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e g a t n o m


changing of the seasons

M O N TAG E ART

AND

LITERARY VOLUME 2018

37

JOURNAL


MONTAGE Montage is the annual student-produced art and literary journal of Quinnipiac University in Hamden, Connecticut. SUBMISSIONS Submissions to Montage are free and open to all Quinnipiac students enrolled at the time of the journal's publication. Submissions were accepted in the categories of poetry, prose, visual arts and photography. Submissions were reviewed blindly by the Montage panels. COLOPHON The fonts used throughout this publication are Franklin Gothic, Adobe Caslon Pro, Gotham, and Antro Vectra. Seven hundred and fifty copies of this journal were printed by Tyco Printing in April of 2018 in New Haven, Connecticut.


staff CO-EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Erin Kane CO-EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Christina Popik

PROSE PANEL

John Acker Rosie Persiani VISUAL ARTS PANEL

Rosie Persiani

John Acker Madison Fraitag Rosie Persiani

ADVISOR

JOURNAL DESIGN

MANAGING EDITOR

David McGraw

Christina Popik

SEASON DESCRIPTIONS

COVER DESIGN

Rosie Persiani

Jess Tyree


Dear readers, In your hands you hold the hard work and dedication of the Montage staff and the passions of the Quinnipiac students. Thank you for picking up a copy of the 2018 journal. Words cannot describe how much this journal means to not only me but the art and literary community everywhere, not just at Quinnipiac.

When first becoming co-editor of Montage, I didn’t know what to expect. All I knew was that I had a passion for photography and Christina by my side. Christina and I are very visual people so we knew it would be hard for us to bring more writing to the table and that is where Rosie came in. Without Rosie, I don’t know how we would have attracted so many writers. I knew it was going to be difficult to follow in Kristen and Kyle’s footsteps, but I think we made them proud with this journal. Christina and Rosie put so much time into this organization especially when I wasn’t around as much and I couldn’t thank them enough. Without them, you would not be holding this journal. You would not even know the name Montage. I am lucky to call Christina my co-editor and Rosie the next editor-in-chief. I am even luckier to call them my friends and my family. Along with the three of us, all of the members of the panels helped us take the heart and soul of the contributors and put it into this journal. So many hours went into the making of this journal from front to back. The panel was dedicated to going over every single submission we received and breaking it up into the sections. After many cups of coffee and white-board drawings later, there is a journal in your hands.

All I can hope for now is that more people on this campus continue to share their work so that more of the community can see what we have to offer. There are so many talented people at this school and I believe that they should share their work with the world.

6 //

Letter from Editor

Please enjoy this journal and appreciate what our community has to offer because it really is extraordinary. Montage was my creative outlet and I hope that either by reading or participating, that Montage becomes a creative outlet for you and you feel just as comfortable sharing your work as the members in the journal. With love,

Erin Kane

CO-EDITOR-IN-CHIEF


Dear readers, If you’re reading this I can only assume you’ve picked up Montage’s 2018 spring journal. (Lucky you!)

I took the position of Co-Editor-in-Chief not really knowing what was to come. It was spring 2017, I only had went to a handful of Montage's open mics, and suddenly I was in charge of the entire organization. Though that's the case, I am very proud of the direction my fellow co-editor Erin and I have taken Montage this year. Montage has become known on this campus over the past couple years to be one of the only organizations that allows students to express themselves creatively without limitations, filters or guidelines.

Having the opportunity to share your inner workings with people that want to do the same is a beautiful thing; it’s what we as creators thrive on. It is so important to keep encouraging artists and writers to keep doing what they love. Art is how we let our thoughts escape and how we let people into our lives. Art allows others to see our emotions, our struggles, our life lessons, and our growth. To be able to provide that outlet through Montage is extremely rewarding. Erin, Rosie, our panels and I have dedicated hours into every little detail of this journal down to the font. From several crashed InDesign files to staying up until 2 a.m. putting this together, I would not trade this feeling of appreciation of all of you for the world. Thank you for inspiring me through your words and visuals and reminding me why I love the creative path I have taken as a designer.

It was an honor to not only be exposed to the amazing works in this publication, but to be the person to bind them all together and into your hands. So with that, here lies the gains, pains, hormonal rants, bad days, ooey gooey love stories, and artsy fartsy photos, of the Quinnipiac community. I hope you find something you love and if you're in this journal that you cherish your contribution as I do. With love, CO-EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Letter from Editor

Christina Popik

// 7


table of contents

8 //

Table of Contents

FALL 16

Rules Joseph Powell // Poetry

17

Poised Thinker Kirsten Koedding // Photography

18

Disconnect Jane McNoble // Painting

19

Density Sarah Marek // Poetry

20

Seventeen Amanda Teti // Poetry

Donald Hall Poetry Prize Winner - 3rd place

22

The Color of the Day Sean Raggio // Poetry

23

Untitled David Lowe // Photography

24

Sun Voyager Anastasia Campos // Photography

25

Through Rain, Sleet or Snow Andrew Breunig // Prose


30

Writing's on the wall Christina Popik // Photography

32

She Calls It Home Sophia Alf ieri // Poetry

34

Zeus' Love & Strife Maria Ascher // Painting

35

forced anonymity Jenna Shankman // Poetry

WINTER 38

Stairways Elizabeth Freeman // Photography Nana Elizabeth Hrywriak // Poetry

40

Sanitarium Rebecca Root // Poetry

41

Roses Madison Fraitag // Photography

42

Tunnel Vision Sophie Frank // Photography

43

nothing Nhung An // Poetry

Donald Hall Poetry Prize Winner - 1st place

Table of Contents

39

// 9


46

The Cries of My Heart Maria Parenteau // Poetry

47

Rehearsal Sophie Frank // Photography

48

Summer in Toronto Jeremy Troetti // Photography

49 An Article of Fiction and Non-fiction Anonymous // Poetry 50

The feminist perspective Lauren McGrath // Poetry

52

Black or white Morgan Tencza // Photography

53

Codependence Shelby Petrie // Poetry

55

28 degrees Crandall Yopp // Photography

SPRING 10 //

Table of Contents

58 Untitled David Lowe // Photography 59

#metoo Anonymous // Poetry


60 Heart of Hearts Rosie Persiani // Poetry Donald Hall Poetry Prize Winner - 2nd place 61

Shadows Jordan Wasylak // Photography

62

Leveetate Richie Petrosino // Photography

63

barefoot. Kirsten Koedding // Poetry

64

Breaking Out Scarlett Blydenburgh // Prose

66

Flower Lady No. 1 Jess Tyree // Illustration

67

Inspired by the Blues Mackenzie Fenn // Poetry

68

Reach Samantha Bashaw // Photography

69

Serenity Erin Kane // Photography

SUMMER Table of Contents

72 If Time Waited For Us Lily Calao // Prose

// 11


Table of Contents

12 //

73

Diamond Eyes Erin Kane // Photography

74

Rewind Sophie Frank // Photo Illustration

75

A Broken VHS Tape Caroline Gottlieb // Prose

77

Sterling Crossroads Brantley Boyda // Photography

78

Clover Erin LeDrew // Drawing/Painting

79

Henry Erin LeDrew // Drawing

80

Road less traveled Caitlin Cryan // Photography

81

No Royalty Carly Timpson // Poetry

82

What good is a Poem? John Acker // Poetry

83

Woman of the Elements Jordan Wasylak // Photo Illustration

84

Constellations Ian Berkey // Illustration

85

Me or Moon? Emily Mitchell // Poetry


86

Brunt Madison Fraitag // Photography

87

Secret Garden Madison Fraitag // Poetry

88

Looking to New Horizons Caitlin Cryan // Photography

89

Multiple Puppets Disorder Nate Walsky // Prose

Wilder Fiction Prize Winner - 1st place

96

Who we are

108 Acknowledgments

Table of Contents

// 13


It’s more than leaves changing. It’s more than colors being pretty. There is too much falling, and dying, and changing and the air shows it.


fall


FALL

Rules

Joseph Powell I live my life By a few simple rules They keep me sane And free from pain Rule number one Don’t feel hope Hope will only disappoint And hurt you in the end Rule number two Don’t feel happy Happiness is an illusion Masking the truth of pain Rule number three Don’t get attached Everybody leaves you in the end Better to feel nothing for them

16 //

Poetry

Rule number four Don’t trust anything Nothing is trustworthy Look at everything critically Follow these simple rules And you’ll never hurt For there is no low When you’re never high But oh god my dear Did I make a mistake For I broke every one For a chance with you


Photography

// 17

Poised Thinker Kirsten Koedding


Painting

Disconnect Jane McNoble

18 //

FALL

FALL


Density

Sarah Marek Give me tonight to be tangled In my curiositiesTo utter “I don’t know” A few times more. Let me love what I love. And hate what I hate. Let me swap those With liberty. A blurry headlight in the rain Parallels my mind. Allow the rain to trickle Down onto me. Let it pour and let me love my cold, drenched body. Give me tonight to Flaunt my lengths, To flaunt my uncertainties, To love up As much as I love down. Allow me to falter. Let me bend in my thoughts, Let me honor my imbalance, Knotted in both turmoil And joy. Allow me the devotion To my discomfort. Poetry

// 19

Give me tonight to be lost, To dance with all I can’t decide.


FALL

Seventeen Amanda Teti

20 //

Poetry

Donald Hall Poetry Prize Winner - 3rd place

Deep breaths. Put your stuff away. I forgot. What did he say? Secrets. Let’s hangout tonight. I got none of the answers right. Decisions. Let’s just Play pretend. I have No plans for next Weekend. College. I’m too tired to. I Need new shirts And pants and shoes. Homework. Can I Quit my job? Applications make Me want to sob. Calm down. I can’t Take much more. I run upstairs and Slam my door. Music. I can’t trust My friends. All good Things come to an End. Effort. I just Failed that test. I Need my bed and Lots of rest. Just Relax. What is Happiness? I’m Doing good but Not my best. Same old. Let’s go on a trip. I’m letting all my good grades slip. Anxiety. All we do is fight. Everything’s wrong and nothing’s Right. Promises. Let’s go on a run. I’m missing out on all the fun. Busy. I just can’t find time. The boy I like is still not mine.


Poetry

Classes. Did you hear me sigh? Customers make me want to cry. Morning. I can’t get out of bed. Studying really hurts my head. Questions. Where did you get that? I really don’t have time to Chat. pain. I need a back massage. I don’t like her pic collage. Confusion. Why don’t you ask her? Last night was really such a blur. Nagging. Can you leave me alone? My mom never stops blowing up my phone. Dreaming. I can’t find my keys. I don’t know what time to leave. Yelling. Always late to class. Senior year goes by really fast. Tired. Every day just drags. Underneath my eyes are giant bags. Closure. Do I want to know? It sucks but that’s just how it goes. Com plaining. I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t even like that song. Judging. Whats with the attitude? All of them are really rude. Surprises. Are you finished yet? He wants me back but I’m all set. Accomplish. I don’t have a goal. I want to go out but It’s just too cold. Reality. Do you get what I mean? This was my life at 17.

// 21


FALL

The Color of the Day Sean Raggio

The color of the day I found a leaf, where the Red explodes from the yellow, It’s a burst so blunt and powerful The orange never stood a chance. The warm autumn sun illuminates the Cracks and crinkles of the leaf. There is a crisp and cool Breeze that is blue as the sky. My hand is a clammy periwinkle from my cup of coffee from Au Bon -Half and half no sugar, My mom says I'm sweet enough. Food is not a necessity in this moment, Just this liquid energy to get me through my day -This drink, the bright orange my leaf lacks.

22 //

Poetry

Then as I look upon the Quad, I see countless faces going places, Radiating a pale grey, Like machines. I can't help but wonder, with the blue of the breeze and the comforting warmth of an autumn sun, “How can you all be so grey, with so much color in the day?”


Photography

// 23

Untitled David Lowe


Photography

Sun Voyager Anastasia Campos

24 //

FALL


Through Rain, Sleet or Snow Andrew Breunig

Prose

Thick blood slapped the clear float glass windowpane with a commendable ‘thwap’. I say commendable because there’s no other word for it. It was a tumultuous reverberation of biblical proportions; the kind of ‘thwap’ those Hollywood ADR guys lose sleep over trying to recreate. Nothing like the real thing I guess, and I didn’t even see it happen. Only after the raucous noise flicked my ear drums did I turn to see Mr. Henderson’s soupy brain-matter Jackson Pollock its way onto that beautiful Jeld-Wen V2500 Single-Hung Vinyl Double Pane Double Strength New Construction Bow window. I only remember the brand because I stopped by Lowe’s the day before and saw there was a four-for-one special. I promised myself I’d only splurge on the new Stanley 9-Piece Folding SAE Hex Key set, but god knows my dining room décor needed refurbishing. But poor Mr. Henderson, his fresh corpse slithering down the bloodsoaked glass, his last moments, no doubt, filled with bewilderment as his wife had burst in, firing three shots: one decimating their Alese Neutral Earth Polka Dot Jug Ceramic Table Lamp another blowing a hole through those immaculate 4-piece Sheer Blackout Grommet Top Curtain Panels, the final shot meeting its mark. Mr. Henderson was an amicable doofus; an amateur hockey player who clung to his high school glory days with pitiful wistfulness, as if one day the Jefferson High hockey coach would bash the door in, pleading for the 37-year-old Henderson Hammer to make his triumphant return; winning the nationals and probably curing cancer in the process. I had only talked to Mr. Henderson a few times. The scene always played out the same way. I would saunter up his dilapidated driveway, catching him in my peripherals catching me in his peripherals from his grubby garage turned man-cave. Despite my best efforts to accomplish my mailman bound duties and take flight, the frat-boy always managed to block my path, speed-walking towards me like a suburban house-wife attempting to lose eight pounds in three days. Grabbing my arm, Mr. Henderson would guide me back to the man-cave, where ‘sumtin rad’ was always waiting to be showcased. The sheer overabundance of sports paraphernalia which lined this tower of testosterone was stunning. It was jam-packed with enshrined portraits of hockey legends mid battle-cry, ice pucks battered by the trials of the rink and an excess of hockey sticks that would make the worst hoarder cringe.

// 25


26 //

Prose

FALL

Once inside the man-cave, I was ushered towards the same old barstool which yelped with indignation every time I plopped down on its frayed and helpless cushion. For the next forty-five minutes I was a trapped; forced to tune into Mr. Henderson’s broadcast of that week’s brilliant hockey victory. Apparently, he and several other professional amateurs played every Tuesday night at the Y – each week’s match more tantalizing than the last. “Jerry’s a goddamn duster,” Mr. Henderson would say. “The guy couldn’t slap the biscuit if his granmama’s life depended on it. I mean, if you’re a goon, fine, you’re a goon. But the guy gets danced around from coast to coast without so much as throwin’ a glove down. Now the way I play, ya see the way is like this; okay so – well, first off, see, I don’t give a damn where your fuckin’ center is cause the true person - the only person ya gotta look out for is the goddamn gino. I’ll light the lamp from halfway across the barn, he never sees it comin’. Ya see, I got hands, kid. Boy, do I got hands. Here, check this out!” And then Mr. Henderson would grab one of the 6 ka-jillion hockey sticks and show me just how ‘got’ his hands were. Don’t get me wrong though, Mr. Henderson was a nice enough guy. He even invited me to his Fourth of July barbeque last year. It’s certainly not like hanging out with him would break some sort of strict mailman-client confidentiality. It’s just that if I were forced to spend one hour with Mr. Henderson outside of work, it would most likely end in a murder-suicide. Perhaps that’s a bit too soon. But it brings us back to the ‘incident’. Mrs. Henderson clutched the smoking Ruger GP100 revolver like the bitter end of a mountain climber’s rope as the young and half-naked Abigail Jacobson retreated towards a dark corner and into a catatonic state. At that time, I thought Mrs. Henderson’s next move was to swivel 55 degrees and unload the next round on me. She hadn’t seen me though and nothing could pry that proud women from her moment of glory. She was in a state of pure bliss - bliss and rage. I suppose if I had to, I would classify Mrs. Henderson under the ‘unconventional’ category. That description doesn’t begin to dichotomize this fascinating and enigmatic human being. If reincarnation is the truth, Mrs. Henderson was at the forefront of every historical happening since the crossing of the Euphrates. She could have been a general in Alexander’s army, cutting down endless Persian hordes on her conquest eastward or a Cartel bookkeeper laundering millions in blood-money to Panama for Pablo Escobar or the inventor of everlasting world peace (selling it on the NYSE for $1,524 a share).


Prose

When our paths did cross, she spoke to me like I was the last schmuck on the face of the earth. It was like meeting the world’s greatest saleswoman who didn’t sell anything. She was a lawyer by trade and a genius by fate. As Mr. Henderson talked of mastering the backhand snapshot; Mrs. Henderson discussed harrowing legal proceedings, the idiocy of county regulations, and the superficial ideal of ‘true’ justice. As she talked to me, I would become mesmerized by the grace of her rhetoric, as if she was being channeled by the great orators of ancient Rome. It was just always difficult to discern whether the twinkle in her eye was one of magnanimity or malevolence. She attended Princeton but was kicked out two semesters in for selling exam answers. She was then accepted into Harvard but quit three semesters in to become the lead singer of a pseudo-underground, semi-steam-punk, Portland-based rock band. After a few years of pre-underground, post newage success touring the US, Mrs. Henderson left to pursue her dreams of becoming a military fighter pilot. When the Air Force kindly informed her that bipolar disorder was cause for immediate discharge, she went back to Princeton and received a law degree summa cum laude. Within five years she had started her own lawfirm. Within seven years her face was plastered on every bus bench and freeway billboard money could buy. If you’re wondering how I obtained this information, it’s posted on her firm’s personnel website (almost word for word). She met Mr. Henderson in a dive bar downtown and liked his broad shoulders…. but that was probably it. In fact, that’s all I knew about their relationship. Only once did Mr. Henderson mention his wife. He loudly cursed her name after stubbing his toe on a Craftsman XSP 16 gallon 6.5 peak wet/dry shop-vac, which Mr. Henderson had ostensibly told her “a thousand goddamn times to keep out of my goddamn man-cave!” It wasn’t until that moment, cemented in the Henderson’s driveway, peering into the macabre scene playing out in the Henderson’s living room, that I realized this was the first time I had actually seen the Henderson’s together. Over the many years, it never dawned on me that the Henderson’s had only spoken to me separately. If it wasn’t written on their mail, I never would have thought they even lived together. It was either Mr. Henderson, tinkering away with poignant memories in his self-made, self-deprecating 1994-time capsule or Mrs. Henderson, just back from work, chatting with me about winning yet another high-profile case while she was no doubt mentally drafting her future Presidential campaign slogan. In fact, the budding couple must have loved each other so much, they scheduled their

// 27


28 //

Prose

FALL

days accordingly. I saw Mr. Henderson every Monday, Tuesday and Thursday, while Mrs. Henderson’s car pulled home early on Wednesdays and Fridays. The Henderson’s had been married ever since I started my mail route. So, they had to have been together for at least ten years. Well, either way, it all came crumbling down when Mr. Henderson invited young Miss Abigail Jacobson into their living room, so he could show-off his Bauer Supreme S160 Grip Hockey stick, freshly signed by some minor league Canadian whose name escapes me. At some point during this exhibition it was mutually agreed upon that their clothes should probably come off. Now blood-soaked and trembling in the living room corner, Abigail Jacobson probably wished she wasn’t so drawn towards older, married men. Now very dead, Mr. Henderson probably wished he had kept his loaded revolver in a locked safe. The smoke from the spent revolver danced in amorphous rhythm with the twirling 60" Monte Carlo Maverick Matte Black Ceiling Fan, slowly engulfing Mrs. Henderson’s enraged countenance. As the smoke dissipated, it revealed something entirely new: A look of wistfulness. I like to think it was the same look Mr. Henderson made one day in the man-cave as he turned away to pick up a dusty Mrs. Henderson portrait that shattered while attempting to illustrate the correct posture for a back-handed wrist shot. I also like to think it was the same look Mrs. Henderson gave as she unfolded her mail, finding the coupon for a hand-crafted hockey puck display case for $14.99 (plus shipping), as she disappeared into the poorly lit Henderson abode, mumbling: “I guess Harry would like that.” And so, I stood there for quite some time. I gazed into this decrepit world of botched marriage and bitter disappointment, grasping a Macy’s catalogue, the Henderson’s water bill and a Bath & Body Works coupon that expired in a week. I watched Mrs. Henderson drop the gun, readjust her St. John Milano Bright Raspberry Business Jacket and exit stage left, stumbling only a portion of the way. Unseen and unheard, I let it all sink in. Never in twelve years on the beat had I seen something like this. Do I call the cops? Do I continue to stand there? Do I still deliver the mail? I wasn’t really sure what to do at that point. So, I took a deep breath and thought back to the basics, back to our very core. I remembered that time honored motto which had brought solace to my postal kin in ages long past: Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.


So, I slid the Henderson’s water bill ever so briskly through the designated slot, turned away and walked down Francis Avenue. Had I glanced into the Henderson’s Jeld-Wen V2500 Single-Hung Vinyl Double Pane Double Strength New Construction Bow window on my way back to the street, I like to imagine, in the middle of the blood-pooled living room floor, a neatly packaged gift box sat idly by, waiting to be opened. And if said package were opened, Mr. Henderson would embrace his wife with new resolve, and they would fall in love all over again because the handcrafted hockey puck display case for $14.99 (plus shipping) sitting inside was exactly what he wanted for his birthday. But I didn’t. So, who knows.

Prose

// 29


Photography

Writing's on the wall Christina Popik

30 //

FALL


Photography

// 31


FALL

She Calls It Home Sophia Alf ieri

She finds herself In cozy chairs Of small coffee shops, Holes in the walls Of a big city Made of concrete and glass, Where she can watch Countless, nameless faces Rush past and continue to Fill up the pages Of their unknown stories.

32 //

Poetry

Each twist and turn Finds her a new adventure, As she weaves her way Down alleys and pavements Ingrained with the marching soles Of men and women, Past and present, With purpose and persistence To keep going no matter What is thrown in their Steadfast directions. With every look and touch She leaves behind exes and ohs For the city that’s never slept on her, And in return it finds a way To fill her with hopes and dreams and Promises of a future As bright as Broadway. On every street corner And subway car she leaves her mark, Just as thousands before her blindly did In daydream routines.


She is the shiny and new Within the invisible walls, But also the old and broken, Whose seeds will always be rooted In the depths of her majesty’s soil. Her heartbeat syncs to the Ticks and honks The clicks and stomps The shouts and cries of Good, evil, and everything in between On these ancient streets. And she calls it home.

Poetry

// 33


Painting

Zeus' Love & Strife Maria Ascher

34 //

FALL


forced anonymity Jenna Shankman

she keeps her head down posture slumped not straight keeps tiptoeing around so as not to tempt fate she covers herself what might be appealing intimidated by her wealth trying to keep them from stealing by they she means men stealing from her body not her purse not a question of if but when she doesn't know which is worse

Poetry

// 35


The air is too heavy to even swallow. We try and try but we end up choking on the frozenness. One day, it'll make its way to our soul.

w


winter


38 //

Photography

WINTER

Stairways Elizabeth Freeman


Nana

Elizabeth Hrywriak Come visit me, for I am lonely. No moment has been the same since you went away. I’ve gone too long without your company. What other method do I have but a plea: As months go by and still I am not okay; Come visit me, for I am lonely. I know you did not leave me willingly, But time is too cruel and steadfast, so don’t delay— I’ve gone too long without your company. You being gone has left me so empty, As you’re the only one I’ve asked to stay; Come visit me, for I am lonely. Grief presses the heart to race on numbly But I have fallen into disarray— I’ve gone too long without your company. How permanent must the state of death be? Old age is unfair and ripped you away. Please. Come visit me, for I am lonely. I’ve gone too long without your company.

Poetry

// 39


WINTER

Sanitarium Rebecca Root

This curtained cubicle is becoming my new home For me this isn’t a place of recovery I find it more to be a fighting zone Yet it always smells sterile and rubbery For me this isn’t a place of recovery Doctors and nurses come and go Yet it always smells sterile and rubbery Others get answers, but I still don’t know Doctors and nurses come and go Get well flowers no longer come Others get answers, but I still don’t know My heart and mind are becoming numb Get well flowers no longer come Still no answers or cure My heart and mind are becoming numb There’s hope they assure

40 //

Poetry

Still no answers or cure This curtained cubicle is becoming my new home There’s hope they assure But yet I find it more of a fighting zone


Photography

// 41

Roses Madison Fraitag


Photography

Tunnel Vision Sophie Frank

42 //

WINTER


nothing Nhung An

Donald Hall Poetry Prize Winner - 1st place

mortality first arrived when we were at the deathbed of a skeleton wrapped in wrinkled piss–colored skin wrapped in stained grey khakis

we knew he was our grandfather

we saw pain on his slowly moving chest

mortality revisited our imagination in biology class in the form of a model skeleton from a boy who dove headfirst into an empty swimming pool after consuming way too many drugs

we wanted to know if he was still in pain when he was so high

mortality reminded us of its existence when we sat on the rooftop of an elite university’s building about nine stories high staring down into the dark and wondering how pain is measured if we touch the ground

and when would anyone find our dead bodies assuming we did die

if we wanted to be nothing maybe the price was always the pain we joke about death but we never talk about the preceding pain and death is inevitable but how about pain we do not understand why we do not understand why we will die we do not understand why we do not understand why it’s more painful to watch our loved ones die than to try to die ourselves we do not understand why death erases but we live and try to mark our names like our identities could last much longer than our faces but at times do our identities even exist when we’re alive the safest answer is always [no] at times the law says a person with a visa and/or other authorized documentation may enter a bordered land for a global experience or an education or an asylum Poetry

at times the law says a person with a visa and/or other authorized

// 43


WINTER

documentation may not enter a bordered land if custom officers feel they cannot fit into said bordered land at times the law says a person with legal documentation or a citizenship may not enter a bordered land if their heritage threatens the safety of said land’s government and citizens said land’s government decides what a threat looks like based on what they do not like to see and/or interact with the denied travelers and the “threats” lose their identities at customs the denied travelers and the “threats” lose their identities at the enjambment of a long journey and a destination previously described as utopia the denied travelers and the “threats” lose their identities

while being alive

we can say: please

let us in,

we swear our spouses are on the other side

we can beg: please

let us in,

we swear our children need us on the other side

we can cry: please

let us in,

if we go back there they will shock us and they will cut off our fingers and they will cut off our genitals and they will cut off our heads and they will never let us try to make it again to the other side

the custom officers can say: [you cannot enter this bordered land because you have no identity] that matches our identities the custom officers can say: [stop] and feel the nothing you now stand in

44 //

Poetry

the custom officers can say: [stop and feel the absence of ] your voice and your identity mortality will visit our thoughts as we turn our backs to the uniformed men and think of where to go from there where to go from our supposed sanctuary where to go to not end up with only


mortality mortality will visit our thoughts when we stare at the bordered land wondering if our feet could outrun the uniformed men with the hope of being nothing in a land that is safer than our motherlands they will tell us: [do not run] they will shoot you because they are allowed to and you’re giving them an excuse and even if you survive you will be nothing there they will ask us: they will make you suffer if [you can’t make it] and they won’t let you be safe here are you sure you want to do this the safest answer is always [no] so we will tell them: we already suffer and we’re already nothing so we’ll run

Poetry

// 45


WINTER

The Cries of My Heart Maria Parenteau

It’s like those eyes could see right through my soul When you left, my heart broke, something you knew Without you, I’m no longer one, not whole I wish I could still be someone to you Through my storms and my rain, you saw my sun You brought out the good I held deep inside Without you, all of that has come undone Without you, it’s like a part of me died Another love shall never compare to ours Our love too wild something we could not tame The only evidence is now those scars Those scars upon my heart that will remain

46 //

Poetry

From dawn to dusk, my feelings still rein true In the end, I still pray it will be you


Photography

// 47

Rehearsal Sophie Frank


Photography

Toronto Jeremy Troetti

48 //

WINTER


An Article of Fiction and Non-fiction Anonymous

When I was thirteen, I cheated on a Biology exam; this boy I had a crush gave me all the answers. I didn’t see him again for a while but we hung out a few months ago for the first time in six years. I tried to avoid eye contact but he still tried to kiss me. I haven’t seen him since. Last year I had a boyfriend; I couldn’t help falling in love with him. I never had the chance to tell him because he broke up with me. He was still in love with his ex. I wish he hadn’t waited 8 months to tell me. Coming back to school the next semester I felt lost. One Saturday I got drunk, went to a club with my friends and went home with a boy. We already knew each other but I got to know him better when I found out he didn’t understand the word “no”. At nineteen I cheated again. This time not a test. But on a boy that did nothing wrong. A boy who only wanted to make happy. But he couldn’t take away pain other people left. He didn’t deserve it.

Poetry

// 49


WINTER

The feminist perspective Lauren McGrath

I wonder if more people slow down or speed up at yellow lights I wonder if he thought her body was a traffic light, and when she said slow down he took it as a sign to hit the gas When she said stop let's take a break he thought of her as a red light but seeing no cameras it was one he could blow. I wonder how many people still put change in a meter I wonder if he mistook my drink for a meter and his roofie for change he could slip inside If my friend didn't come see me and carry me away What else would he mistake for a meter What else would he try to slip inside Sometimes when guys look at me I think they see a gas station Somewhere to stop, pump twice, and then go to their actual destination. I never understood why men punched walls when they were angry. Doesn't it hurt your fucking hand? I wonder if he hurt his fucking hand when he tried to punch down the walls my friend had put up. I'm tired of making shitty metaphors to explain that women are not objects.

50 //

Poetry

Women's bodies Their bodies Our bodies Are not things to be gawked and grabbed and groped In my freshman year English class my 90 year old professor looked at me over his tiny glasses and asked for the hundredth time that semester if I could


speak on this from a "feminist perspective." And for the hundredth time that semester I heard the boys in my class laugh and groan and hit their desks. Each groan they made sounded like the groan my bones made when my friend collected them from the man who promised to take me home and make me feel all better. Each laugh sounded like the dry scratching scream my friend had made when she recounted her rape to me. Each time they jokingly hit the desk in frustration I saw the way my friend beat at her stomach and pulled at her hair as if she didn't want to be in a body that he too had been in. I wanted to scream that I wasn't seeing things from a feminist perspective I was seeing it from a human one.

Poetry

// 51


Photography

Black or white Morgan Tencza

52 //

WINTER


Codependence Shelby Petrie

Two people Stuck in a web by chance or by choice --In this case--it’s by chance Years spent in an ever-evolving, ever-revolving relationship. Dependence. Relying On another person by chance or by choice --In this case--it’s a necessary choice One that exudes reluctance, as I would never choose to sacrifice selfsufficiency At first, it was symbiotic. The connection was strong--so strong that it could have stopped the ocean’s current, Turned every sea into a still infinite lake We loved each other In the presence of love so powerful You begin to develop a codependence. You trust, you yearn, you need, you ache. Her voice was the only one that mattered, It was as if my mind could only function when it was in rhythm with hers. But change is a ceaseless demon One that seeps through the pores of your skin at night

Poetry

“I’m gay,” I said. She stopped loving me. It may have only been for a moment, but I saw the emptiness in her eyes-any emptiness that still exists today

// 53


WINTER

I lost myself for a while Living in the despondent doldrums that had become my life Seconds felt like weeks, Minutes: years. I felt like a stranger inhabiting a body I didn’t deserve Time is a scary thing once it’s gone, you can’t get it back I was the victim of a time robbery My eyes bled with a pain that I didn’t know existed. My skin bled with words that I wasn’t brave enough to say. my heart bled with the thought that I’d never be whole again.

54 //

Poetry

It’s poetic though, that the woman who created me also destroyed me and that--despite it all-I still can’t find my independence.


Photography

// 55

28 degrees Crandall Yopp


There are more than flowers blooming again. It’s the dirt becoming dirt again. It’s the roots uncurling and everything is reborn.

s


spring


Photography

Untitled David Lowe

58 //

SPRING


#metoo Anonymous

A million women marched, stomped up and down the streets demanded to be heard to take down the elites. They came in hoards, in groups, and made their message clear refusing to be mute, they held each other near. These strangers became friends, they showed each other love and solidarity. That’s how they rose above abuse, neglect, despair. They will not let them win, the men who forced their way right underneath their skin. Right now, the power still lies with the men who rape but just give it time they’ll hope for an escape. But if society does not go through reform the systems that allowed abuse to be the norm will not just go away.

Poetry

// 59


SPRING

Heart of Hearts Rosie Persiani

Donald Hall Poetry Prize Winner - 2nd place

60 //

Poetry

He sits across from me hands folded His phone illuminating his face And says In your heart of hearts Why are you a writer. I can’t answer. Because I don’t know. I have poetry running through my veins Fiction pieces growing faster than my finger nails ever could. I write because I need to. There was a time when drafting a suicide note was the only thing I wrote down Beside for the required notes in class. I hid from pens and pencils Scared they would make me talk. But now I’m screaming. There’s nothing that can stop me No one I will let get in my way. I write because I’m invincible. I write about how deep I would slide those scissors across my wrist hoping no one would have to read my words again How my depression rotted me from the inside out so I wrote with vomit instead of ink. I write about how “no” meant nothing to two boys but now it’s fuel to make a statement. I have lines up and down my body. I’m practically a blank page. In my heart of my hearts I’m a writer To fill myself in.


Photography

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Shadows Jordan Wasylak


62 //

Photography

SPRING

Leveetate Richie Petrosino


barefoot.

Kirsten Koedding

Poetry

// 63

multiple families one closet sized-room in a broken-down hostile. shacks made of steel paneling line the trash-littered streets. wild dogs run amuck, scavenging for food, no owner to tie them down for more than one night. children running around barefoot chanting “the white people are coming, the white people are coming.� restaurants and barbershops and clothing stores all reside in shipping crates gutted and remodeled to resemble a mini village. hair is washed in buckets cars go through the same. water gathered from spickets sprouting in between piles of waste, food wrappers, and feces. soccer is played competitively in the streets with a small Ping-Pong ball, but with enough imagination to bring the young players into the Fifa arena not even 12 kilometers away from their town. shaved heads no shoes smiling faces, rich white tourists bombard this tiny town with cameras and false hope, yet smiles never fade and positivity never sinks. the happiest people you will ever meet living in the worst conditions. these are the townships. this, is Langa. South Africa


SPRING

Breaking Out Scarlett Blydenburgh

“It’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then,” Lewis Carroll wrote. Alice’s words from Wonderland remained in my head as I was stuck seated for a total flight of 20 hours to the “land down-under”. Even without factoring the connection to Los Angeles midway, the flight was still horrendously long. 10,620 miles or 17,091 kilometers from New Jersey to Australia. Besides recalling the catchy song of “Down Under” by Men At Work, I learned about the origin for “the land down-under”: its position in the southern hemisphere as the land under the continent of Asia. Huh, interesting, probably should’ve known that years ago. I reach underneath my seat and open my backpack. I dig through the disarray of clothes packed haphazardly last minute and notice the colorful imagery on the cover. A blonde-haired girl in a blue and white satin dress accompanied with the white hare rabbit and a top hat fit for a mad hatter stare up at me. I gently pull the book out and decide it would suffice for the time. This was my fifth time re-reading Lewis Carroll’s classic series and my love for his fictional world has never lessened. Despite most of the book being nonsense, this message of becoming a new person in particular resonated with me. In middle and beginning of high school, I would get mini heart attacks every time the teacher made eye contact with me, in fear that I would be called on to participate. I was afraid of the class ridicule. So, my uncharacteristic decision to go to Australia in a volunteer trip through a global high school travel and service program, Rustic Pathways (I found during one of my high school’s Key Club service meetings), was already a big, courageous step for me, and I planned to make the most of it.

64 //

Prose

It felt like a dream working in my childhood idol’s zoo and living in an unknown land. I felt proud of my first steps towards independence from my parents and my choice to take a risk traveling to a new land, and I was determined to push past my fears. Cleaning animal habitats? Bring it on. Socializing? No problem.


My mindset quickly changed a couple of days into the trip, as I finally decided I wasn’t going to waste any more opportunities by acting shy. That day forward, I spoke up and was interacting with everyone around me. I knew that I didn’t want to be considered a “shadow” any longer because I realized how important it was to realize my true potential. By the end of the trip, I knew I wanted to make a difference, no matter the magnitude, and bring happiness to everyone, human and animals alike. Because of my past timid behavior, I was always nervous of the prestigious leadership role. I was afraid to let people down. When my group leader assigned me to be in charge of preparing our dinner that first night, my instinct was to run like a cheetah back to my room. What if I somehow poison the group by not cooking the meat long enough? And what if someone actually dies from my food? Will I go to prison for the accidental murder under involuntary manslaughter? I’m too young to be caged! Hell, I never ever want to go to prison! I looked to the four helpers around me. All of the people standing before me were taller, therefore automatically scarier. It seemed like I was a gazelle about to be eaten by lions; however, when they started asking me if I needed help, I no longer saw them as menacing. I became aware that these girls around me were all nervous like I was; I was not alone in my struggles. There was nothing wrong with asking for help, and ask for help I did! That night, I realized that being a leader was just a matter of bravery as we sat around eating a properly cooked dinner: hamburgers with french fries, salad, and toast with Vegemite. Eventually came the time where there were no more family dinners and our rooms looked like how they were in the beginning when we first came- clean and unused. I felt a pang in my heart knowing that my time as a temporary Aussie was ending, but I also felt a sense of pride in contributing to Steve Irwin’s dream of protecting animals. I couldn’t imagine any of this happening without me coming out of my (turtle) shell and forcing myself to take a step forward to independence. Maybe it was courage or just the thrill of trying something new, but it sure was fun and memorable without a doubt. I stare outside the window of our van and hear the auto ignition buzzing to life. There’s a comfortable silence within the van and we all dare to take one last look of our Aussie memories. Happiness in the adventures we embarked and sadness in the adventures would discontinue.

Prose

// 65


SPRING

I plug in my headphones, close my eyes, and tune into another world with the Australia inspired song by Men At Work…

66 //

Poetry/Illustration

Do you come from a land down under? Where women glow and men plunder? Can’t you hear, can’t you hear the thunder? You better run, you better take cover.

Flower Lady No. 1 Jess Tyree


Inspired by the Blues Mackenzie Fenn

My man need not quote Leadbelly to me The question, “Where did you sleep last night?” has never crossed his lips Secret souls will meet, if love is meant to be Moonlight spilled across sweet grass, in his hand a key All I ever wanted, I found where his collarbone dips My man need not quote Leadbelly to me Long hair tinted like wildflower honey My fingers caress where moonlight slips Secret souls will meet, if love is meant to be I hold my wild man ever closer to my body Beneath the pines where cold shadows grip My man need not quote Leadbelly to me In the morning when we rise, cheeks flushed like a poppy I feel my heart has been eclipsed Secret souls will meet if love is meant to be “Shiver for me now baby” Sunlight breaks as chilled dew drips My man need not quote Leadbelly to me Secret souls will meet, if love is meant to be

Poetry

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68 //

Photography

SPRING

Reach Samantha Bashaw


Photography

// 69

Serenity Erin Kane


70 //

Roll over, taste the sunshine dripping down your throat and you will always feel the light.

su


mmer


SUMMER

If Time Waited For Us Lily Calao

You are 19, facing the bouncer at the bar down the street with a fake id so far from real it makes both of you laugh. He winks and lets you in anyway. You are throwing your winter coat on the nearest window sill as you hear your mother say: You crazy delinquent, find the stinking coat rack. Your smile says sorry, love you. Leaves you wondering if her ears are ringing too. You make your way to the bar. Decide the first round for all your best girls is on you. You’re laughing. This time, your pulse actually feels real. You dance like the beat runs through your blood. Let strangers whose faces you won’t remember in the Uber home kiss you until your lips fall asleep, tingling. You laugh and pull away, leave them thinking about who you are the rest of the night. Tonight, you watch people solve mysteries. You let the boy in the collared shirt with a dimple the size of a crater buy you a drink. He whispers in your ear and the noise around you two disappears. Says you’re cute in the hot type of way and you dust some courage off the shelf and say back, you’re hot, you know, in the hot type of way. As the space between you gets smaller, so does the hole in your heart. Next thing you know you’re kissing in the corner of a crowded bar, lips locked like you could live in this moment forever. If only time never ran out. You are lying in bed after somehow making it home with all the girls you showed up with, every happy soul counted for. You think about that boy and his dimple. If only he had asked you to stay a while. If only he had the courage to solve your mystery. If only you had the guts to let him try. If only time never ran out.

72 //

Prose

You. Bright eyed, ball of fire. You are only 19. You have nothing but time.


Photography

// 73

Diamond Eyes Erin Kane


Photo Illustration

Rewind Sophie Frank

74 //

SUMMER


A Broken VHS Tape Caroline Gottlieb

Prose

I love questions. Whether it is answering them or asking them, they’re amazing. All facts and theories of life started with a question. However, some people are really damn rude. They love to either dodge the true question they want to ask or are surprisingly blunt. It tends to boil down to some semblance of this: “What’s it like to have a learning disability?” In my world, a stupid question requires a quick and sarcastic answer: “It fucking sucks.” I’ve been getting that question for most of my life. As a kid, I attended a catholic school that didn’t believe in disabilities. Bad grades were never attributed to something wrong. A student who misbehaved was just an awful student who set out to disrupt the class. It wasn’t until I was 11 years old that my parents became fed up with my grades and detention slips and sent me for disability testing. I was told I had a learning disability. My brain is wired differently than everyone else’s. I remember information differently. My short term thoughts don’t always convert to long term memories. Sometimes I can remember a fact that someone told me once for a decade. Other times, someone can tell me their name 30 times and I will never remember it. That’s my life. I used to sit in my room and think of ways to explain it to people. How should I phrase this so others can understand? What can I say that won’t trip up my words? If I’m called something awful, how should I react? This is the crap that used to roll through my head over and over until I had a speech planned for when I got that question. It wasn’t until I was 19 years old and about to leave for a 3-week class in London that I figured it out. As with most of the words that come out of my mouth, an explanation to my mother on why I had a hard time remembering my social security number actually made sense. I already see this going over a lot of teenagers’ heads. “My mind is like a VHS tape. You put the tape into a recorder on the television stand. You record an episode of Doctor Who and it is perfectly fine. But you forget to take the tape out. A new episode of Game of Thrones comes on and you record that on the same tape. Now, when the tape is replayed David Tennant starts talking and the show plays for five minutes but is interrupted by Kit Harington. Throughout the recordings this interchanging keeps happening until you’re no longer sure which show is playing. The next day, you fail to take the tape out again and record another

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SUMMER

76 //

Prose

show. This happens again and again until 6 or 7 shows are record. Now play the tape. Sound is coming from each of the shows and indiscernible to the characters. The image keeps jumping back and forth. One second here, three seconds there. Your sight and hearing are overloaded as you can’t figure out which footage and sounds go with each show. Sometimes there is a sound that you know belongs to a certain character and an image from a particular set, but most of the time it is displaced and you’re guessing is completely wrong. That is what my brain is like. Too much information on a VHS tape. Sometimes, there is so much overload that all there is becomes snow, screaming in the background with no image. I become a broken VHS tape.”


Photography

// 77

Sterling Crossroads Brantley Boyda


SUMMER

78 //

Drawing/Painting

Clover Erin LeDrew


Henry Erin LeDrew Drawing

// 79


Photography

Road less traveled Caitlin Cryan

80 //

SUMMER


No Royalty Carly Timpson

Disney princesses never have mothers. Becoming a princess was never my Fairytale. Neither was drowning myself In cheap bottles of wine as we lay here Watching meteors fall at 3AM. But in the background, like a memory, Oasis's "Champagne Supernova" Sends life into my soul. Upon the roof Of a wealthy stranger's beachfront cottage, The kind we swore we would never love. Now tears fall about nothing and everything. Losing myself in an antique bookshop, A fresh pot of coffee brewed at daybreak, And never having enough goddamn candles.

Poetry

// 81


SUMMER

What good is a Poem? John Acker

What good is a poem if you can’t eat at the center of it? How good do these words taste after they are dragged from my mud clumped fists. Do they taste like honeysuckle plucked from the sweet dewy sod, or do they fester, rot, and sweat like damp lumps drowning in a bog? What good is a poem if it is dangled on the edge of your tongue where nobody can dare take it from you? What good is a poem if you can’t set it on fire a little, watch it burn a little, watch it melt and puss and run away from you like the scared and hungry dog it is, or are you too afraid to grab it by the neck and say, “Hey listen’ up you fucking poem, you should try and lighten up a little, you should really try opening up for some of us once in a while or something, I’m sick of shouting your name out into the street in the middle of the night when nobody is around to hear the weight of it as it thuds from my teeth to the floor like its being sucked inward— pulled even—towards the center and I’m left there to wait and watch and listen for the meaning you are supposed to dangle on the edge of your tongue where only I

82 //

Poetry

can find it. But, what good is a poem if you can’t take it to a bar and smoke a cigarette with it and joke around with it and maybe, perhaps, fall in love with it.


Photo Illustration

Woman of the Elements Jordan Wasylak

// 83


SUMMER

84 //

Illustration

Constellations Ian Berkey


Me or Moon? Emily Mitchell

I always wondered about the ocean, You know, what kind of secrets buried down, Far down in the far middle where we’d be So scared if we were left alone; we’d hold On to the moon and stars as dark would creep And stalk in circles everywhere we turn. The dark would light our fears and all we would Be able to have is the moon to hold. If we were lost out there would you choose me Or would you choose the moon? If it was dark And cold would you still look past me, past me With coldness in your eyes, that shine like stars— Lost stars— that hold on tight to the full moon? The Moon can’t feel your voice in her warm heart When you talk; the whispers you speak give me Bright visions— heavens wonders— but to Moon They are like any others; Moon can’t feel Your breath warming her soul when you deep sleep; As you lie under her full circle she Is straightening her shoulders, pulling stars near Her ring of light. Will she pull you to her And away from me? Will we be a love Story that’s taken by the moon as we Are lost out here in the big dark, lone sea?

Poetry

// 85


Photography

Brunt Madison Fraitag

86 //

SUMMER


Secret Garden Madison Fraitag

To know what lies inside a person would shake me to my own hidden core. So instead, I fill myself with flowers. Lavender paints my toenails, and lashes of grass protect my eyes. Ivy tangles my already knotted hair and drops of muddy rain stain my skin with freckles. I watch my chest rise and fall with the rhythm of birds flapping their wings in slow motion. Sometime thunder cracks my back and soaks my pillowcase. But the next day wild clovers and dandelions bloom in my eyes, reminding me why it was okay to rain in the first place. At the center of it all, thorns. A surgeon could cut me open and not find much else. This perforated gate is my stronghold, not to keep things out but to hold things in, things that can only be known by the heart. It holds a secret garden of seeds and a bouquet moments, like his hair in the warm, summer wind, and the curves of his strong back. Eucalyptus tickled my fingers and toes watching the rain drip off of his brow and feeling it land cooly on my cheek. Evergreens support me every time he drifts away. Sweet nectar floods my ears at the sound of his voice in the morning, and lilies perfume my breath each time I speak his name. In times of drought and times of flood, his corner of my garden blooms. My brain may sprout hydrangeas, but only he can pick my heart of roses.

Poetry

// 87


Photography

Looking to New Horizons Caitlin Cryan

88 //

SUMMER


Multiple Puppets Disorder Nate Walsky

Wilder Fiction Prize Winner - 1st place

Prose

“He’s kind of like Daniel Day Lewis,” explained Tyler, “but with puppets.” “What do you mean?” asked Kim. “Well… ok, do you know what a method actor is?” Kim took a moment to consider Tyler’s question, “Yeah, isn’t that when an actor is playing a character, but they keep acting like the character even when they’re not filming?” “Yeah exactly,” said Tyler “it’s something actors do to become more immersed in their roles so their characters feel authentic.” “And you’re telling me that Jason is a method actor but with-“ “With puppets yeah.” “And this guy is your boss?” “Well he’s your boss now too. Don’t worry though, it’s definitely strange at first but after being on set for a couple of weeks it’ll seem as normal as anything else.” “I just don’t understand,” said Kim, “Like the man thinks he’s a puppet?’ “Well honestly, no one’s really sure what he thinks. Fuzz Town has been on air for almost twenty years now and he has never once broken character. There are some people here who knew him before Fuzz Town, but even back then he was apparently using puppets as his primary means of communication.” “So does that mean no one here has ever actually talked to him?” Tyler paused. It seemed as though he had never considered Jason in these terms before. “Well no, I think we have. I can’t really be sure but it seems like we see aspects of Jason’s personality come out through the puppets he plays, like you know Bobo the Bear?” Of course Kim knew Bobo the Bear, he was pretty much the face of Fuzz Town. She had grown up along side the show and even at twenty-one years old her intrigue with the program had never waned. The only difference between then and now is when she was younger she had watched the show as a kid does, with a sense of wonder and disregard for reason, but as she matured her viewings had been altered into a study of craft. She became obsessed with the ways the puppets moved, and fascinated by the emotion they could convey with subtle contortions of the face. Eventually just watching wasn’t enough; she felt the need to interact with the show in a more

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Prose

SUMMER

significant way. That’s when she began crafting her own puppets, using them to emulate the technique she observed within Fuzz Town. After putting together a portfolio consisting of this work and sending it off to the show, she had by some kind of divine intervention been hired on as an intern. Even now as Tyler who was a producer led her to the set none of it seemed real. The whole thing made her feel fuzzy both literally and figuratively. “Yeah of course I know Bobo the Bear,” responded Kim, “he’s pretty much everyone’s favorite character on Fuzz Town.” “Yeah exactly” said Tyler, “He’s the face of the show so he’s kind of the boss around here. I know that on camera he looks really sweet and adorable, but when he’s off camera he can be a bit of a hard ass.” “Bobo the Bear can be a hard ass?” “Well yeah, nothing against the bear but you know how it is, when you’re the boss you’ve got to make sure everything is running smoothly. It’s not like he’s going out of his way to make interns cry, but he wont ask twice if you’re not doing your job right.” Kim tried to process this information; the production of Fuzz Town had always been shrouded in mystery and for good reason too considering its quality compared to other puppet shows. She had done plenty of research over the years regarding the techniques that they used, but always ended up finding nothing. This made it shocking now, to learn the success of Fuzz Town could be attributed to a man that thought he was a puppet. “It’s a big day for us today too,” Tyler continued as he led Kim into the main production room. “Rumor is that Jason might be revealing a new puppet today.” Kim snapped out of her shock regarding Jason and slipped into an entirely different shock caused by the studio she had just walked into. The room looked as though a rainbow had been gutted by a hurricane, and while every color on the light spectrum was clearly present, they were scattered about in a chaos of puppets, tapestries and sets. Kim recognized some of the sets she had grown up with ranging from Bobo the Bears room, to the grimy back alleyway where the Garbage Goblin lived. She wanted to cry because it felt like home; instead she followed Tyler to where the other interns were. On the way there she spotted a man dressed entirely in black except for his face and hands, which were holding up Guyceritops, the half-guy, halftriceratops puppet. Guyceritops was almost entirely dinosaur except for his face, which was shockingly human. Kim had always thought he was a creepy puppet, but having spent years getting used to him she now smiled at the man-dinosaur hybrid like an old friend.


Prose

“Yeah just be sure to send those invoices out by- RARAHHHGGG, Thursday afternoon” she overheard Guyceritops saying on the phone, “and it should be– GGWWAARRGG no problem.” Guyceritops sounded like if a person had Tourette’s in the form of dinosaur noises. He was mostly utilized on the show to educate kids about mental disorders, or as he called them, “dinodisorders,” so it was interesting to hear him talking business on the phone. “I’m guessing that’s Jason over there?” asked Kim. Tyler laughed, “What gave it away? It looks like he’s Guyceritops right now, which means he probably has some office work to do. Guyceritops is our go to guy for anything that has to do with numbers or accounting.” Guyceritops had never struck Kim as much of an intellectual, but Fuzz Town had taught her not to judge people, or dinosaur people for that matter, so she figured that should probably apply here as well. “And here we are,” said Tyler as he led Kim to some seats towards the back of the studio. “This is where you and the other interns will be while we’re filming. If we need anything we’ll let you know, but for now you can just hang out and talk to Mikey here if you have any questions.” Tyler patted the shoulder of a stocky pale kid who was covered in various colors of dried paint, “Hi I’m Mikey,” he said, “nice to meet yah.” The colorful intern stuck out his paint-covered hand for Kim to shake, but not before wiping it off on his equally paint-covered pants. Kim didn’t mind though, and just did her best to aim for the parts of his hand where skin was still visible. “Mikey here has been with us for a couple of months now,” said Tyler, “So he can show you the ropes.“ Mikey smiled at her and held up some ropes that were lying next to him, “I’ve got to run and help with the taping right now, so just try to relax and get comfortable on your first day, and welcome to the family!” Kim watched as Tyler disappeared into the vibrant chaos that was the production studio. She was happy he had been her introduction to this world, as it seemed he was fairly level headed which was probably a rarity around here. “So what do you think?” asked Mikey, apparently referring to the entire set and everything within. Kim didn’t know how to respond for the simple reason that there was too much to say. She usually struggled with talking to new people but after everything she had seen today it would be difficult not to blurt out every question she had regarding Jason and the production of the show, “So have you talked to Jason before, is he really always a puppet?” Mikey laughed at this, “I mean he’s not always a puppet, he’s a man who just constantly acts like a puppet, and yeah of course I’ve met him. In fact I

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SUMMER

would be surprised if he didn’t introduce himself before the day is through. New staff members end up talking to Jason a lot because he reintroduces himself every time he’s a puppet you haven’t met yet. Some of his puppets are shy, so you might have to take the initiative in saying hello. For the most part though he’s a pretty friendly guy. Just make sure you do your job and you won’t end up like the last intern who got fired.” Kim couldn’t help but take the bate, “what happened to the last intern?” A smile spread across Mikey’s face, it was obvious that he liked telling this story, “Well I’m sure you know the Garbage Goblin right?” The Garbage Goblins name was pretty self-explanatory in that he is a goblin who lived in a garbage can. He was initially included in the show to teach kids how to recycle, although it should be noted that he doesn’t actually care about the environment. His real motivation was that he loved eating trash but hated finding plastic in his food. In order to deal with this issue the Garbage Goblin would hide in trashcans and burst out screaming at any child who didn’t recycle. As a kid this had sort of taught Kim to recycle in that she became afraid of garbage cans all together, so she would only use products that could be recycled. “Well believe it or not” Mikey continued, “but the Garbage Goblin is actually a huge stoner when he’s not on set.” “What?” Kim asked. She was trying her best to determine if Mikey was messing with her on her first day, but it seemed as though he was completely serious. “I mean exactly what I said, whenever the Garbage Goblin isn’t on set it’s guaranteed that you can find him in the back hot-boxing his trash can. Haven’t you ever noticed how red his eyes always are?” Kim had noticed the red eyes, but always figured it was a part of the goblin aesthetic rather than a subtle sign to children that the puppet was stoned. “So what do you mean,” asked Kim, “like the puppet is the one smoking or Jason just happens to smoke lot of weed while he’s the Garbage Goblin?” “Well I’m not really sure,” said Mikey, “but either way Jason is getting high just from pure exposure to the Goblin.” “So how did this result in an intern getting fired?” asked Kim. “Well that’s where the story gets good. You see, this last intern was a bit of a stoner himself and made it his mission to get high with the Goblin. So one day he snuck out back when he knew Goblin would be there and asked to hop in his trashcan hotbox. The Goblin apparently agreed and told the kid to get in, no problem right? Well a few days later Bobo the Bear is on set and he starts laying into this kid for smoking while working, like I mean


Prose

screaming. And I’ll be honest with you, I’ve always thought that the only way I’d be that afraid of a bear is if it was in the woods charging me, but when Bobo’s angry he’s honestly worse. Oh, and you want to know the funniest part? The whole time Bobo was screaming it was in his squeaky little puppet voice! The angrier Bobo got the more high pitched his voice would get, so by the time he was done it was like listening to a pissed off chipmunk make a grown man cry!” Mikey was laughing uncontrollably now but the whole story just disturbed Kim. She tried to picture her childhood friend Bobo making an intern cry and couldn’t help but feel upset. They say don’t meet your hero’s, and apparently that applied to educational bear puppets as well. “Oh man,” said Mikey wiping a tear away from his eye, “Bobo’s actually a really nice puppet once you get to know him, just don’t get on his bad side is all.” Kim didn’t like what she was hearing, it sounded like Jason had essentially tricked this kid into getting fired. She knew that he was a method actor and it was technically two different puppets that had done those things, but she still wasn’t sure that validated his actions. “Anyways,” continued Mikey, “you actually started on a pretty exciting day. Rumor is that Jason’s revealing a new puppet which means we get to meet our new boss, or at least a new aspect of our boss’s personality-“ Mikey was cut off as Tyler came running towards them with an excited grin on his face. “Hey guys!” he said, “Guyceritops just announced Bobo is holding a meeting at his room… Well he didn’t really announce it, he just roared at us. But I’m pretty sure I caught the words ‘meeting’ and ‘Bobo’s room’ in between the roars. Anyways! Just make sure to start heading over soon and I’ll meet you there. ” Tyler ran off as quickly as he came, leaving Kim and Mikey to walk over to the meeting. “Well looks like this might be it,” said Mikey excitedly, “Bobo hardly ever calls meetings for the entire staff, so I can’t think of anything else this would be besides a puppet reveal.” Kim followed Mikey, nervous that she was about to see Jason up close for the first time. There was already cluster of people huddled around the familiar set of Bobo’s room, and there seemed to be a buzz of anticipation radiating in the air. Bobo’s room had always been Kim’s favorite set on Fuzz Town, and as her eyes wandered over its familiar features she found herself able to relax a bit. The room had a window with an intricately painted sky mural behind it that could be rotated to indicate different times throughout the day. It seemed in Bobo’s room it was always either twilight or a beautiful star filled night, which Bobo would use to educate kids about astronomy. Just like

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Guyceritops, Bobo was apparently an intellectual, and had plenty of books sitting on shelves and sprawled about his room in a chaotic but somewhat organized fashion. He had lots of framed pictures of the other puppets as well, and Kim smiled as she looked at a photo of Bobo and the Garbage Goblin sitting in his trashcan with their arms draped around one another. A hush suddenly came over the room as Jason walked onto the set with Bobo in hand. After everything she had heard today Jason was a remarkably normal looking guy. He had short-cropped brown hair and brown eyes that seemed to be glazed over, never focusing on a particular spot. It was Bobo who was doing the expressing, and as Jason walked out he made Bobo wave to various cast members and do things like straighten the little bow tie dangling from his neck. For every bit of expression and life that Bobo had, it seemed like Jason was lacking these things, leaving him to be almost a husk of a man when compared to the incredible wit and charisma of Bobo. “Hello everyone!” said Bobo in a booming and squeaky voice, “I’m happy you could all make it, well most of you anyways!” They all laughed as Tyler ran in through the back out of breath with his hands already up in an attempt to apologize. “Sorry Bobo! I was just making sure everyone was here!” Bobo seemed to take this in stride and had a good-natured grin on his face as he gestured for Tyler to come to the front, “well don’t keep us waiting, I’ve got a new friend that I want to introduce to you all today!” Mikey leaned in and whisper to Kim, “Wow, seems like the boss man is in a good mood today.” “As I’m sure you’ve all heard” continued Bobo, “there’s a new puppet here who is very excited to meet you, so if you’ll just give me a moment I’ll run out back and get him.” With that Jason walked to the back of the set and disappeared behind its walls. Immediately an eruption of excited murmuring burst out as everyone tried to guess what the new puppet might be. “I heard that this could be the first gay puppet that’s ever on Fuzz Town,” said Mikey. “Jason’s big on human rights stuff so it wouldn’t be a surprise.” Kim heard plenty of other theories as well, ranging from a sentient rock that would educate children about geology, to a toilet who loved to drink pee in order to help kids become potty trained. Kim thought both these theories sounded far-fetched, as she couldn’t imagine Jason would enjoy method acting as a toilet or rock all day. Luckily she didn’t have to wait long as the silence of the crowd indicated that Jason was walking back onto the set. Kim immediately noticed there was


something different about him though. While before his face had been cold and emotionless, now it looked alive and expressive. He was actually making eye contact with people and she swore for a moment his eyes locked on her own. It was then that she noticed the puppet he was holding, and well, she wasn’t really sure how to react. In Jason’s hands he held a miniature puppet version of himself. It had the same short brown hair and tiny brown eyes. It wore the exact same black shirt and every movement it made was perfectly emulated by the actual Jason. The two were so in sync that there was actually a slightly eerie quality in the way that they moved. “Hello everyone,” said the Jason puppet, “my name is Jason and it is a pleasure to finally meet all of you.”

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who we


JOHN ACKER: an enigma of a man, an urchin of a poet; he seldom leaves the confinement of his whiskey-stained hole. Unless, that is, there is a full moon. PAGE 82 SOPHIA ALFIERI is a sophomore public relations major and a media studies minor. She loves to read and write, drawing inspiration from her favorite things and her personal experiences. Sophia also enjoys photography, especially taking pictures of her strangely photogenic dog. She is in the 3+1 Communications program and is looking forward to graduating in 2020 and going on to (hopefully) live and work in New York City. PAGE 32 NHUNG AN is a third-year international student at Quinnipiac University, where she studies journalism and English. In addition to Montage, her poetry has been published in Hematopoiesis Press. She is the winner of the 2017 Connecticut Poetry Circuit Award, first prize winner of the 2018 Donald Hall Poetry Prize, and recipient of the 2018 Thornton Wilder Fiction Prize. She is also an amateur reporter, writer in distress, and revolutionist in progress. She wants to become a journalist or the president of Vietnam. Nhung still lives on campus with her two-year-old beta fish, Sushi, and her four awesome roommates. PAGE 43 MARIA ASCHER is a senior physical therapy student with a minor in Psychology. She is from the far away, mysterious land of Minnesota. She may not be a lumberjack, but she is definitely a Midwest Girl. Athletics brought her here to the East Coast. Being your typical jock, she is not used to being recognized for having any artistic abilities, but has recently taken to more artistic hobbies and discovered great enjoyment in them, as well as therapeutic release and emotional expression through her art. She hopes her artwork helps others feel emotions within themselves that they have been neglecting. PAGE 34

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are


SAMANTHA BASHAW is a journalism major and English minor from A-Town-You’ve-Never-Heard-Of, New York. She dabbles in taking stalker photos of her friends and strangers and her writing can be described as overly romantic and “needs lots of work.” Every night she brushes her teeth, washes her face, and gets in bed with Leonard, her stuffed husky she’s had for three years. This is Sam’s second year of being published in Montage and she has the unrealistic dream of becoming published in Vogue next. She would like to thank chocolate for always being there for her and, of course, her loving friends and family who are pretty great too. PAGE 68 IAN BERKEY is a graphic artist, tea connoisseur and best friend to several stray cats. He loves music with a lot of screaming, but please do not scream at him - he is frail. He would love to work in the music industry doing artwork and brand identity. Ian cites the main inspirations for his digital artwork as Simón Prades, Ivan Belikov, James R. Eads and Nychos. His favorite ice cream is cookies & cream with rainbow sprinkles in a waffle cone. Ian lives in Morristown, New Jersey and will be graduating in 2020. PAGE 84 SCARLETT BLYDENBURGH is a bio-to-journalism major, creative writer, and apologizes too much. She hopes to write for TIME magazine or The New York Times Newspaper one day through hard work. Other than having four cats (Friendly, Milo, Tommy, Seven), playing tennis, and aspiring to cook food besides instant oatmeal, she has a wild imagination and emphasizes kindness above all else. Scarlett, or Scar as her friends call her, grew up in Chatham, New Jersey, but was born in Frankfurt, Germany. She enjoys living life to the fullest and making more memories with Montage, WQAQ Radio, and her friends and family. PAGE 64

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Biographies

BRANTLEY BOYDA is a Sociology major who enjoys writing and taking pictures whenever she gets a chance. She is known as the “unofficial” official photographer among her friends and family and can usually be found with a camera by her side at events. In the future, she hopes to continue writing about and photographing everything around her in whatever ways possible. PAGE 77


ANDREW BREUNIG is an FTM Major at the School of Communications and is also an avid listener of other people's stories. He believes that stories are the inextricable link which binds us all, and in that regard, we should be telling our stories whenever we get the chance. He is a senior with another year left at Quinnipiac (mis-sorted credits stuff ) and enjoys the overall positive atmosphere the University provides. PAGE 25 LILY CALAO is a nursing major, avid beach-goer, and writer whenever she can find the free time. She aspires to be a nurse anesthetist for a big hospital someday. She is a running and hiking enthusiast, and loves to bring her English bulldog, Gus, out on the kayak. She is from Shrewsbury, New Jersey and can’t picture herself leaving the shore anytime soon. She looks forward to the life of adventure she has ahead, both with the QU community, and her family and friends at home. PAGE 72 ANASTASIA CAMPOS, referred to by many as "Anna" or "ONna," was born in July 1996 after the first moon. Her addiction to writing fiction and poetry is almost as serious as her addiction to the Office, for which she is now undergoing serious rehab. Anna will be graduating with a Psychology and English major, and starting her Master's in Social Work this fall. Having recently discovered she is 1% Tongan and Samoan, Anna is eager to honor her voyager ancestors by sailing off somewhere into the sea, Moana-style. PAGE 24 CAITLIN CRYAN is a photographer, designer, and always running on Dunkin. She is an advertising and integrated communications major with big dreams to convince you to buy stuff you don't need in the future. She loves to share her travel, like her fall semester in Washington D.C. through her photography. She's looking forward to her senior year next year and can't wait to see what the world holds. PAGE 80, 88

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MACKENZIE FENN is an English major from West Hartland, CT who enjoys spending time with her family. She is lover of cats, hiking, vinyl records, writing, and reading. "I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses." – Friedrich Nietzsche "I confess I do not know why, but looking at the stars always makes me dream." – Vincent van Gogh "I want sunlight, clear air, and silence." – Alice Notley"

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MADISON FRAITAG is a junior film, television and media major who enjoys writing, drawing, painting and taking pictures of nature. Madison spends most of her time working as the Creative Director of The Chronicle, eating mozzarella cheese in all forms, and watching The Office. PAGE 41, 86, 87 SOPHIE FRANK is a travel addicted photographer in Quinnipiac's Class of 2021. She hails from Menlo Park, California where she spends her days at the barn with her horse Zeus and goes to the beach at every possible opportunity. Her passion lies in nature, portrait, and urban photography and it is her goal to one day visit and photograph all seven continents. Sophie is excited to share her photos with the world and to continue working with Montage in the years to come. PAGE 42, 47, 74

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ELIZABETH FREEMAN is a junior physical therapy major. She enjoys taking photos of anything and everything that catches her eye. In her free time you can usually find her listening to her favorite music or curled up with a book. PAGE 38


CAROLINE GOTTLIEB is a pain in the ass from Staten Island, New York. Despite not knowing what she wants to do in life, she is a double major in public relations and media studies with a minor in Anthropology, but don’t worry, that might change again by next week. Almost too queer to function, Caroline writes anecdotes from her personal life and often gets her deepest and darkest thoughts on paper. She anxiously awaits what the future has in store for her, but hopes that it involves traveling. PAGE 75 ELIZABETH (LIZZY) HRYWRIAK, an English major in the 3+3 BA/JD Law Program, plans on becoming a criminal prosecutor while continuing to live a fun and creative life. She believes in smiling through anything and holds a strong love for Edgar Allan Poe, comic books, and music you’ve probably never heard of. The rest of her interests can be found amongst the 43 pins on her denim jacket—her signature look. Living in Bristol, Connecticut, she spends most of her time with her dog/best friend, Molly, and will happily show you her 347 pictures of this wonderful pup. PAGE 39 ERIN KANE is graduating in May with her Bachelor’s in psychology. She will be continuing her education to receive her Master’s in business administration. She aspires to be a photographer and enjoys capturing moments in time for people. She is a concert enthusiast and enjoys watching sports and going to the beach. She is from Higganum, Connecticut and sometimes believes she was born in the wrong generation. She will miss Montage and the being so deeply involved in the QU community. She wishes the best of luck to the rest of her family that she has made at QU these past four years. PAGE 69, 73

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KIRSTEN KOEDDING is a rising junior film, television, and media arts major who loves to write everything except pieces about herself (like this bio). She is a short story writer, poet, and screenwriter who delves in the realm of video production, cinematography, and editing as well. Her work has appeared in Montage’s bimonthly/end-of-year zine and she looks forward to seeing her latest piece appear in this yearly issue. In addition to Montage, Kirsten’s work has appeared in multiple Quinnipiac Tonight skits. Kirsten, being in the 3+1 Communications program, will be graduating with her master’s in 2020. PAGE 17, 63


ERIN LEDREW is a sociology major and artist from a small town in New Hampshire that you most certainly have never heard of. She is a self-proclaimed dog interpreter, avid tree hugger, and compulsive over-committer. She has been painting and drawing since she can remember and would say that she “peaked” at 6 years-old when she won a coloring competition at her local grocery store. Erin enjoys creating original paintings and designs, as well as custom-made portraits of people and animals. She is set to graduate in 2019 and hopes to continue with art as a hobby and potential side job after college. PAGE 78, 79 SARAH MAREK is a chemistry and biology major with a minor in English. When she decided to minor in English her junior year, she fell back in love with writing. Ever since, she has been writing poetry in and out of the classroom! She loves collecting records, the color yellow, and organic chemistry. PAGE 19 LAUREN MCGRATH is like a piece of gum that no matter how hard you try, you cannot get off your shoe. She’s been compared to that feeling of reaching for your phone and realizing it’s not in your pocket. Lauren suffers from a condition in which she manages to insult every person she meets, but this hasn’t stopped her on her mission to find friends. She hopes to one day complete her life dream of having sex with the pope purely for the irony of it. PAGE 50

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JANE MCNOBLE is a serial procrastinator that really needs to get her shit together. She is proud that this is her second time featured in Montage, but severely disappointed that this is the second time she is speed typing her biography an hour before it’s due. You can even check the facts on that one folks because last year’s issue she mentioned the same thing. When she’s not stress-finishing her assignments, Jane is a Health Science student at Quinnipiac. She loves to write and draw, but her aforementioned procrastination skills limit the amount of art that actually gets created. PAGE 18


EMILY MITCHELL is an English major who is interested in becoming an elementary school teacher. In her free time she enjoys reading and writing poetry. She aspires to publish more work as she continues her career in poetry. She lives in Berlin, Connecticut where she attended high school when she fell in love with the art of poetry. Although she wishes to become an elementary school teacher she hopes to pass on her love for poetry to her future students. She looks forward to the next two years at Quinnipiac University where she hopes to practice her writing even more. PAGE 85 MARIA PARENTEAU is an English major and public relations minor. In her free time, Maria loves to get active with sports, such as soccer and basketball, and also enjoys writing poems or fictional pieces as well as photography. She is close with her family and friends from her hometown Cheshire, Connecticut, but she aspires to someday travel to places in and outside of the country. Maria will be graduating from Quinnipiac in the spring of 2020 and is looking forward to what the future holds. PAGE 46 ROSIE PERSIANI is a boss ass bitch. She’s in love with the Oxford comma, All Time Low, and sleeping. She finally learned to believe in herself enough to write a decent bio. She’s been published twice in Spillwords Press, she won second place in the Donald Hall Poetry Prize in 2018, and Rosie is ecstatic to be the Editor-in-chief of Montage for next year and really thanks Christina and Erin for everything they helped her achieve this year. PAGE 60 SHELBY PETRIE is a junior public relations major and business minor. Her friends describe her as flaky, selfish, and slutty. In both her middle school and high school yearbooks, Shelby can be found in the superlatives section under “class chatterbox”. She’s the president of the communication’s honor society, vice president of gender sexuality alliance, and a tour guide. Shelby is bilingual, fluent in both English and Pig Latin. She prides herself on being an expert whistler and her ability to chug water bottles within seconds. PAGE 53 Biographies // 103


RICHIE PETROSINO is a person. He feels pain and panic, to quickly paraphrase. Little patience for failing, he can only hope to see peace prevailing. Perhaps he’s mistaken, after all, paranoia and pessimism have found their place in his pictures. His peers may call him polite, but his true passion is pretending he’s perpetually right. Picture this: a person possessively pompous. Perhaps this is just a poem, and a peculiar one at that. If your interest is still piqued, this will end pretty quick. Mr. Petrosino is many things, not all of them positive, but he is what he is, best not get psychological. PAGE 62 CHRISTINA POPIK is a junior graphic & interactive design major and computer science minor from the great state of Connecticut. She has recently taken on the role of Editor-in-chief of The Quinnipiac Chronicle for the 20182019 year and is a graphic designer in the Department of Campus Life. Her favorite pastimes are being unnecessarily sassy, drowning in a pool of stress created by herself, and drinking copious amounts of coffee to function in professional settings. PAGE 30

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JOSEPH POWELL is a poet, actor, director, wine connoisseur, and dragon expert. Critics have described his writing as “simply stunning”, “who are you”, “why are you in my house” and “wet”. Joseph has appeared once before in Montage, and never before in anything else. He also recently directed the play “A Watercolor Sky” that was performed on The Barrow Group stage in New York City for the 2018 New Play Festival. Joseph currently lives in Charlton, Massachusetts with his dog Bella, and his five chickens. He will be graduating in 2020 with a BA in GDD and Theater. PAGE 16 SEAN RAGGIO is a poet, a musician and according to many, a dad. Whether it be the dad jeans or the dad bod, he’s a dad nonetheless. A journalism major, he is heavily involved in The Quinnipiac Chronicle as a reporter and Q30 Television as an analyst. Huge sports guy, dabbles in basketball, but can also be seen flailing around the volleyball court with the Intramural Division 2 team, “Bump, Set, Chron!” Known as a walking advertisement, he’ll probably have plugged not only his poem to you, but this bio as well… so enjoy! PAGE 22


REBECCA ROOT is from Long Island, New York where they have the best pizza and bagels. She'll respond to many nicknames, except for Becky because of the song Baby Got Back. She is an English major and a Spanish minor, as well as a member of the MAT program at Quinnipiac University. She enjoys cooking, eating, and watching sports. She even named her service dog, Chelsea, after her favorite soccer team. In fact, more people probably know Chelsea than her at Quinnipiac. Her aspirations are to become a school teacher and she hopes to coach a soccer team in the future as well. She wrote this poem because despite the challenges she’s faced, she wanted to spread the message that anyone can get through difficult times. PAGE 40 JENNA SHANKMAN is a senior English major and psychology minor at Quinnipiac University. She will be attending Quinnipiac University School of Law next semester. In her free time, Jenna loves to travel and read, and she looks forward to her trip to Europe this summer. This is her first published piece. PAGE 35 MORGAN TENCZA is a photographer majoring in media studies and minoring in sports studies. When not at Quinnipiac, she spends her time in her hometown of Marlton, New Jersey. She is a big soccer fan, her favorite team being the Philadelphia Union. She is working to become a photographer for a professional sports team or National Geographic. Not only does she have a strong love for photography and soccer, she is very passionate about dogs, food, Harry Potter and How I Met Your Mother. Morgan looks forward to spending her time next year as The Chronicle's Photography editor. PAGE 52

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JESS TYREE is a junior psychology major from Warwick, RI, and one of her favorite childhood masterpieces is a rainbow dragonfly that shoots ribbons out of its butt (a true work of art, I know). She loves plants, the beach, and dogs, and is almost never seen without rings on. She currently livestreams her artwork on Twitch and has an Instagram that's basically an art gallery (@mynameisnottree). She recently branched out into selling her work through RedBubble and commissions to help with the broke college student struggle. She's a sucker for coffee and she's got to afford it somehow, right? PAGE 66


AMANDA TETI started off as a creative writing major at the University of Tampa and is now studying psychology and English here at Quinnipiac. Her goal is to combine the fields of psychology and creative writing in order to advocate for mental illness. Aside from writing she loves to travel and take pictures. Amanda is obsessed with sunflowers and everything that is black. She currently lives in Connecticut but hopes to move down south again after graduating in 2019. PAGE 20 CARLY TIMPSON is a writer of numerous ridiculous ramblings, an ex-emo kid, and a dog lover. She is from the small coastal town of Narragansett, Rhode Island, where she lives with her parents and three siblings. Though many do not realize it, Carly was born deaf and has worn hearing aids her whole life. Carly high jumps and throws the hammer for Quinnipiac University as well as The United States Deaf Track and Field Team. She is a junior studying English literature and plans to teach high school English when she graduates from the MAT program in 2019. PAGE 81 JEREMY TROETTI is a journalism major and public relations minor. He is originally from Ossining, New York. He previously served as an associate news editor for The Chronicle, and is currently the Copy editor. He enjoys spending time with family and friends, traveling, reading and always loves to catch a good sunset. He is a huge Mets fan, and enjoys watching baseball as a whole. He has visited 15 out of the 30 MLB stadiums, as well as 25 of the 50 states. PAGE 48

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NATE WALSKY is the one writing this bio so it's a bit weird for him to be doing it in the third person. Usually he talks in the first person and swears that he will not come up to you and say "Nate Walsky says hello!" He is mostly a normal person and just figured he would use the space allotted to him to make that clear. Anyways now that's out of the way Nate will get to the good stuff ! He is a junior English and media studies student and is also out of space so he hopes you enjoy his story! PAGE 89


JORDAN WASYLAK is a Film major with a slight obsession of cats and passion for creating. She dreams of working for a film production studio one day, but is looking forward to the steps she has to take to get there. She currently lives in Bedford, New Hampshire with her parents, younger brother, and cat named Oreo. She is excited to see what next year has to offer with her involvement in organizations like Student Programming Board, Quinnipiac Film Society, Q30 TV, and Montage. PAGE 61, 83 CRANDALL YOPP, or as he likes to be called, C.J., is a marketing major and a photographer. He works for The Chronicle newspaper and QU Athletics as a sports photographer. In his free time he enjoys shooting portraits of his friends and family, or going on hikes to seek out the right shot. In his future he hopes to continue with photography by integrating it somehow with his marketing degree. Next year he plans to continue his work with The Chronicle, QU Athletics, and Montage. PAGE 55

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acknowle


edgments We want to thank Jess Tyree for allowing us to use her illustration for the cover which embodies the feeling for the journal's theme, “changing of the seasons.” We want to thank WQAQ for co-hosting the open mics with us this past year. With their help we were able to hold open mics once a month and create a safe environment for artists to share their work.

We want to thank Elizabeth Freeman, Megan Lowe, Ian Berkey, David Lowe, Jesulayomi Akinnifesi, Samantha Bashaw, Brantley Boyda, Jen Garnet, Nhung An, Lauren Heery and Hannah Feakes for being our open mic night visual art features this past year.

We want to thank Phil Akre, Kirby Paulson, Greta Stroebel, The Barnacle, Kyle Liang, Rosie Persiani and Comic Sans for being our featured open mic readers and performers this past year. We want to thank Jason Koo for developing and inspiring countless poets and creative writers, many of them seen throughout this journal. We want to thank Valerie Smith, David Atkins, and Ken Cormier for running a variety of writing workshops with our staff.

We want to thank Rosie Persiani for being our next Editor-in-Chief. This year wouldn’t have been nearly as successful without you. You transformed how Montage was from our meetings to our open mics and we know that you will help this organization continue to grow after we leave. We want to thank Lila Carney for her endless brilliant ideas, comfort and support, even after she was no longer our advisor.

Finally, we want to thank all of our members. You have helped us create a home for writers and artists here on campus, and for that, we can’t thank you enough. Keep pursuing your passions and sharing them with everybody because that is what makes Montage continue to grow and be successful.

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We want to thank David McGraw for his support and jumping right into his position this year. David always tried to be available when we either had a simple question or an idea.


Profile for Montage at Quinnipiac University

Montage 2018 Journal  

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