benevolence dreaded in worry of presentation, spilling from the sides in sick longing to abase; all morality halted, in formation, in damnation. it eats one alive until our ribs seem pathetic. the worry of wondrous words and its pull, gazes equally as condemning as apologetic; so when you do apologize, the voicemails full.
our souls ache to acquire and accompany,
similar vernacular laced with bells and songs, yet ridiculed reduction: your invisible company, it makes me a mockery of your rapid wrongs. for you though, love is but sweet afterthought, a secondary reward of your swift skies — even the sun becoming a sacrificial argonaut, killing its own vitality for your sensitive eyes. in wrong, bewildered tears among livid ego, spacious balloons of exceptional credibility, swindled treaties saying we aren’t a lentigo, replacing the non-existent with tranquility. mentally digging for fossils in my ribcage, calling your name until it sounds realistic, overburdened with never-satisfying outrage, our eternal separation frigid and sadistic.
static pain turned stoic by swept stations — oh, how her reflection reflected dying roses, existential realization, lonely sensations, overwhelmed with the truth it imposes. a lust for a life limitlessly lost in lacy waves, once drive that turned her into a sybarite, her youth shriveled in the inevitable graves,
cynical clouds marking the end of daylight. death’s icy bone-hand is pacifistic, truly, when compared to the suffocating dread, the one glimmering end to that coulee, like the regretted disregard in your head. it’s as if a golden color’s final ending, slow perish, outspoken to transparent, unrealistic fantasies of its future mending, forced acceptance; otherwise aberrant.
bare his bearings-scheme; his boyish pride — it’s as faulty and pity-smothered as reflection, aimlessly idling around halcyon and snide, aimlessly reaching defeat in adhere objection. he claims his language is silently justified, yet he is just elucidating his own screaming, his hellish evilness heard from evils that died, his heart sprawled out as he lay beaming. crucified by the most outspoken calamity — one’s own criticalness valued cherished, even at the expense of connective amity, even when it bellowed as it perished. in the hymns practiced guiltily in thoughts, and in the widowed luxury that isn’t real — the silence of one who is arrogantly ersatz, the one who looks to cry; speaks to squeal.
the same pillow that hosts your petulant head, emits a jaded-venom like a crowned deceit, those tearful tragedies you prayed were dead, only understood in nightmares so discrete. outside there waves a wintery magnificence, a world of which you choose so violently, to spit at the host amidst the munificence, a pain so guilty; confusingly and silently. the regret is what pinches your ribs in fire, aching for a softening of the rust of feelings, the sunken hollowness of broken desire, with so called “pleasure” seeming healings. while it’s a confusing reality to be discussed, chain your chest in blades if you fail to admit: despair holds a morally-frigid home in us, like this, it’s nullified, so terrifyingly infinite.
Statue 2 Pamela Dong
Fire Nnamdi Achebe
I am at an art studio
I’m looking at all the different paintings
Sculptures and Portraits
Until one catches my eye
There in the middle
A painting quite large
It’s size taking half
Of the Wall it is nailed too
Almost the entire canvas
Is engulfed in a sea of fiery red and orange
With the outer perimeter being black
I stare intensely at the colors
And soon they begin to animate
Suddenly it is like looking at a fireplace
I think of love
The first time I got butterflies
My kisses becoming much more personal
My goodbyes becoming a lot harder to say
My stares becoming a little longer
My hugs a little tighter
Our conversations a lot more passionate
My heart a little more vulnerable
I think of hate
The first time I was lied to
Arguments becoming worse overtime
Streams of tears pouring profusely
Feelings of regret and self pity
Burying a piece of my soul
Now I always feel a bit of coldness
My heart a little less alive
I stop staring
And leave the studio
Completed Fragments Victoria Clarington
Prologue
Renn-
I have always loved the rain, or maybe I forced myself to learn to love it. Maybe it’s because there is an absence of color in the gray sky, but it feels as though there is stillness in the world, for just a moment. Or maybe it’s because the change in the air tells you that it will rain, and if you take the time, you can feel the energy that comes from the storm. When I hear the constant booming of thunder and watch the lightning streak across the sky it allows me a moment to get out of my own head, which brings me a moment of clarity. When the rain has finished it feels as though everything is new -a cleanse has happened- feels like a new beginning. I used to force myself to simply stand still and allow the droplets to hit my skin, needing to stay a little bit longer. The first instinct is to run inside, find shelter, however, I found that by standing there, just a little longer, the tenseness began to fade from my body. Over time I would have an overwhelming need to step outside, sit on my porch staring out into the sky, watching as the water ran down my legs, or land onto my fingertips as I reached out to grasp it. On those days I would open my curtains -that I normally keep closed- or if I am walking somewhere I slow my steps and enjoy the coolness of the water soaking through my clothes for as long as I can.
Chapter 1
Ren-
The ground shakes as a piercing cry cuts through the silence of the night, bringing chills to my body and making my eyes pop open. Blinking a couple times to take in my surroundings, I find myself staring up at a blanket of darkness and I realize that I am staring up at the night sky. There are a few stars that dust it but there’s trees that surround me blocking the view. As I stand, I realize that I have been lying on the outskirts of woods and as I look to my right, I see a clearing where there is a river and faint lights. As I walk closer, I see a woman kneeling in the grass at the edge of the water. Though her back is to me she appears young, but I can’t quite tell. Her head is bent, her whole body shaking, and she seems to be hunched over something and whispering. As I take
tentative steps towards her, I begin to realize she has been attacked, I see that her clothes are ripped in different places and there’s red stains that have soaked into her dress. Her curly white hair is pulled up but there are loose strands that have fallen out, now matted with blood. There are dried streaks that run down her neck and along her shoulders. Along her back and arms there are bruise that cover her dark skin-she has black tattoo like markings all over-, as well as cuts along her feet. My breath catches as I catch a glimpse of what is in her arms. As I reach my hand out to her everything goes dark.
I find myself looking up at my ceiling, drenched in sweat and a chill runs through my body. I feel a sense of dread when I realize that the dreams are back. As I turn to check the time on my phone, I see that it is 4 a.m. and know that I won’t be able to go back to sleep any time soon. The only thing that will calm me is to be out in an open space, so I step out of bed and throw on my black hoodie and shorts. I tiptoe through the house trying not to wake my sisters -as I get downstairs, I grab a blanket and towel from the living room- and step out my back door forgoing shoes. As my feet sink into the wet grass, I lift my face to the sky and take a deep breath as the rain lightly hits my face.
Though it is dark and the only light I have is from the moon, that streams through the trees, I take confident steps as I walk the path, I have walked many times before. I walk until I see the edge of the clearing and am welcomed by the open space that overlooks the water and the dark sky. There are rocks along one side of the cliff that form a semi-circle, so I lay the towel down and settle on top, wrap the blanket around my legs, and lean back against the rock. As I look out into the water, it feels like I am staring into the abyss, it’s never ending. The noise of the world has quieted and all that I hear is the crashing of the waves below, as the rain falls gently against my skin bringing a welcome chill. I turn my face to the sky, taking a deep breath enjoying the smell of the salty ocean air. Hidden in the night surrounded by the trees around me I feel at peace with the silence and wish that I could stay in this moment forever.
“There you are Renn” a voice says softly and a moment later I feel a tap against my forehead. I must have drifted off at some point, because as I blink my eyes open, I find myself staring up at Alora smiling, her blue locks framing her face.
I turn my head and see that the sky has begun to brighten and can see the sun start to peak through where the ocean and sky connect. Looking
back, I see my sister Odessa -who is rubbing sleep from her eyes and stifling back a yawn- walk towards us. They must have come to find me when my alarm went off and I smile knowing Des is not a morning person and was most likely irritated by being awakened earlier than necessary.
“Sorry” I say sheepishly, “I needed to get out and think, and I left my phone inside.” I say with a smile as they sit on either side of me.
“Of course you did, you never seem to remember it.” Des says gruffly.
When she gently nudges me and settles under the blanket leaning against me, I know she truly doesn’t mind, having to come get me.
They know about my dreams -so they know why i am out here- they don’t ask any questions and we sit in comfortable silence leaning against one another for a while just listening to the waves.
“Are you ready to head back?” Alora asks.
I take a deep breath, nodding my head yes.
We all get up and I stretch as they gather the blanket and towel in their arms. They begin to walk ahead of me, back down the path that leads to our house as I follow behind. I stop as soon as I reach the edge of the clearing where the trees begin, and as I turn to look out at the water, I begin to feel the excitement course through my body. They must have looked behind them and could see I paused, because I hear them each sigh and say,
“Not again, why does she always choose that way?”
“We don’t have time to do this today, we all need to get ready.”
As I look back, I see Alora holding in a laugh as Des shakes her head, resigned to what is about to happen. I smile and let out a happy shriek as I begin to race towards the edge of the cliff and in the next moment I am flying through the air. There is a moment as my body falls and my stomach drops that I feel fear, but as I near the water I close my eyes and as I enter the cool water surrounds me. It’s peaceful down here.
Holding my breath, allowing the water to pull me down lower, I squint my eyes ignoring the slight sting, I stay there for a moment longer. I begin to kick up and when my head breaks through the surface, I tread for a while looking out into the distance. The colors of the sky mix to create a beautiful view.
Above me I hear screams, and in the next second there are two blurs falling around me, the water splashes, then I see their heads break
through the water, and we laugh. We stay there for a little longer and I wish that moments like these last forever. Des reminds us we need to go before we’re late, so we start swimming back to shore.
It’s the end of summer but we have some time left before the weather changes and the warmth leaves us, so as we make our walk back to the house we aren’t shaking. By the time we get to the door, we’re mostly dry.
“I’m showering first”, I called before racing inside.
Chapter 2
As I enter (name), a comfort washes over me as the smell of coffee fills my senses. This place is where I have spent most of my youth hiding away, the library/cafe is where I feel the most at peace.
“Go grab a book and your order will be ready.”
“Well, hello to you too, but I haven’t ordered yet.”
“Hello. Renn I’m not doing this with you today, go grab a book and then I’ll bring your order over.”
“But I hav-”
“Adrenna Kehlani Montero, you spend every free moment you have here, and you order the same thing every time- a strawberry lemonade and one red velvet cupcake- like clockwork.”
“Ok... but I could want something different.”
“Yeah, ok keep telling yourself that, I am your best friend and know you too well. With that said, go grab your book, sit your ass in the chair by the window –like you always do- and I will be over with your order on my break.”
“Fine, you ruin my fun every time.” I grumble before turning away to find a book.
As I get settled into my spot by the window, I begin to read the book I picked out. A moment later Raelyn (Rae) sets my order down on the table in front of me and sits in the chair besides me. I closing my book I turn to face her.
“How’s your day been so far?”
“Pretty good until an unruly customer showed up.”
“I wonder who that could have been.” I say dryly.
“Anyway, how was your day?”
“It was fine, I’m trying to enjoy the last couple days before I have to go back to school.”
“Are you ready?”
“Eh, I’m just glad it’s almost over”
We sit in comfortable silence for a little while before Rae gets back to work. By the time I have come to the end of my book I look up to see that it has gotten darker out and rain has started pouring heavily. As I stare out the window, movement to my right catches my eyes and I squint to see the dark figure that is beginning to appear. A second later I see a guy appear under the streetlight, and my curiosity is instantly piqued, because there’s something different -almost strange- about him. The few people that are outside are running inside to find shelter from the wind and heavy rain, but he’s just standing there. I tilt my head as he raises his head to the sky letting the rain hit his face and trickle down, with a barely there smile playing on his lips.
In all of the chaoticness of the storm he just stands there unmoving. He turned his head towards me, as if something were pulling him to my direction, or just felt my eyes burning into him and as our eyes locked my breath hitched for a moment. He was beautiful- I could see he had a tiny scar on his right cheek, and full black wavy hair that ends at the nape of his neck, and covers his eyes. He has tattoos that run up his left arm and I’m sure that they continued past his sleeve. However, it’s his eyes that intrigue me stopping me from looking away. His eyes are so unique, the color was a strange gray which like the sky, a war seemed to be raging inside them. They seem full of mystery and secrets I found myself wanting to know. Those eyes that stare into mine, seem to reach the very depths of my soul, they seem to see me, they carry warmth but it’s something darker and almost sad in them.
Not my property
Naima Towns
Once the tears fall,
From the eye and down the cheek
They are no longer mine.
I have given them up. They belong to the ground, the earth. My ancestors collect them, I water the earth, bringing forth new life.
Once the problem becomes too heavy, it is no longer mine. I shake it out of my head, and offer it up to the sky. What happens next, I don’t know. It’s not my property anymore.
Fear is fear itself
Thomas Sanchez
Joe was big and tall.
6’3’ 250 lbs. and no that’s not all,
He has big muscles could easily chop down a tree.
No fat on his stomach not even a sliver, perfect as can be.
He has Janice on his right, and Mary on his left side.
Why am I writing about a perfect guy?
He has one minor error, and no he’s not a cheater.
Does he starve himself to keep this look? No, hiss big appetite, keeps him an eater.
Something so big people laugh at him every time.
People make it seem like what he has is a crime.
He doesn’t like abandoned buildings or caves.
Not even parties past midnight to even rave
Are you getting it yet? No, I’ll give you another clue,
Something worse than saying boo!
He doesn’t like going out past sunset.
It is when he’s on edge and he has his threats.
No that can’t be! He’s afraid of the dark
He would be lying if he said anything but yes.
People roll his eyes about his fear.
But it is no joke at the end of the year.
He can do more than most.
MRI machine? That’s no problem as he doesn’t like to boast.
“Help! Get me out! I’ll break the machine!”
He hears this all the time and laughs, this isn’t mean.
When I said his fear, everyone did the same thing.
“Kids are afraid of the dark” everyone on the same string.
“MRIs are no joke,” You might speak up.
The people are in no danger, and just like Joe they have to suck it up.
This is for. Naima Towns
Untitled Angela Batchelor
The fox that I saw today.
Lifeless, still.
Sleeping eternally on the side of the road.
Waiting to decay or be swept up by a department dedicated to collecting the bodies of creatures that once were.
This is for
The fox.
The deer.
The raccoon.
The possum.
The groundhog.
The cat.
The dog.
May your lives have not been in vain.
And may you frolic freely amongst the clouds without the threat of four wheels.
What Remains
Luana Fahr
She’s like sunshine Naima Towns
A silken glove, a lipstick stain, Do not disdain what still remains. You cannot live in absolutes. Discover truth, Though sometimes black and white, You may discover gray.
Just pray, That tossed around, You may have found an edge; A way to avoid the ledge You thought you’d fall from. But through it all, you underestimated What you had to overcome. You are the one that makes it work, Like Captain Kirk. Warp speed ahead, But no, you said. No need for speed. Now time to heed Each one of those who Stopped to smell the budding rose And waited for the Full bloom, full moon, empty tomb.
Warm like pie.
Easy on the tummy & nothing short of satisfying.
A smile like stars, radiant.
Her laugh unlike any other sound I’ve had the pleasure of hearing. Willing me to want to do anything to hear it, again & again.
Hair soft, resemblant of a field of flowers.
Fingertips gentle, yet move with such direction.
She’s not a prize to be won but by God, do I have such luck.
She is all the colors I could ever know.
To know her is to love her in every way.
Her twists and turns an adventure, Never dull.
In a world where I can be anything, Am I blessed to simply, Be hers.
My sunshine.
Lollipop
Brianna Briggs
Untitled Cordelia Godfrey
Love teaches us
How to trust, How to let our guard down, How to share our trueselves with someone, How to accept someone for all they are, It can bring joy, It can bring laughter, It can bring smiles, and something you never felt before But love also teaches us How to miss,
How to worry about what may come next, How to over think every little thing, How to want the best for someone even if it hurts, It can bring anger, It can bring confusion, It can bring tears tears, and emotions that you cant describe Love is so many things Its beautiful yet chaotic Its peaceful yet scary
Sought after yet so much to handle But in the end… Love is worth it
Untitled Angela Batchelor
when i met Grief Merri Schick
when i met Grief for the first time, i realized memories consume like cannibal stars.
She saw my cardiac vessel living in multitudes across an ever-expanding universe, and held me as i cried. though She has moved out of my immediate orbit, i still place my hands upon Hers every night to ask the same questions.
how can i stop aching for any person or place i’ve lost when my brother and i were loved into existence inside our mother before cosmic dust could even call us gemini? how can i stop aching when i know entropy like a lover?
my father’s hands withering away, the absence of his color and warmth. his love was my polaris, his leaving the sun’s final labored breath. how can i survive subzero when implosion is inevitable? has he returned to the celestial choir, or will his bones sing beneath the surface until mine join them?
galaxies removed from the milky way, Grief watches me run rings around saturn in my sleep, hoping my dreams will gift me one final embrace. every night, i beg for Her answers:
will Her voice fade into obscurity like my father’s has? does keeping Her on a longer leash mean i have accepted that he will never return?
when i met Grief for the first time, i learned how to hold space without sacrificing my memories as Her pound of flesh. as i drift away, starbound, Grief asks me a question of her own. i haven’t heard Her, and i will not look back.
(“are you ready to say goodbye?”)
MATLAB Eyes
Beth Schaefer
When you smile its different Belynnda King
The white wall that makes up a smile can mean anything.
The smiles I normally see are either genuine or fabricated, either caught in a moment of bliss or put on like a mask.
But when you smile, it’s different.
You never had to use those white walls of yours. Instead, you had two smiles and I saw them every day. They were different shades of vibrant grey.
I think I was the only one who saw those smiles of yours. The way they creased when your white wall divided, the stoic beams they gave to barren trees and snowy days. I could tell what you were thinking behind those smiles of yours.
When you smiled, it gave me all the confidence in the world. Your smiles told me everything about you, even when you weren’t smiling. Such warmth and comfort came from your smiles and I’m sure you think my white wall was different from all the others, even though my walls have chips and cracks. But you never needed your walls to be genuine, like so many other people did because when you smiled, with your two-toned circles of joy, I saw you smile and everything in-between. The good, the bad, the scary, the hopeful. That’s why when you smile, the world seems a little bit brighter, and the days are a little bit clearer.
When you smile at me with those big stones, somehow know that everything will be ok, even if it’s not for eternity. I will always be convinced that those cool grey marbles are your true smile, no matter how many people say that they never see your pearly whites. I know that I never have to because that isn’t your true smile. Your true smile lies within that cool yet steely gaze and that’s why I know that when you smile, it’s different.
Untitled Jenna Haines
The small woman ran quickly in the darkness of the night, carrying the only evidence of the secret that she had been hiding for so long of a time. As she sprinted, the sound of grass and fallen trees crunched under her feet. Though the shoes that she wore never kept her feet safe from the jagged ground, she never stopped or slowed from running. She only did so to catch her breath and check the luggage that she carried with her. It was silent in the forest that she ran through, but she knew her destination and understood the directions in which she was to go. She understood to rest during the day and run all night long. It was the only thing that kept her alive during this journey. After three tiresome nights, the small woman’s efforts had paid off when she reached her destination. In front of her glimmered the small lake in the soft glow of the moonlight. She stared in awe at the body of water, recognizing all the little lights as the stars that shined above her. Across the skinny dirt road, she smiled gently at the building that stared back her. The small building with the red cross above the door. Her gentle smile was mixed with both calmness as well as anxiety, with joy as well as sadness. As she crept around the lake, she never dared to let go of the thing in which she was carrying. The plan in which she was carrying out had to be done quietly and fast. So, she sprinted across the road like a silent fox, placed the luggage on the ground in front of the door, lifted her hand to knock, and sprinted even faster away from the building that she ran so far to get to. In her arms she still felt the warmth from the baggage that she carried. Her skinny body was well hidden behind the tree as she stared at the door and waited for someone to answer.
When a woman wearing a short white dress answered the door and smiled down at the item placed in front of her, the small woman knew that her job here was done. She
continued to watch though, as the nurse carried the item into the building. Gently swaying it back and forth in her arms. A warm salty tear rolled down the small woman’s face as she stared at the door closing behind the nurse. The nurse who was now holding the small woman’s baby in her arms. Though I have no clue what happened to my birth parents or why they put me up for adoption, this is the story that I always imagined in my mind when I was younger. I understood greatly that women in China were to birth boys and when a woman were to birth a girl, it was looked down upon heavily. Women were also only to give birth to one child in China, due to the government law that was held in place at the time. So as a young girl, I always imagined my birth mother running through the night to drop me off at the hospital at which I was found. Though I don’t know a lot of information about my birth family, I know that my origin story starts with them. Whether they wanted me or didn’t, isn’t up for me to figure out. All I know is that I was loved enough for someone to drop me off in front of a hospital when I was a year old.
Untitled Angela Batchelor
One then Two Pamela Dong
There was one
One to hug
One to hold
One to love
One to smile at
Now there is another
Hugging two
Holding two
Two with different personality
Each with different strengths and weaknesses
Each with their own cute smiles
Finding enough love for both
Is there is enough love?
Yes, there is enough love
It is like an ocean wave
An endless supply of waves coming into the shore
Two amazing individuals
So grateful to have both
So much a part of me
Now I can’t image my life without them
The Valley
Patrick Poulson
The boy's cries from fear, sadness linger as he walked in the valley of the fog. Tears remain silence regains. The little boy stops and sees the graves. The images came in as the ground Shakes.
Emotions freeze with the chill of the breeze coming from the deep dark hellish void. The screams and cries come closer as he sees the bodies of the dead.
The boy shaken by the view he feared comes back. The insanity and corruption begin as his skin boils his screams begin with endless suffering and pain grows like poisoned vines containing his cry’s.
His faith burns like the trees in the forest. The fog disappears as war continued. Muskets and swords drawn as men in horses fled. It feels like all is ending as blood drips from the corpses of the dead men.
It’s never known if the boy was a commander of a past life but, the voice of a young girl is echoed across the valley of bloodshed.
Was he a prince or a soldier it’s never known what the valley of fog showed him But, the guilt and pain of his current life still sprang with the loss of people he loved but, nobody els felt the same for him.
He who holds the deepest pain suffers the greatest pain not knowing his life is diminishing in a slow painful pace.
Fear, obsession, tales gone wild Afflicted children, Salem trials, Spells and sorcery suspected When religion was rejected. Tituba, the voodoo princess, Rituals and burning incense. Work of demons in the land, A woman writes with her left hand. Families, neighbors, watched each other Turned in by one’s very brother. Imprisoned in suspicion’s veil, Accusations, young girls jailed. Spectral evidence, possession, Spared through giving false confession.
“Burn witch! Burn!” the people cried, While parents watched their children die.
Salem
Luana Fahr
War days
Luana Fahr
Out in a daze of glory,
A mound of casualties with silent mouths
Agape with maggots screaming.
Free for all, hullabaloo, more for me, less for you.
The spirit was dead, the flesh was weak.
An iron will, slayed by burnished metal
Left smears of plasma meshed with grass.
An open eye would scare the head.
An open head would scare the eye.
Tattered flags of make believe or satires
Of freedom ring, ring, ring…
No more ringing in the ears of maggot food.
Words could not assuage the onslaught.
The sacrificial herd rehearsed
With games and drills, but still no dialogue
To prevent devoured parents.
prologue to my loss Jamie Hetzel
It’s kind of weird that I’m writing this. not weird in the typical disregarded and manipulated, slipped agonizing way or in the forgetfulness that shivered alone in the casket of your ambition. not weird in the scarlet persuasion laced with false accusations as the scripted words escaped your tongue. not weird in the way that my guilt manifests as your face — it glows coldly in the shine of my pained windows, held together only by the feeble bones of what once was strengthened by your authenticity. Now, I’m afraid, the weird feeling is the ache of humored betrayal that still taunts my ribcage. the fluttering of wings that will soon be silenced by the pathological impatience of mother nature’s barred breath. Hell, this isn’t weird — it’s downright impossible, to think you could see my eyes and see me: a surreal simplicity, yet coldly an enigmatic epiphany. I contemplate if these words will seem benign or if they’ll become armed mask men invading the burrow of your mind. will i cautiously capture your sweet sorrows in my icy ignorance, or will my words leave a waning warmth that you find in my benevolent deliverance? I’m not sure if your silver eyes are shaped like the lies that fall and rise in the chilled words of Iago’s liked disguise or if you’ll find the cries of my internal moonrise darkened by the revise; “listen to her and those sickly rhymes.” Will the words remind you of the kindness you killed in your incomprehensible hold, or will the insensitivity come as a firework in the fiery secrecy yet untold? in treacherousness held together in red-cemented gowns that go past knees, scarless words now a sunken ship for that falsely-ethical sea. Here I am, and here I breathe. walking your street under your purposeful heat, beaming with false glee and depravity.
Iron Walls
Luana Fahr
Fat, a precursor to fecundity
In hips, in breasts, milky white, and sometimes brown, Or all the colors of the rainbow.
Jump to embryos inside a swollen underwater palace
Migrating to an unsuitable habitation
Rife with emotives, emojis, emeralds On certain birthdays.
Lingering in an isolation, igloo, ignorance On certain subjects.
The hieroglyphs of long-forgotten caves reveal A touch, and visual, not virtual stuff of peopleReal life, now written off, scribbled in a Strange device of unsympathetic metal.
Eager to go forth from my sheltered space , Only to speak through iron walls.
Untitled Angela Batchelor
Reflection
Kayla Latendresse
Traveling Along
Album Review
Baileigh Rosenthal
The third iteration of Noah Kahan’s junior album comes a little over a year after the initial release of Stick Season. Kahan, already a seasoned musician, rose to popularity after his song Stick Season went viral on TikTok. Within the following months, Kahan released his third full-length album in October 2022 by the same name. With 14 songs in the folk/pop genre, the album gained traction with songs like “Stick Season,” “Northern Attitude,” and “The View Between Villages.” Kahan takes us on a vulnerable journey through the time that exists between when the leaves change and fall in the splendor of autumn and when winter comes to turn us cold. Exploring the vulnerability of self through heartbreak, love, and depression all set to the landscape of Vermont, a place many see as a field of nothing. Six months after its initial release, Kahan followed up with a second iteration, Stick Season (We’ll All Be Here Forever) accompanying the original 14 song with 6 new additions. Some standouts of the new bunch include “Dial Drunk” a pleading upbeat tune of a usual drunk dial to your ex, “Call Your Mom” a soft lullaby asking the person you love to hold on a bit longer and to not let the darkness fool you as “all lights turned off can be turned on” and, “You’re Gonna Go Far” a hope to a loved one who was able to escape and do greater things beyond the town they grew up in. Kahan has a way of encapsulating the feelings of growing up and experiencing the dread but also hopefulness that comes with it. Within these songs Kahan invites us to feel and talk of things we’re usually keeping to ourselves as everyone knows what it’s like to dread winter in your hometown. We’re brought to the conclusion of the Stick Season universe in February 2024 with Stick Season (Forever) a culmination of all 30 songs including the features with artists like Hozier and Brandi Carlile as well as his final “new” song “Forever”. As this journey for Kahan began on Tiktok it ends the same way as “Forever” went viral in its infancy before release. Throughout the year and a half of this musical journey Kahan has reached a whole new audience of fans touring his album in arenas all over the world. Allowing people to feel a sense of togetherness through his songs that has seemed to be missing from the world.
From the Archives
David Faas
A Special Thank You
President Joseph Marbach
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
