Montage 2019 Journal: In Search of Light by Montage at Quinnipiac University

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(light) MONTAGE ARTS AND LITERARY JOURNAL VOLUME 38 2019

ABOUT 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 journalâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s publication. Submissions were accepted in the categories of poetry, prose, visual arts, and photography. All submissions were reviewed blindly by the Montage content panel.

COLOPHON

The fonts used throughout this publication are Franklin Gothic and Shoreline Script. Three hundred and fifty copies of this journal were printed by Tyco Printing during April 2019 in New Haven, Connecticut. 4

staFF)

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Rosie Persiani

CONTENT PANEL JOURNAL DESIGN Joelle Gray

COVER DESIGN Joelle Gray

ADVISOR

Ian Addison Hassan A.J Sophie Frank Joelle Gray Elizabeth Hrywniak Nina Leopold Rosie Persiani Jenna Sucato Jeremy Troetti

David McGraw

[From The DEAR READER,

Thank you for picking up the 2019 edition of Montage. This is so much more than just a literary journal. This is hours of hard work, conversation, and cooperation from all of our members. This is not just a collection of poetry, poems, and visual art. This is the talent from our own Quinnipiac University students. This publication is a breath-taking combination of fantastic writers and artists. I hope you enjoy every single page of it. I am so very proud of everything that Montage has done this year. Going from two to three publications, having more of an online presence, and being able to continue hosting amazing Open Mics is just the beginning of everything Montage will accomplish. I have put my heart and soul into trying to continue creating a home for anyone to be a part of; I hope I did you all proud. My very first copy of Montage was given to me by Valerie Smith my freshman year. I paid attention to the events but did not participate until I met Kyle Liang my sophomore year. Him, Kristen Riello, Christina Popik, and Erin Kane completely changed my life. They gave me a newfound purpose and love for my time here at Quinnipiac. I wish that everyone who joins Montage will experience that feeling of love and admiration for an organization. I knew that it would be rough to run it on my own, especially after Christina and Erin created such an amazing atmosphere, but without the members that came to every single meeting, Open Mic, and impromptu conversation in the hall I was able to do it.

editor) Joelle Gray, myself, and the content panel spent so many hours in the cafeteria, Student Media Suite, and texting working, brainstorming, and creating what you have in your hands. Even if you just picked this up because you were in it, a friend was, or you have no clue what Montage is, sit down with a cup of coffee, tea, water, anything and just enjoy this! Get to know the authors, their pieces, the visuals, and every color you see splashed across these pages. Every person inside this journal is extremely talented and deserves to shine. Please enjoy every single contributor, their piece, and continue creating. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to lead Montage and help create a home for myself and many other students. Thank you for being the best organization on campus. Montage, the members, and Student Media will always hold a special place in my heart. With love, Rosie Persiani

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

(table of darkness)

The Poemâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Process Emily Mitchell // Poetry

The New Yorker Hassan A.J // Photography

Orchards Shaylah Zorn // Poetry

Central Park Ian Addison // Digital Art

Untitled Amanda Perelli // Photography

I bet I can beat you there Nivea Acosta // Poetry

Exploding Lights Jennie Torres // Photography

Bedroom Floor Nhung An // Prose

Donald Hall Poetry Prize -- Second Place Winner

Wilder Fiction Prize -- First Place Winner

contents) 32

Alphabet Soup Jennie Torres // Poetry

Capricorn Woman Jennie Torres // Drawing

Cambodian Ties Sophie Frank // Photography

Being horny in church Samantha Bashaw // Poetry

Solemn Jen Rondinelli // Photography

39 taboo Kiana Arevalo // Poetry 41

He Hated Flowers So I Got A Rose Tattoo Amber Kolb // Digital Art

Goblin Garden Rosie Persiani // Poetry

Romantically Ian Addison // Digital Art

Propagational Paradox Bethany Newton // Poetry 9

Loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Deception Elizabeth Hrywniak // Poetry

Flame in a Waterfall Kiana Arevalo // Photography

You Know, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d Love To But Will Leibowitz // Poetry

Wishing for Spring Caitlin Landau // Photography

Anonymously Yours Ian Addison // Photography

Glass Girl Caitlin Landau // Poetry

Cambridge, MA Sarah Marek // Photography

Belong Mike Fernandez // Poetry

Sleeping Alice Caitlin Landau // Digital Art

alice, where have you gone? Kiana Arevalo // Poetry

Dead on Arrival Jennie Torres // Poetry

Moon Madison Fraitag // Photography

Donald Hall Poetry Prize -- Third Place Winner

(light 66

Garyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Greenhouse Nate Walsky // Prose

Untitled #2 Christina Popik // Photography

SH Ruby Rosenwasser // Photography

Ode to Maps Sarah Marek // Poetry

Lost Elizabeth Hrywniak // Photography

Vanilla Samantha Bashaw // Poetry

Lost Blanket Marianna Rappa // Poetry

Budapest Mermaid Samantha Bashaw // Photography

Elephants at Serengeti National Park, Tanzania Srinithi Raghunathan // Photography

The Goose Nina Leopold // Prose

Donald Hall Poetry Prize -- First Place Winner

Wilder Fiction Prize -- Third Place Winner

Monkey Looking Into My Hotel Room Srinithi Raghunathan // Photography

when I was young Avery Kidd // Poetry

Purple Rain Sarah McKernan // Photography

93 94

Weekly Review: On the Derangement of Boyfriend #16 Hassan A.J // Prose

6:25 am, 17Â° Joelle Gray // Photography

Bestseller Wesley Clapp // Prose

Our Simba Sarah Marek // Photography

100

Brickell Jeremy Troetti // Photography

101

The Palace During the Day Marianna Rappa // Photography

102

Conversion Jenna Sucato // Poetry

Donald Hall Poetry -- Honorable Mention Winner

Wilder Fiction Prize -- Second Place Winner

Delightful Kenny MacMaster // Poetry

104

Sunday Madison Fraitag // Photography

105

Marco Mike Fernandez // Prose

110

Universe Inside You Amber Kolb // Digital Art

111

Dear Hiring Manager Kenny MacMaster // Poetry

112

Bright Future Morgan Tencza // Photography

113 114

THROUGH Tajanae Crawford // Poetry

117

Who We Are

126

Acknowledgments

Wilder Fiction Prize -- Second Place Winner

Pop of Yellow Morgan Tencza // Photography

darkness

The Poemâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Process Emily Mitchell

The poem walks down the alley downtown At about quarter past one, The alley between the bar And the building with bare walls And empty rooms. The poem waits for the words To come through its body. The poem is tired of people Using the wrong words. The poem sits alone at the bar Stirring its straw. The poem moves Its eyes through the waves Of different people laughing, Yelling, eating, loving, And pretending. To the poem, All hearts are transparent. The poem lounges in the tropics Without any strategic plan Or map of movement, The poem moves us. The poem brings us along Through its transparent life.

The New Yorker Hassan A.J

Orchards

Shaylah Zorn

Donald Hall Poetry Prize -- Second Place Winner

I used to beg my mother to put my hair in a French braid that tugged on my scalp, because she was the only one who could do it just right: perfectly tight. I had long, brown hair that cracked into a red as it grew past my collarbone, and I hated it: when my hair was long, it was made of two different colors that never quite matched, never looked right in the focus of the sun where, if you looked closely enough, you could see strands made of gold— woven into both colors, like a rejected Picasso painting that would never see the Met. But when my mother would French-braid my hair, my colors would blend together as if they were meant to be in love and not in deeply seated hatred. As I grew older, I asked my mom to braid my hair less and less often because I stopped caring about looking lovely for other people who weren’t me. My thought was, “If I’m good enough for me, that’s enough.” I cut my hair off around the midpoint of my neck: short enough to be brown, not quite long enough to be red. I thought I was so clever, sneaking past all of my insecurities under the guise of self-love and expression. Tufts of hair grew past my breast, and the old-ketchup-stain strands were too long; not just because the repugnant colors mixed together, but because it was grabbed, pulled, yanked, and torn from my scalp by men who weren’t careful to care for my feelings as a human being even when I said stop or said nothing at all. 18

Unspoken words rebelled in my throat and cut their way out through my jugular, killing me in the process of their liberation. I would have liked to be proud of them, but I was far too preoccupied with drowning in an ocean of my own blood. I decided, one last time, to cut my hair: I cut it so short that I would forget what the flimsy strands of copper looked like, leaving my hair the color of the soil, fertile enough to nourish herbs and vegetables which would make their way into a stew or a stir-fry. Then I realized that I wanted to forget my hair entirely, because it still reminded me of the men who pulled at it and the people who thought they were helping afterward when they said to me: “It could be worse.” I cut my hair off one last time, saying, “This is the last time,” not just talking about my hair. I wanted to grow flowers, so I stripped my hair of all its soil, leaving it white, and threw globules of color onto it with no care in its organization. Each shade was a different flower, and I’ve grown so many flowers that I could fill several gardens with blooming flora native to my skull, so people would come from around the world to walk through the paved paths between different varieties. They would smell a savory and sweet blend of delicious aromas, and they would lose themselves in the beauty of my hair, and all the fertility it represents.

Central Park Ian Addison

Untitled Amanda Perelli

I bet I can beat you there Nivea Acosta

every time I open my eyes I find I am still inside Myself the person I so desperately want to escape from I wonder what it’s like to be you are you happier than me is your mind just as clouded or do you live on cloud nine I close my eyes and imagine I’m far from my problems but then I remember the problem is me I can run and run until my legs give out and collapse from exhaustion but I am still me it doesn’t help when my mind decides to run a race far past where my legs can go and the prize for winning are thoughts of worry and worthlessness I’m stuck on a loop of everything I’ve ever done and didn’t do the loop is around my neck and is tightening its grip I want an echo of life beyond this moment not to feel like another cog rotating endlessly until one day I stop and there is nothing to show for me having been here because I am easily replaced

Jennie Torres

Exploding Lights

Bedroom Floor Nhung An

Wilder Fiction Prize -- First Place Winner

You wake up from the suffocating heat in your room. The humidity is heavy on your chest, clinging onto the insides of your nostrils, the skin of your arms, and the back of your neck. Your body feels damp. The thin blanket sticks to your body. You are now sleeping with glue. So you toss it to the side, spread out your arms and legs, searching for a cooler space on the mattress. But your bed has become a heating oven. Your eyes are now opened, tireless. The darkness around you starts to fade. Your own bedroom is becoming clearer as you stare at a dot on the ceiling. Is that a bug? Or has it always been there? You turn to look at the alarm clock your sister gave you for Christmas. 5:30 a.m. And you’re already wide awake. Great. Summer isn’t starting out so gently for you. Your wooden bedroom floor cracks with each footstep stomping below. Someone is pacing in the kitchen. Is mom looking for something? You lie still, eyes forgetting to blink, listening to every noise that travels from underneath. Once in a while, you can hear the sound of cupboards’ wings opening and closing. The sound of metal utensils clashing. The sound of the water running. You cannot find any patterns. So you turn to lie on your side, one ear blocked by the pillow you’re lying on, the other facing the ceiling with the hope that the bug will not fall. It’s probably just a smudge anyway. You hear the crackling moves to right beneath your door. The crackling stops; and the squeaking of your wooden stairs replaces it. With each step, the squeaking grows louder and slower. The strip of light at the bottom of your door is constantly interrupted by moving shadows. Someone is coming. Your bedroom door opens and the orange light from the staircase pours in right before the shadow at the door turns it off. You stare at the shadow approaching you. You can make out the outline of her body. Her hair straight, falling flat over her arms; her shoulders slack. Her right arm is keeping a big pillow by her body. She is wrapped in a long cardigan. Or is it a small blanket? It’s already a million degrees in here, Mom! 24

You sit up to look at her; your weak sleepy arm struggles to keep you there. You lean forward, mouth opened, but your throat is dry. “Shhh,” your mother whispers as she walks towards you, a hand on your shoulder gently putting you back down onto your bed. She is now close enough that you can see her cheekbones and imagine her deep hazel eyes in the dark. “Go back to sleep, dear. I’m sorry I woke you.” Your mother lies down on the floor next to your bed. She puts down her pillow. The sound of the fabric sweeping on the floor ruffles in your ears for a minute. She’s adjusting the distance between her and you. Then she finally puts her head down, face turning away. Every noise stops. You stare at her back, long enough to notice her shoulders shuddering. You want to reach out to her, your tiny hand on her back, and comfort her, like you used to do. You want to ask why she’s here. But you know what she would say and what she wouldn’t. Go back to sleep, sweetie. Don’t tell your father I’m here. So you lie there staring up at the ceiling. The black dot is no longer there, but your mother is. She has been sneaking up and sleeping in your room ever since you started fourth grade. You know that in the morning, you will wake up with no sign of her ever coming up. It’s been like that for a year, and you have never told your father. *** The new air-conditioner in your bedroom makes it much colder than it usually is. You love it. Its steady humming sound eases you. The dryness makes you feel relaxed after a hot July day. No sticky shirt on your body, no sticky hair on your neck. You lie with your belly on the carpeted floor that you usually hate so much, eyes glued onto the screen of your sister’s old laptop. You have just found a new addiction in your life, thanks to the new friends you have made online. Books aren’t enough. You scroll and scroll on the new forums of fanfictions. You hear a car’s engine moving closer to your house. Mom must be home. You quickly turn off your bedroom’s light then run out to take a peek at the window. A strange silver car is parked right outside, headlights on. It doesn’t look like your mother’s. You can’t remember what your father’s car looks like but he’s never home on the weekends. 25

Maybe your sister is taking a break from her internship. The car’s lights turn off and you see two shadows walking out from each side. A man and a woman. Your mother. You recognize her thin straightened hair. From afar, you notice her pearl necklace and the black boots with super high heels that she always trips on. You never understand why she finds the necklace so appealing. But maybe because it was a wedding gift from your father. You stand there tiptoeing at the window trying to see who the man is, but cannot recognize him. He doesn’t look like the same red-haired man she had brought home several time this past weeks. Her co-worker, she said. Someone you caught kissing her by the door before leaving. But this guy seems to be much taller with very dark hair, like your father’s, but not spikey. So you watch him talking to your mother as they walk closer to the door and a stranger’s coat falling off her shoulder as she laughs at something he said. You hear their faint conversation. Their whispering then giggling break the silence that you were enjoying just minutes ago, until they stop as she leans in, fingers running in his hair, her face a breath away from his. Your toes get tired and drop back down onto the floor. You imagine the mysterious man kissing a woman that looks like your mother. Maybe they’re sharing a quick kiss goodbye like the last time she did with her red-haired coworker. Maybe they’re sharing a passionate kiss like Princess Leia and Han Solo just did on your laptop screen. Your mother now has her hair wrapped on the sides of her face, covering her ears. Her clothes become white. Your mother is now wearing Princess Leia’s clothes, the mysterious man is her husband, and you are their nine-year-old child. You imagine Han Solo’s hands running across her waist to hold her closer. You imagine Princess Leia closing her eyes and drowning herself in the kiss; her hands cupping his face, or maybe her arms are swung over his shoulders. You hear the car doors slam and you close your laptop. After putting it back onto your desk, you ran to bed, sliding under covers. Your bedtime has probably passed hours ago and now your heart is racing. You hope your mother does not catch you awake. Your eyes stay wide open staring at the blank ceiling. You hear Princess Leia’s heels clacking against the marble kitchen floor. Clop. Clop. Princess Leia sounds so 26

much like your sister now. You hear her opening and closing the cabinets. You hear her pacing back and forth as if Luke Skywalker has done something stupid again. You hear her mumbling, maybe calling someone to report on a missing case of a lightsaber. And then, you hear her heels disappearing into the distance. Princess Leia is in her room. You turn to your side to stare at the orange line of light piercing through the edge of your door. You wonder why it’s still on. And then, you start hearing a pair of slippers dragging on the kitchen floor. The princess is on the move again. You hear her footsteps squeaking the wooden stairs leading to your room. You hear her walking closer. Mom must have seen your bedroom’s light on before. You close your eyes tightly, pull your blanket up to cover half of your face. Princess Leia has turned into Darth Vader in quiet steps. You imagine him in his gigantic black outfit. You imagine him breathing heavily under the mask. You can hear the Imperial March playing loudly in your head, trying to drown out your heart beating. The room suddenly fills with light until it becomes dark again. You try not to move. Maybe you can put off the scolding for tomorrow morning. Maybe, if Darth Vader sees that you have fallen asleep, the battle could be postponed. You feel your mother’s warm, her hand on the side of your face, stroking your hair. Then you hear fabric ruffling until it stops and silence takes over. Mom’s sleeping up here again. *** Your friends are starting to go offline. It’s their bedtime. You look at the clock that your sister gave you. 10 p.m. You wonder if your mother’s home yet; your sister has been looking for her since this morning when your mother had left you waiting outside of her workplace, and you had to ask the lady at the desk to make a call to your sister. You didn’t find it scary at all, standing there alone. You find it nice that you got a space of your own that wasn’t your bedroom. But your sister was furious. She still is. She makes you feel more scared as you reflect back on what happened.

How could she forget her own child? You remember her yelling at the steering wheel as she was driving you home. This isn’t the first time. It was the third time this year. Bet she’s skipping her meetings! The car was going faster than you think it should have. She never fucking knows her limit! You remember sitting there playing with your Rubik’s cube. One of your mother’s coworkers has given you that long ago, but the cube normally just sits there, or works as a fidgeting device for you. You would rather read on your laptop than playing with it, but that’s because you don’t know how, and no one has offered to teach you, not even the mathletes at school. They say you can never be as intelligent enough to play it. Your sister has come home from her summer internship at D.C. She told you all about the people she got to meet there and all the websites she got to build. You’re excited for her. You have always been. But whenever she talks about what she wants to do for a living, it seems like she is speaking in codes. And when she rambles about your mother, she is speaking in codes, too. So you zoned out, focused on your useless Rubik’s cube, and wondered what your friends had been reading this summer. Someone is walking upstairs to your room. You type furiously on the keyboards to say goodbye to your friends on the forum, then close the laptop. You feel jealous with some of them who live so far away from you where the sun is still out. They don’t have to sleep until hours from now. But you like these kids because they never brag about what presents they get from their parents like the kids at school do. Your online friends could never spit at you or say you had no dad. They never even talk about their parents. You have stopped bringing a book to school because you are tired of losing it, or getting it drawn on or ripped by the boys in class who like to impress girls with their careless stunts. You only read on screen now. And you only read at home, where you can share your ideas with your friends living behind the screen. The door opens and you have just slipped into your pajamas. Your mother walks in with her face red, eyes swollen and wet. You want to ask why she’s crying. You want to ask if your sister has made her cry. But as usual, you know she will avoid answering you. 28

Your mother apologizes for forgetting you at her workplace like she usually does after she has left you alone somewhere. Then she tucks you to bed like she does every night. Tonight, you are Harry Potter, but your mother is still here with you. You fall asleep with the thought of waking up with magic spells in the morning. With magic, you can make your dad stay home and do all of his business trips online. With magic, you can make the kids at school stop teasing you about your family and your lack of intelligence with Rubik’s cube. With magic, you can make all of the Han Solos in your mother’s life disappear until there’s only one left, and that will be your father. *** The warm air from the new heater enhances the food comma you got from the Christmas Eve’s dinner. You lay with your back against the cool carpeted floor. You like to massage your legs and arms onto the carpet, so you keep doing so until the friction makes it hot. Your eyes forget how to blink as they stare at a bug on the ceiling––it’s clearly a bug––trying to remember what your dad looks like. You were so excited to see him this year, but of course, your sister has to ruin all of it. Now you can’t even remember what he was wearing. You put all of your focus onto the bug to drown out your sister still yelling downstairs. You were sent to your room after your sister called out your mother for being careless and drinking wine at the table. Everyone else was drinking wine so you still don’t understand why she was so furious at your mother. Then, as your sister was raising her voice, you noticed your dad and uncle talking as if no one else was at the table. Every year, mom invites her brother over for Christmas dinner, and then complains to her best friend on the phone about him getting all of dad’s attention. You don’t understand why mom still invites uncle over if she didn’t want to. But you love him, he always gives you books, so you never comment on it. You wonder why you did not notice that bug on the ceiling before. You wonder if the bug was hurt by that. You wonder if the bug wants to be invisible like you were at the dinner table. You remember watching your father and uncle having a conversation. You wanted to ask dad to give mom more attention. But then you notice one of their hands sliding 29

on the other’s thighs and rubbing it underneath the table. You remember that the boys at school wouldn’t even touch each other unless they were punching one another. Maybe it’s something kids will grow out of. You remember your dad and uncle giggling and sipping on wine glasses so close to each other it felt like a scene in one of the stories you’ve read about Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Your father’s hair is dark and spikey, like Harry’s, and your uncle’s is light brown. You imagine Draco could have dyed his hair. You imagine them kissing each other in the boys’ bathroom because they don’t want anyone else to know. The other wizards would be furious. You know your sister was. She yelled at them, too. She blamed your mother for not doing anything about it, and you started to cry. Your sister didn’t stop pointing and screaming at your uncle as your dad sent you upstairs. You saw tears flowing out of her eyes even though she looked so powerful and strong like Queen Daenerys in Games of Thrones. Maybe someone has hurt her dragons. Maybe she’s lashing out on your parents because she didn’t know how to explain that she even has a dragon. You wanted to tell her she could talk to you. You wanted to tell her they didn’t capture her dragons. But your father has already sent you upstairs and asked for you to stay in your room. Before leaving the dining table, your father promised that if you had fallen asleep at that moment, Santa Claus would come. He promised that your sister was angry because she was jealous of you, and that she could not receive presents anymore because she was not a kid. He said your sister was trying to delay Santa Claus’ arrival, but he wouldn’t let it. You imagine Santa Claus looking at your name on the list. You imagine him riding right pass your house, not because your sister was trying to ruin it, but because you have been a naughty kid. You couldn’t help your mom. You couldn’t help your sister. The yelling wouldn’t stop downstairs even when you open your laptop and dwell into a new story. You try not to listen to your sister calling your mother an alcoholic. You try not to hear your dad yelling at her for being rude. You try to imagine you are Harry Potter and the Dursley’s are arguing downstairs, ruining 30

your Christmas. You wish you were finally eleven and magical. You wave your hand in front of the computer screen. Expecto Patronum. You whisper the spells you remember from the book. You wonder how many times you have to chant it to walk into the stories and leave the yelling behind. You will only be gone for a couple of days. Your family wouldn’t be too worried. You won’t miss out on Christmas day. After all, Santa Claus isn’t coming for you anyway.

Alphabet Soup Jennie Torres

My focus was fixed on the celebration in front of me. A gumbo of family members swimming in a crowd, laughing With enjoyment. A faint chuckle slipped through my throat Fitting into the scene as I should’ve — they weren’t strangers after all. The mother of my aunt whom I barely knew stood beside me. I expected this three-word sentence out of her mouth, “You’re so quiet!” It was said with a smile. My presence was amusing. Something told me to make a scene. Scream in her face, but in a way, she was right. The doctor said, “She could be deaf” I was only 4-years old then, I acted like an abused child. I was far from that. These assumptions grow morbid over time. “I bet she slits her wrists at night” I just have nothing to say Do you think I want to be this way? I’ve walked into classrooms Where kids gawk at me like I’m a statue in their presence. “So she can speak!” I strike concern for Those that know me. So in the future, I’ll talk and talk and talk.

Capricorn Woman

Jennie Torres 33

Cambodian Ties Sophie Frank

Being horny in church Samantha Bashaw

1. I hope he’ll ask me to come over this time, take me under the covers, unhook my bra, make love to me. 2. She’s such a foolish little girl, thinking that I’ll take her home tonight and actually let her stay the night. That’s not me. I’ll have her packed up, bra back on and panties up tight around her waist before midnight. 3. My mom once dated three guys at the same time. I asked her how she could possibly, morally and realistically, do that. She would meet one at a coffee shop in the morning, go out to lunch with another at midday, and then whisk herself away at night to the movies with the third. 4. My dad is on his third marriage. Thankfully it’s with my mom so I don’t have any separation trauma. But I still think about his two previous wives and the two children he had with someone other than my mom. 5. I have five half-siblings. 6. My dad once ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches every day for a month during his second divorce because his ex took all the money... and he was depressed...and he really likes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. 7. I’m a virgin. 8. “I love you so much, Sam,” he said. “I just want to have sex with you.” We’ve done everything else, so I think, why not? 9. In the Catholic Church, it is sinful to have sex before marriage. It is categorized as a “mortal sin,” meaning your soul has been severely damaged and you are to go to hell if you don’t repent. For a mortal sin to occur, the sin must be of grave matter, committed with full knowledge and be in deliberate consent of the sinner. 35

10. When I went to college, all they talked about was consent. How “no means no” and you should always ask your partner before doing anything sexually. Kissing, holding hands, boob and ass grabbing, full on penetration, etc. 11. One in four female students will be sexually assaulted before their graduation date, according to the United States Department of Justice. 12. I wish my mom knew about consent when she was young. Maybe she wouldn’t have had the abortion. 13. Masturbation is also considered a mortal sin. 14. “It would go in so easily babe.” “But, you just told me that it was tight?” “I want to loosen it up, though.” And the bad part is that I want him to as well. 15. Going in to Victoria’s Secret for the first time, I nervously walk toward the closest worker, hoping she would sense my anxiety and take me under her well-padded, 36C cup wing. She directs me toward the fitting room and grabs three bras of various sizes, fabrics, and designs. I take off my nude bra that I’ve had for five years, ashamed of the stretched out underwire and fraying cotton. 16. I used to hate pink in middle school and I would only buy Target brand, push-up bras. 17. I had my first “real” boyfriend when I turned 17. We went to prom together, but didn’t kiss until four months after. We broke up two months after that. 18. She sat down with her parents in third grade to go over the birds and the bees. The talk didn’t shock her, she wasn’t disgusted, just intrigued. She masturbated for the first time in grade school, but she didn’t know what it was or what it meant, hardly knowing the proper vocabulary for what she was doing at night while her parents were watching Survivor. 36

19. My dad was abused by a priest. 20. In 2004, a Church-commissioned report stated that 4,000 U.S. Roman Catholic priests faced sexual abuse allegations over the course of 50 years. 10,000 children -- mostly boys -- were involved. It’s been 15 years since that report. What are the numbers now? 22. I didn’t get invited to my sister’s wedding. It’s because she hates my dad. His last marriage didn’t end so well and her mom went around telling lies about what he did to the kids when they were young. It’s not true. I know it’s not true. He never laid a finger on me...except a couple slaps across the face and smacks on the bottom when I disobeyed. 23. She always wanted a big family and a loving husband. Four kids, a big white house with blue shutters, two dogs. 24. Girls mature at a faster rate than boys. Their brains develop more at an early age, and so do their genitals. 25. I got my period right before Sunday church the summer between fifth and sixth grade. I was the second girl to get it in my class. 26. My sister had her first baby girl two months ago. I didn’t even know she was pregnant. 27. She wants to have kids before she’s 30, just not any girls. Please.

Solemn

Jen Rondinelli

taboo

Kiana Arevalo darling, don’t speak for you know not what you say, the impact it can have. your words are capable of destruction. darling, don’t speak of trivial things. focus instead on being happy, simply happy, and glide through life with a silent smile. do not think of his hands tainting your body in the shadow of night and the phantom hands returning for thousands of nights afterwards. darling, don’t speak of what has already passed this is your burden to bear, nobody else’s fault. nobody wants to hear it, the repulsive words that will fall out of your mouth will poison the air surrounding you you and your family your family and friends

his family and friends his future and your future intertwined. So darling, don’t speak because everything in life has a cost. forget the forgotten rejections and the fear that now lives in your chest. forget the words he whispered “shhh, just breathe, it’s okay.” clamp down the screams you held in as he touched you with burning fingertips. shut your eyes against the images that will play themselves for you every night after. darling, don’t speak because when you do your world will crumble around you.

Amber Kolb

He Hated Flowers So I Got A Rose Tattoo

Goblin Garden Rosie Persiani

I have allowed flames to lick the back of my teeth. Leaving messages for the goblins running up and down my throat. With quick feet and grabby hands They memorize these messages trapping them into my lungs. They hold the smoke until I try to kiss you. When our lips touch, I feel every nerve in my body combust into flames Destroying me from the inside out. These goblins want me to fall apart They are hoping that you won’t care to piece me back together. They’ll run quicker up and down my throat Until I choke on the air that I can’t process. My legs give out as theirs grow more. I wonder if you’ll ever catch me. Hold me close, Don’t let me fall. I don’t want to become pieces again Childlike sitting on the floor Putting my veins back together Aligning me with the end of time. Ignore those goblins, ignore my failing breath, pay attention To my fingertips As they trace the letters of my secrets on the back of your arms. I have hollowed out my veins so my body will always be a place to hide secrets. My veins swollen with the time trying to stay inside my body. Find the flowers growing out of my feet reminding me that beauty is present to matter where I go. I will bury my bottles, razor blades, my rage. Instead you can find a garden of rose buds, sonnets, and water. 42

Watch the ripples as your chest expands to each drop. Do not let time fill you and take its hold. It will only weigh you down. My eyes have seen sunrises that have not yet occurred. I have seen the past get so entangled in bodies floating among the clouds. They float and drip their goals in each raindrop, To fill my soul with dreams once forgotten. I will tell them to use my body as a sanctuary because it has never been a home to me. Fill my cracks and scars And I will make us whole again.

Romantically Ian Addison 44

Propagational Paradox

Bethany Newton

A thing I’ll never understand Is why we ever let a man Use politics to win or lose A pregnant woman’s right to choose To illustrate this horrible plan, I’ll tell the tale of a man named Dan. Now Dan the man was white as snow, Sixty-two and loaded with dough. He ruled over bureaucracy With iron fists of hypocrisy Each morning he’d arrive at work With Bible Belt and Christian smirk He’d jump up on the Congress table, And shout as loud as he was able, “WHO CARES if they weren’t proven true, I’ll force all MY beliefs on YOU! I’m telling you to sign this bill! Outlaw abortion and the pill! We’ll take this law and push it through! Obama won’t know what to do! Come on, senators, take a stand! We’ll make sure abortion is banned!” Then from the back a throat was cleared. All eyes were drawn to one revered. Congresswoman Ella Trotter, Fiery eyes trained on the rotter, Spoke aloud what all were thinking, “What the hell have you been drinking? This is not the 1950s, Listen close to what I say please 45

these days girls aren’t made to do whatever men would like them to Like staying silent as a mouse and vacuuming the whole damn house And cooking breakfasts fit for kings And “honey would you fetch a drink?” And scrubbing till their knuckles bled And never straying far from bed And getting fat with golden glow Another baby even though Five is more than mother wanted Daddy dearest isn’t daunted After all he leaves for work And never sees the kids berserk And never juggles cooking, cleaning, Wiping snot and barely breathing. Oh gee I wonder why this ended Why wasn’t this system defended? BECAUSE THAT SYSTEM SUCKED THE LIFE OUT OF EACH BARELY ADULT WIFE AND THAT IS WHY THE SUFFRAGETTES MADE SURE NO ONE WOULD SOON FORGET EQUAL TREATMENT IS DEMANDED WOMEN GET NO LESS THAN MEN DID Have you heard of Women’s Rights yet? If you haven’t, then please sir do let ME tell you the truth of this muck. Pregnancy? It really does suck. Not that you would know that, seeing As you can’t have a child being Mr. Dan, the manly man, plus Unless you have a uterus And deal with cramps and periods And hormone swings and myriads Of all the awful things we girls do Why would you think you have the right to 46

Tell young girls they can or can’t Decide just when to be pregnant and Make decisions for their bodies I’m sorry but your logic’s shoddy The right to life should be given To women who have been living Longer than the fetus growing Even if it isn’t showing Girls should have the right to choose You’re wrong, sir and your bill will lose.” Furious he’d been defeated, He grabbed his stuff, left the meeting. Dan the man went home for dinner And on his soapbox cursed the sinner Who ever dared to choose the right To end the miracle of life “Jesus told us ‘Love each other’ If you’re PREGNANT you’re a MOTHER! Terminate that three-celled Gerber, BURN IN HELL for baby-murder!” Unbeknownst to Dan his daughter Looked straight down and sipped her water unable to choke down her meal she pushed around imported veal and when his tirade was complete his darling girl rose to her feet, “Thanks for dinner, may I go please? By the way remember Stevie? Well I’m pregnant!”

Love’s Deception Elizabeth Hrywniak

From then, till now Never it feigned, Though with no vow Love never waned. A valley deep In mind’s dark maze, She let love sleep Eased by his gaze. So, day by day Love grew like fire— But many say: Clever liar. She often fears A frightful sting, But what he shears Now, are her wings. A day will come When she will see, A heart so glum Will set her free.

Kiana Arevalo

Flame in a Waterfall

You Know, I’d Love To But Will Leibowitz

I kinda have this guy and he’s really protective; I don’t want to start and trouble for you. What does ‘kinda have a guy’ even mean? You either do or you don’t. How do I even respond to that? I kinda think you’re beautiful; I’m kinda pissed, but also kinda not; I kinda want to bury my pain in someone else. I should be angry— at you, at him, at me— but I don’t feel any of that, just an unmistakable emptiness. Congratulations, Achievement Unlocked: Your Timing Kinda Sucks. I can’t help but to think that I kinda waited too long. Now I’m replaying every interaction we’ve ever had; every smile, every held glance— all of it. I’ve never been any good at reading 50

these things well, especially, when it comes to you. Mom says to keep putting myself out there, but where is there? Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m the concoction of road salts and runoff from fresh melted snow that gets kicked up on your carâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s windshield; kinda.

Wishing for Spring Caitlin Landau

Anonymously Yours

Ian Addison

Glass Girl

Caitlin Landau I sit in my usual place across from the glass girl Her eyes follow mine everywhere they go I lean forward to touch my forehead to hers And suddenly I’m falling into the glass I began to tell her the horrible things with my mind So she can’t say them back to me Her mouth would somehow manage to form the words I tried to hurt her with But this time when I open my mouth Hers stays closed I’m stuck on the other side of the glass Alice in Wonderland style But unlike Alice I don’t want to explore I want to be let back into my life I bang on the glass and scream and curse But she just sits there with a blank look and empty eyes Finally, she gets up and walks away I end up following her wherever she goes To breakfast, to class, to lunch I try to break the glass with my fists one more time and this is it This is when I get out But it doesn’t break Once in a while the glass girl will pull me back And I’m suddenly surrounded by life The emptiness behind the glass is gone Until she wants control and drags me back inside

Her hands are cold and numbing They wrap around my entire body Trapping me in her icy embrace I realize this is my life and I can’t escape it Every pill chased with water meant to scare her away Only works for so long The ice penetrates my brain until that is numb as well I can only feel when I’m digging my nails into my arms But that barely works because when I’m not numb I bite them so much they bleed The scratches barely make a mark and the feeling fades too fast People will ask the glass girl if she is okay She smiles and nods But I scream from the other side of the glass that I am not okay Begging for someone to hear me and help I made contact once A tearful confession to my mother The burden I took on because she had enough Her words meant to comfort, but I knew I would keep it to myself She carries the weight of three people on her shoulders And mine would only assist in making her topple Which is more selfish? To keep something to yourself so they don’t worry, Causing them to be upset when they find out Or to tell them and make them share your pain The first one is easier, so I tell myself it is the least selfish choice And I hide my lack of emotions with a mask The mask of a cute little smile and a couple of laughs The mask of a poem that hints at darkness 55

But I tell my friends that it’s only about the past I don’t feel that way now, don’t be ridiculous Look at how happy I was last week when we played D&D And the time we had ice cream, and all cried over an anime I point at the times I was “happy” To deflect the accusations I brush off the worry with a couple of jokes “Don’t worry,” I say. “It was just a little moment of sadness. It happens. It’s normal.” But what I don’t say is that it was the fifth time that afternoon Or that I slept through my first class because even though I went to bed early, I wanted to stay in bed and sleep forever I think the glass girl is trying to protect me from myself She puts me in a safe place where I don’t worry And then handles all the pain It’s nice. I think I’ll take a nap in here. Don’t bother waking me. I’d rather not

Sarah Marek

Cambridge, MA

Belong

Mike Fernandez

Donald Hall Poetry Prize -- Third Place Winner

Gym class in elementary school He called me a border hopper And hopped over the white line While his friend laughed along. I had no idea What a border hopper was So I watched his smug blue eyes In stunned confused silence. Lunch time in high school He called me a dirty Mexican And waited for me to laugh To confirm it was okay. I’d awkwardly consent So that I could keep having friends Even though I didn’t really get What a “dirty Mexican” was. I used to think I was Mexican Because Mexicans are brown And come from a strange land And speak fluent Spanish. But Mexicans have different food And different accents And different traditions And different borders. Burritos, Guey, Mariachi? E como Platano, Vaina, Tipico? Y Dia de los Muertos? Que maldita cosa e eso? 58

I just wanted to belong with them So that I could be a real border hopper And fully understand those words While watching him hop the white line. I just wanted to belong with them So that I could be a real dirty Mexican And start directing the joke at myself Without feeling awkward and guilty. Pero, ahora e claro, And I can finally see, That I’ve always belonged with them, Because I am a dirty border hopper, Even though I was born in Massachusetts Because Papi chased the American Dream And given the name “Michael” Because Americans can’t pronounce “Miguel” And taught English as my first language Because no one has time to learn Spanish And sent to a Catholic private school Because I need to prove extra hard that I’m smart And assigned books on American history Because other countries don’t matter as much And forced to memorize the Pledge Because it matters, though I don’t know why. None of that is important at all. Because all that actually matters, When being tested as a border hopper, Is that you have brown skin And you speak fluent Spanish. 59

Sleeping Alice Caitlin Landau 60

alice, where have you gone?

Kiana Arevalo

i stumble past trees, swaying to imitate the flicker of my worn-out lighter, triggering the smoke that will coat my lungs with the deceiving sweet scent of a re-used promise. for i cannot stand to witness the ugliness of day when i can immerse myself in the fantasy of the night. i will set my chest ablaze for a world where nothing matters and you can float with no consequence or sense of up and down. is this what death is like? this detachment from the real? this sense of fading into a place where nobody can find you? nobody can blame you? nobody can hurt you? is this where i was running to? i was brought back to life to face a world of cruel intentions. so, i sought the white rabbit to help me break free. but have i thrown away my chances for another false reality?

Dead on Arrival Jennie Torres

the day I accept you into my heart will be the day I am dead right by your door step gift-wrapped with a white bow you’ll tear the bow right off and eat me whole like a salmon greedy for the moss on boulders buried in the deep sea the bait of intimacy latches in your throat with a smile beaming to think you’re strong makes you weak trained dominance helps you ignore that my hook is inside your body suffer on the pavement eyes follow me all of the time hungry what makes you think you are my first catch? these fishes convulse at a slim leg mouth agape as if they are the chosen one they think they offer me something I lack perhaps it’s more of a useless tool for me you need it more than I which is why I know I will die after you years will pass before my body shrivels in the sun you need it more the love you think I need of you I can see it now boiling down whilst you cling onto me

Moon

Madison Fraitag 63

(

(light)

Gary’s Greenhouse Nate Walsky

“Morning Gare Bear, looking handsome today.” Gary couldn’t help but blush. The tulips were always such flirts. Despite their forwardness, he said good morning in return and poured some water into their pot. He smiled to himself. Watering the plants was always his favorite part of the day. He looked forward to the banter that they shared, and even if none of them felt like talking he still enjoyed their company. Gary pressed the second button on the tape recorder lying in front of the tulips. “Oh, thanks for watering us, Gary,” played the recording. “We were really thirsty.” “No problem, ladies,” Gary said with an eye roll. The tulips could be a bit much sometimes. They always meant well, though, so it didn’t upset him too much. Part of him was even flattered by their advances, although he would never admit it. He walked over to the next table where the tomatoes were planted and asked how they were doing, then pressed the first button on their tape recorder to hear their response. “Hey, Gary,” the tomatoes said. “We’re feeling a bit down today, actually. Any word on where Steven is?” This was a touchy subject for Gary, considering he had eaten Steven last week. He definitely intended to come clean about what he had done, but he hadn’t found the right moment to break the news. It would take a while to explain to the tomatoes why he had eaten their brother, and it would take even more time to explain that he would probably be eating a few of them in the future. His days were already pretty busy. For now he figured he was doing them a favor by keeping them in the dark (not literally, of course– they would die without sunlight, and he wasn’t a complete monster), so he sprinkled them with water and said he didn’t know where Steven was before moving on to the rest of the plants. It was early December now, Gary’s favorite time of year to spend in the greenhouse. He loved the contrast between the warmth inside and the fluttering snow that drifted outside. During the day it could get upwards of ninety degrees, creating a nice tropical bubble. It was the perfect place for Gary to spend his retirement. Between what the 66

greenhouse produced and the stores of food Gary had in his cupboard he was able to spend the entire winter hauled up alone in his home. “Wow, you fellas sure are looking hungry today,” said Gary as he walked up to the cluster of Venus flytraps huddled in a corner of the greenhouse. Gary was especially fond of the flytraps because they had mouths and ate just like he did. It made them feel more human than the other plants who just stared at him without mouths. He had tried drawing faces on a few of the plants with Sharpie to give them more personality, but they had all been opposed to the idea. The cucumbers even cursed him out for it. Gary and the cucumbers didn’t get along in the first place, though, so it hadn’t surprised him. Gary flushed when he realized he’d been caught in a daydream. He quickly pressed the first button on the flytrap’s tape recorder so they could say hello. “Hey there, Gare Bear! You bet we’re hungry. We hope you’ve got something better than marshmallows for us today.” If Gary hadn’t been embarrassed before, this certainly did it. A few weeks ago he had tried feeding them some new foods in the hope of switching things up. His plan backfired when a tiny marshmallow he fed one of the traps ended up gluing its mouth shut, eventually causing it to wither up and die. Luckily, there were several other traps interconnected to the main flower, so it had been fine, but that hadn’t stopped the flytraps from giving him plenty of shit for it in the weeks since. “I told you I’m sorry!” said Gary playfully. “You guys are strictly on a fly diet from here on out. I’ll save the marshmallows for my cocoa.” Gary had planned this line a little in advance and based on the laughter that emitted when he pressed the second button on the tape recorder it had gone pretty well. “Well, if you say so, Gare Bear,” responded the flytraps after their laughter died down. “Just keep in mind that we probably like eating marshmallows about as much as you like eating flies.” Gary couldn’t help but chuckle at this. The flytraps always knew what to say to make him smile. The only plants left to water now were the cucumbers, who Gary hated talking to. Every time he went over to them they would just harass him so he always cut their conversations off short. After some especially 67

heated words a few months ago, Gary had become completely fed up and decided to stop talking to them altogether. Their tape recorder had begun to gather dust, and now only the first two buttons were still visible because Gary would occasionally press them to see if the cucumbers were ready to apologize. So far they hadn’t been, but Gary was feeling optimistic today. He pressed their first button. “Hey, Gary,” they said. “Looking shitty as usual.” Gary stood back in shock. This was a bit much even for the cucumbers, and he wasn’t about to stand around and get abused by them. “Alright, listen up,” he said, trying to convey his anger. “I know that we don’t exactly get along, but for you to insult me like that, especially in front of all the other plants, is completely out of line!” He pressed the second button on their tape recorder to hear how they would respond to his rage. “Well, maybe if you didn’t look so shitty all the time we wouldn’t have to talk about it.” Gary could feel himself getting carried away by the argument and lowered his voice so only the cucumbers would be able to hear. “Alright, you little dick shaped shits, I didn’t want to say this, but you know how some of the vegetables have been going missing? Well, that hasn’t been an accident. I’ve been eating them! And I swear to god if you guys step out of line one more time you’re going to end up smothered in ranch by the end of the night!” The silence was palpable, which Gary pretended was because the cucumbers were in shock from what he had said. In reality, he just hadn’t pressed their third button yet in an attempt to build up the drama of the moment. Eventually, Gary felt the appropriate amount of time had passed and he pressed the final dust covered button on the tape recorder to hear their response. -Gary and his wife hadn’t been living in their new house long before she made the suggestion that they start a garden out back. Gary had never been a gardener himself and found the whole thing to be a waste of time considering supermarkets existed. Still, Sarah made the point that their new house was an hour away from the closest market and while they could buy most of their food in bulk that wasn’t the case for herbs and vegetables. So, they started the garden. 68

Gary never really had a say in the matter, but Sarah liked to make him feel as though he did. Fortunately, with their recent retirement and move to what could only be described as the middle of nowhere in Colorado, they had plenty of free time to spend on the project. Even though Gary wasn’t the most enthusiastic gardener he was excited about the prospect of having something to do. Whenever Sarah needed something planted or a pot moved Gary was there, and if she didn’t need anything Gary was still there, waiting for the first sign of a job to be done. It was because of this that their garden quickly grew to envelope more than half their backyard. Sarah sometimes joked that Gary loved the garden more than he loved her, but he felt that was impossible. The work they put into the garden had made them closer than ever, and Gary woke up each morning excited to see both her and the new life that may have sprouted from the ground overnight. One winter evening, after their garden had frozen over for the season, Gary and Sarah had been bundled up by the fire, drinking wine and talking about life. Gary was incredibly bored. This didn’t have anything to do with Sarah, of course. It was instead the feeling of claustrophobia he had begun to develop over the course of the winter. He missed his garden and the constant flow of work it provided, and he missed the way that it had brought him closer to Sarah. That was when the idea to buy a greenhouse had initially popped into his head. Why let winter impede on the progress of their garden when they could work on it year round? With this in mind, the second spring came Gary went out and bought them biggest greenhouse he could find, telling Sarah that it was for her birthday and neglecting to mention he would have bought it regardless. They spent the following months researching how to properly run a greenhouse, as this was a detail Gary hadn’t considered when he bought it. By the time next winter came creeping in they had it fully stocked with every plant they could want and prepped it to combat the approaching cold. Gary remembered the exact moment when Sarah said she would have to leave to visit her sister. It was about a week before Christmas and they had been sitting together in the greenhouse for the warmth. They had set up a little TV underneath some hanging vines and were 69

munching on carrots freshly plucked from the soil. This was the first winter they had ever spent in the greenhouse together, and they marveled at how much heat it could retain even when faced with the frigid outside cold. Snow was just starting to flurry down and they watched as it landed on the glass roof and melted due to the greenhouses interior heat. Little droplets of water began to spill down the curved glass walls creating the look of rain without the gentle padding noise that typically accompanied it. The droplets reflected the light from the TV, making each one shine and change color with whatever show was playing. Just past the droplets they could see the stars sparkling through the transparent ceiling. Their wrinkled old hands had been locked together tight as they marveled at the sight and disregarded their TV. Of course, that’s when the hospital had called letting Sarah know about her sister’s illness. Sarah’s sister was sick and she would have to drive out to Boulder to see her. Gary would have gone with her in a heartbeat, but there was the matter of the plants to consider. After a little back and forth they eventually agreed it would be best for Sarah to drive out as soon as possible, leaving Gary to take care of the greenhouse. The only issue was that while Gary had always been great with the manual labor aspect of the plants, the simple things like actually remembering to water them had been Sarah’s area of expertise. To make things worse, Gary’s eyesight was steadily declining, and any written instructions Sarah left him regarding the care of the plants would more than likely go unread. That’s when she had come up with a simple yet brilliant solution to all their problems. She would use tape recorders to instruct Gary on how to take care of the plants. The next day she drove into town to buy the tape recorders, one for each plant they had in the greenhouse. They were simple little things that even Gary would be able to use. Each one had four buttons in total, three white and one red. Sarah would record instructions on how to take care of the plants on each tape recorder and all Gary had to do was press a single button to hear her voice. After spending the rest of the day recording her messages and preparing for her trip, Sarah gave Gary a quick peck on the cheek and went on her way. 70

-Gary felt sick as he listened to the third audio file playback on the tape recorder. The expected sounds of enraged cucumbers cursing him out were not there. In their place was the voice of his wife gently giving him instructions on how to take care of his most hated enemies. “Hey there, Gare Bare,” she said. “The cucumbers are really easy to take care of, even an old fart like you should be able to handle it. Just make sure they get plenty of water twice a day and try to keep them out of direct sunlight. They’re pretty sensitive, just like my little Gare Bare!” The audio cut out, leaving Gary in the complete silence of the greenhouse on a cold winter morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he had heard her voice. The force of it throttled the wind out of him. He put his hands on the table in an effort to stabilize himself and accidentally grazed the cucumbers first button. “Hey Gary, looking shitty as usual,” it played. He wanted to scream but instead let himself slide onto the dirty greenhouse floor, attempting to prevent the panic from flooding over him. He pressed his palms deep into his eyes until the pressure made his head feel like it would burst. This didn’t stop all the old thoughts from rushing in, but it certainly dulled them. He remembered very clearly the first recording of hers he had ever overwritten about four months after her accident. -Sarah’s trip to Boulder had gone well, and despite leaving all the tape recorders, she still insisted on calling Gary regularly to make sure he and the plants hadn’t somehow managed to get themselves killed. Eventually, her sister started to recover to the point that it wasn’t absolutely necessary for Sarah to be there, and with this positive news in mind she hoped in their car and started the six-hour drive from Boulder back to where they lived in the mountains. It was early December at that point, almost a year ago to the day, actually, and Gary guessed the snow had ended up being a bit more than Sarah anticipated. When the police called him they couldn’t yet say the exact details of the accident, but the car was totaled and Sarah was… well, you know. His next memory was of sitting in the greenhouse, listening to each one of her recordings over and over again. If he hadn’t known how to take care of the plants before he certainly learned quickly after that. Her 71

voice continued to swim in his head even when the recordings weren’t playing, and over time her instructions had turned into something of a ritual, a code that defined him. Every action he made in the greenhouse was dictated by the mementos she had left, and every plant was accompanied by the sound her voice, like an auditory ghost that haunted growing and living things. He wouldn’t have started talking to the plants, but he needed a way to drown out her voice, it had been too long since he had felt the peace that comes with a silent mind. He would have done anything to make her incessant instructions stop, but couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the plants. It would be too much like killing a part of her that was still alive. So, instead of letting her voice fill his mind he started having imaginary conversations with the only other living things around him. It was simple, really. He would say something to the plants and then make up their response in his head. It was this way that he stopped hearing Sarah’s voice and starting hearing the personalities of each individual plant. It eventually got to the point that he was no longer making up their responses, but actually hearing them respond in his head. Sometimes he would be legitimately surprised by what one of them would say. He began to feel the need to make their voices as real as his wife’s had been. He stopped letting them respond in his head and started saying their responses into the tape recorders so he could actually hear and interact with them. It felt less like he was speaking for the plants and more like he was giving them a voice they had always had. Of course, there was a limited amount of space on the tape recorders, and eventually, out of necessity, he began to record over Sarah to make room for some of the lengthier conversations he and the plants had. He didn’t feel too guilty, though, as everything she said had long since been seared into his mind anyway. Eventually, recording these conversations became a habit and he would spend time after watering the plants to make sure their responses were recorded and ready to go for the coming day. Soon, Gary and his plants would spend all morning talking together, discussing the latest gossip going on in the greenhouse. 72

-Gary picked his head up out of his hands as he realized how this could have happened. This had been the first time he ever had such a long conversation with the cucumbers. He’d never needed to record something on their third button before. It must have slipped his mind to record the last bit of their conversation that prior night, meaning Sarah had been the one waiting to speak to him. Hearing her voice in the greenhouse again was heartbreaking. He didn’t want to want to push her away like this. It felt like saying goodbye all over again, but doing so was the only way he knew to find some shred of peace. His one source of comfort was knowing that it wasn’t resentment, but rather an overwhelming sense of love that made him haul himself off the greenhouse floor and pick up the tape recorder. Gary pressed down the cucumbers red record button and then the third, dust-covered white one. He heard the click that signaled the start of the recording. “You’re a monster,” he said. “How could you do this? How can you sleep at night knowing that you’re eating the innocent? You’re going to pay for what you’ve done, old man!” Gary pressed the red button again to stop the recording. She was gone. He pressed the third white button one last time so the cucumbers could finally continue their accusation. “You’re a monster,” they said. “How could you do this? How can you sleep at night knowing that you’re eating the innocent? You’re going to pay for what you’ve done old man!” Gary sighed. He had certainly gotten himself into quite the pickle this time. He chuckled to himself. “Pickle.” That was funny. He would have to tell that one to the flytraps sometime.

Untitled #2

Christina Popik

Ruby Rosenwasser

Ode to Maps Sarah Marek

Donald Hall Poetry Prize -- First Place Winner

Without you, how would I know what is up or down, left or right? How would I know if the nearest restaurant is east or west From this aging yellow birch? North or south of the Mark Twain Statue on Main Street? I’d be so lost without you. Your railroad tracks, your telephone booths, your airplane icons, Your bridges, your fountains, your windy rivers, I see how small I am by how limitless you are. I’d be starving on that curb outside of Philly, with no way to get to the nearest gas station. I’d be stuck in the middle of the Berkshire’s, finding myself farther into moose territory and farther from civilization. Without you, I’d never experience unfamiliarity, Never indulge in the lip-smacking muffin From the newest coffee shop a few towns over. I’d exist in the same bubble of convenience, Unable to fully execute my sense of wonder. You are a sticky note on the refrigerator, Reminding me to consider all that is around me, Begging me to experience all that I have not yet encountered. You urge me to hop in my Toyota Highlander, cruise down I-91, and convert that park and recreation icon into a complete garden acres of formal gardens, recreational facilities, walking loops, and peeing dogs. You are my conscience, Providing me with a cold, unforgiving heaviness when I lie in my bed for an hour too long. From man-made monuments to nature’s untouched terrain, You have it all. Looking at you, 76

I feel guilt for not immersing myself in magnificence. You are the glass half full, Never depicting the colonial house that went up in flames, The abandoned buildings from failed businesses, Or the dead animals or the dying men or the busted-up cars from accidents. You see the world in all its glory, Full of rocky waters, twists and turns, and the highest peaks, The way I wish I could.

Lost

Elizabeth Hrywniak

Vanilla

Samantha Bashaw The sun beats down on this sweltering July day, Hot and melting my skin into lava, searching For that cool touch of vanilla against my lips That barely just open to release the eager tongue, Twisting and finding the sweet spot where Ice cold, sugary symphonies meet my Cracked and dry mouth, licking and slurping Away at the delicate ice cream surface, Careful to catch its slippery slopes before A single drop can escape to the ground, Ruining my summer dreams that can’t be Satisfied like the depths of my tongue that Joyfully fill with saccharine snow, Swallowing each tiny icicle particle whole, Careful to enjoy the sensual glaze it leaves On the walls of my throat, only to return To the frozen mountain — albeit not frozen Anymore — to gather my final sugary treasures And think of what joys tomorrow will bring For my desperate tongue and desiring mouth.

Lost Blanket

Marianna Rappa The days were filled with happy, carefree songs “I love you, you love me”, sweetly she sang. Words from stories in books she shared with me “Green eggs and ham, Sam I am”, she read. Park walks scented by flowers and trees. Tall grass kissed by delicate butterfly wings I crouched beneath them for hide and seek Caught! I will keep you always in my arms. Not quite ready, safe with helping hand. Off I go! slow and unsteady at first Always near to catch me if I fall. Songs of seagulls rejoicing loudly No running too close to the water! Boats floating peacefully, she caught a fish! Her house filled with pleasant aromas She cooked and I danced with smiling joy. Wrapped in warm hugs feeling loved and protected Like a soft blanket holding me tight. A lost blanket I will forever miss.

Budapest Mermaid

Samantha Bashaw

Elephants at Serengeti National Park, Tanzania Srinithi Raghunathan

The Goose Nina Leopold

Wilder Fiction Prize -- Third Place Winner

They really didn’t expect to get this far. They probably should’ve prepared themselves more, or actually done some research. They at least should have thought about it longer. Fran said it would be a good idea, though, and no one questioned Fran. Why would she suggest they go for it if it wasn’t a good idea? And really, why wouldn’t buying a goose for $6 from a guy in a red tent in the far corner of the Best Buy parking lot be a good idea? They wanted a pet, and now they had one. “I thought it would be, like, a baby goose,” said Jill as she toyed with the cheap necklace she got for a quarter from the machine outside of the mall. It was already turning her neck green, but she didn’t care. It was hers, only hers, and she loved it. “Why would it be a baby? Does it say baby anywhere on that sign? Can you even read? Maybe you’re the baby!” Ben said, on the verge of tears. He was overwhelmed and didn’t know what to do. He was the second oldest of the three and the only boy. Their dad said that meant he was supposed to be in charge. He was the leader. If he was a good leader, he wouldn’t have let Fran bully them into buying a goose. Jill squinted back across the parking lot, frowning, trying to read the sign. Ben was right, it didn’t say baby anywhere, but that didn’t make her a baby. She was six, practically seven. To be a baby you have to be younger than five. Everyone knew that. “We just have to get a leash or something. It’ll be fine, you guys just need to calm down,” said Fran with complete confidence. “There’s a PetSmart down the street. Let’s go.” “How are we going to get the goose there, though?” Jill asked, still frowning. Can we just leave it or something? Is that allowed?” It had been hard enough getting the goose away from the tent. Apparently geese didn’t respond to commands like dogs do. It didn’t even know how to sit or shake. Ben had tried. “No, we can’t leave it,” said Fran. “It could run away. I guess someone will have to stay with it.” She looked at Ben, then Jill, then back at Ben again, sizing them up. “It has to be one of you.” 83

“Why can’t you stay?” Ben asked. He had no interest in staying alone with the goose. It had mean eyes. “I have the money,” Fran said. “We only have $3 left, so we have to be careful with it, and I’m the most responsible because I’m the oldest.” She sounded like she knew what she was talking about, so Jill nodded along. “Okay,” Ben said with hesitation, “you go to get the leash alone. Jill and I can stay here.” He knew that they weren’t technically supposed to go anywhere alone until they were in middle school. Fran would be starting sixth grade in a couple of months, but their dad said that graduating fifth grade wasn’t close enough. She had to wait until her real first day. Fran considered this, too. No matter how they split up, someone would be alone, but they couldn’t stay together. It wasn’t possible. Not with the goose. She would be in big trouble if she wasted $6, and the guy in the tent had been very clear about his no return policy, so they couldn’t lose the goose. They were committed. “Fine,” she replied, nodding, “I’ll go. You guys have to be careful with it, though, okay? Don’t be stupid, okay? I’ll be back soon.” Fran waited for Ben and Jill to nod in agreement and then shot Ben an extra look. He had to watch out for Jill because she’s the youngest. He gave an extra nod, and Fran walked down the street. Jill watched her older sister walk away. Fran was avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk. Jill approved of this. “What do we do now?” Ben asked as Fran continued walking towards PetSmart. He looked at the goose. He didn’t trust it. “I dunno. It needs a name, I guess. We could do that,” Jill said with a shrug. “No way, Fran would kill us if we did that without her. We have to wait until she comes back. We can figure it out on the walk home, maybe.” “Dad’s gonna kill us when we get home anyway,” Jill said in a small voice. She had been petitioning with Ben and Fran for as long as she could remember to get a pet, but their dad was allergic and was always firm about saying no. 84

“No, dummy, he can’t get mad. The problem before was that he’s allergic, but he’s only allergic to cats and dogs and stuff, not geese.” Ben didn’t know if this was actually true, but Jill looked reassured. Ben was just hoping. He wanted Fran to come back. She’d know what their dad was really allergic to. He felt like a lousy leader. He looked down the street for her, but couldn’t see her anymore. Fran had made it to PetSmart, but hadn’t walked through the doors. She was standing on the grass between the sidewalk and the parking lot, looking up at the building. It had rained earlier in the day, and she could feel her feet slowly sinking into the mud. She needed a game plan. They had to get the goose home by 5pm because dinner was at 6pm and they needed to give themselves time to hide it or something until they knew exactly what to tell their dad. That gave them less than an hour. Fran took a deep breath and walked across the parking lot and through the automatic doors of the store. Looking around, it was clear to her that the store was broken up by type of pet, but she couldn’t find a sign for geese. She didn’t want to ask an employee for help, because that was weird, so she decided to walk a lap around the store. After scanning through aisles of dog toys, cat toys, and crates, she came across a wall of leashes. The cheapest one was $7. That was $4 more than she had. She decided she’d have to come up with a different plan, and walked out. Jill was listing potential names to Ben when she noticed Fran walking back. “Do you see a leash?” she asked, squinting again and reaching for her necklace. “No, but it could be in a bag or something, right? It could be behind her back or something,” said Ben, though he doubted it. As soon as she was close enough to be heard, Fran called out, “They didn’t have any good ones.” “What does ‘good’ mean? A leash is a leash,” Ben said, confused. “I dunno, they just didn’t have any I liked. We’ll get a real leash later,” Fran shrugged. “For now just give me your shoelaces.” “I don’t have shoelaces,” said Jill, looking down at her flats. 85

“I was talking to Ben,” said Fran as she rolled her eyes. “Obviously.” Jill frowned. Ben frowned too, confused, but didn’t argue with Fran. At this point he’d gone along with enough of her ideas that one more couldn’t hurt. He knelt down and started unlacing his shoes. As Ben was doing that, Jill looked up at Fran. She tried to look confident because if she looked confident then Fran wouldn’t try to kill her. “We’re naming the goose Moose,” she said, her voice wavering, “or Juice.” “That’s stupid,” Fran said, not even looking at Jill. She was watching Ben struggle to undo the double knot on his second shoe while holding onto the first shoelace. “Just give it to me,” she said, exasperated, grabbing the first shoelace out of his hand without giving him time to respond. “No,” Jill protested, “it’s not stupid. It rhymes. Rhymes are not stupid.” She sounded more confident this time, and nodded, proud of herself. “Rhymes are good.” “A moose is a different animal and a juice is a drink. It needs to be a real name,” Fran said matter-of-factly. Ben, after finally untying his second shoe, pitched in saying, “Bruce. Zeus. Those rhyme with goose and are real names.” “Fine. Bruce or Zeus. Which one, Jill?” Fran asked. She took the second shoelace from Ben and tied the two together. “I like Bruce. This is Bruce the goose,” said Jill. “Bruce the goose, not the moose. Or the juice.” Fran tied the shoelaces around Bruce’s neck, making sure it wasn’t so tight that it couldn’t breathe. “Fine,” she said, “Bruce the goose. And he has a leash now, so let’s go.” She started walking, and gave the makeshift leash a tug. Bruce, Jill, and Ben all followed behind her, heading home. George was disappointed as soon as he walked in through the front door. Normally at least Jill, if not all of his kids, ran up to greet him. Today, though, he wasn’t met with a single hug. He shrugged it off and set his backpack down, then started to walk towards the kitchen to see Maxine. He knew she’d be there – he could smell the dinner she was preparing from the front door. 86

“Hey, hun, where are the kids?” he asked. Maxine looked up from her cookbook and smiled at him. “They’re playing outside. They got home about 30 minutes ago and didn’t even bother coming all the way into the house. Fran just poked her head in and asked me to tell her when it’s time for dinner.” “I’m gonna go say hi to them,” said George, “see how their day was.” Maxine, having already turned back to her cooking, nodded absentmindedly. George used to work less hours, so he got to see the kids more, but he recently got a promotion that turned his job into a real 9-to-5. Over all of the previous summers he’d been able to take a day or two, if not more, off to hang out with the kids, but he didn’t have that flexibility anymore. He instead made it a routine to spend as much time with them as they’d let him as soon as he got home. He made his way out of the kitchen into the backyard. It wasn’t very big, but he and Maxine had made the best of it for their kids. They didn’t have a full jungle gym, like some of the other families in the neighborhood, but they had a small swing set and a playhouse that George had built from scratch. He and Maxine were doing their best to raise their kids to be creative, with big imaginations, so they spent a lot of time in the playhouse, also known as the boat, or spaceship or castle. It depended on the day. George often lost track. As he got closer to the door, George could hear what sounded like Ben and Fran arguing. George wasn’t in the mood to deal with sorting out a disagreement between the two for what felt like the millionth time that week, so he nearly went back into the house, convincing himself that they needed to learn how to come to agreements independently. He firmly believed that his kids should be independent, and he’d see them in a few minutes at dinner, anyway. He was stopped in his tracks, though, when he heard Jill say, “They’re gonna be so mad at us.” This was uncommon for a few reasons. The main two were that Jill rarely piped up during Ben and Fran’s quips, and she almost never did anything to warrant anger. She was the youngest, but she was the one that kept her siblings from doing dumb things. 87

George decided that this was enough to warrant him walking into the playhouse without so much as knocking, so he did just that. When he opened the door he was faced with Fran, Ben, Jill, and a goose. Jill instantly burst into tears, prompting Ben to follow her lead. Fran just blinked at him. George didn’t know what to say. The kids didn’t either. Fran was the first to speak up, saying, with confidence that had clearly been rehearsed, “Dad, this is Bruce. He’s our pet goose.” George just stared back, still speechless. He had so many questions, like, where did his children get a goose? Why did they get a goose? How did they get a goose? He didn’t know where to start, so he calmly turned around and walked out of the playhouse, past the swing set, across the backyard, and into the kitchen. “Max,” he said to his wife as she tossed a salad, “I think you need to see this.” She looked up, distracted. “What? Just tell me, I’m kind of busy right now,” she said. “No, you really need to see this,” George insisted, trying not to laugh. A goose. It was absurd. Maxine sighed, quickly finished what she was doing, and followed George outside. George lead her back across the backyard, past the swing set, and into the playhouse, where once again he was met with Fran, Ben, Jill, and a goose. “They got a goose and named it Bruce,” he said to Maxine. “What are we supposed to do with a goose?” Jill had stopped crying, but began again once she saw her mom. She ran over to Maxine, hugged her, and began apologizing profusely into her leg. “I know we’re not supposed to have pets,” she sobbed, “but it’s not a cat or a dog so Dad won’t be allergic, right?” Maxine hugged Jill back as all five members of the family stared at the goose. “No, I suppose he’s not allergic to geese. I don’t know for sure, though. George? Are you allergic to geese?” George kept looking at the goose in disbelief. “I don’t think I’ve ever spent enough time with a goose to find out, but I guess we’ll see.”

A Monkey Looking Into my Hotel Room

Srinithi Raghunathan

when I was young Avery Kidd

Donald Hall Poetry -- Honorable Mention Winner

I was 5 when you would scream back and forth like a seesaw I rode in kindergarten; you taught me to confuse anger as the mode for communicating love.

I was 8 when I saw my mother hold a knife to herself as I crouched in the kitchen corner; you taught me to look the other way when in the face of self-destruction.

I was 9 when her hands shook from lack of sleep, and I lay awake at night wondering why you taught me how to pretend there was no problem.

I was 10 and she locked herself in the bathroom so I wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t see her tears fall from her bloodshot eyes it reminded me of how you taught me, pain was only a sign of weakness. I was only 11 when the guidance counselor asked if everything was alright at home; I lied, because you taught me never admit defeat to anyone. 90

I was 12 when I learned that nothing in the world would ever be able to break me because I was my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s daughter, and thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s how you taught me.

I was 16 when I learned that my entire life had been an effort to appear happy, when all you were doing was teaching me to confuse a fake smile for a real one.

I was 18 when I first saw you in my own actions, by the way I treated the ones I loved; because it was the same way I had seen you treat the ones you loved.

Purple Rain

Sarah McKernan

Weekly Review: On the Derangement of Boyfriend #16 Hassan A.J

Wilder Fiction Prize -- Second Place Winner

A friend and a critic of my history with men, Kevin, says, “You scrutinize every guy you date just to find a flaw.” But that’s not true. No one shows up on a date hoping that the man across the table, the potential star of their silver screen, is crazy. A dinner was scheduled with A. Wallace, a handsome man I met behind a phone screen. Born and raised in Oregon, “Portland’s greater area,” wherever that could be. Brought to you (in my beloved city of New Haven) by Yale University, department of English. “Think of all things you’ll have in common,” Kevin’s blurb reads. Three months in, we’re surprised that the show of A. Wallace is still running. No signs of derangement? No endless monologues on aligning chakras and lighting sage? But, worry no more, we did find a red flag, a glitch in the screen. He’s one of the wounded breed, the outcasts, care-for-me type. He wants the safety of my chest. He begs me not to leave whenever I step out to smoke. It’s hard not to compare him to Shia, or Dennis, or last year’s mini-series (canceled midway), Johnny. In a special interview with our critic, Kevin, and as his husband of ten years tend the grill, he asks a question between sips of IPA: “What do you mean he’s crazy?” And what I don’t dare tell dear Kevin is that, crazy, has become the title I brand every man whose need of me overshadows my need of him; crazy is a shift on the scale of desire. I want you more than I want to be wanted by you. And when you step out to smoke, I want to be the one begging you not to leave.

On Next Week’s Review: Crazy Boyfriend #17 Who Couldn’t Care Less if I Step Out to Smoke 93

Delightful

Kenny MacMaster There is something about a door With a light on behind it Cracked open just enough, At the end of a dark hallway. Something which stimulates the mind, Catches the eye, Excites the imagination. Briefly, you don’t know what’s behind it. It could be anything. Surely, only something delightful Could illuminate a space so, Contrast this darkness so. But then you open the door, And it’s just your bedroom.

6:25 am, 17Â° Joelle Gray

Bestseller

Wesley Clapp Raymond Yorke, fifty-five. Frequent reservation around large swathes of people. Best-selling children’s author about anthropomorphic characters. Previously celibate. “Next, please.” Author signing, New England Aquarium. Purgatory, USA. “My son just wanted to tell you how much he loves the animals in your story.” Tall, lanky, redheaded female. Face blotchy and red with rosacea. Mother with child, boogers drooping out of both nostrils, oversized glasses, hair slicked with grease. “Book.” Startled. I uncap the permanent marker. “Pardon?” she says. “It’s a book.” The permanent marker squeaks onto the glossy front cover. “It’s not a story.” The book reaches her hands. Son doesn’t make eye contact with me, author of his favorite book. Am I not friendly enough? “Next, please.” Grey polyethylene table intersected with a grey polyethylene chair. Unexpectedly not squeaky. Thin cerulean-covered books tile the table in heaps. Posters. A couple of pencils with whales as erasers. “I Heart Boston” magnets. “How are you?” I’m sure their response is standard. “I’m good,” they respond. Another female voice, a different one, darker, lower. Man-like. Glancing up quickly, just quick enough to gather basic facial features. Long, blonde, clearly-dyed hair. Shiny under fluorescent aquarium lights. Desires to be combed. Large, distracting mole perfectly positioned in the center of her forehead. Might return to celibacy. “Your name?” “It’s for my daughter, actually.” Her voice is shriller than anticipated. “It’s Amy.” “Beautiful name.” Adults love compliments. “Oh – thank you,” she says, book placed firmly in her man-hands. “She really loves this book. I’m so glad I—” 96

Pause. Gawking at the cover. Probably offended by my lack of penmanship. “Next, please.” “Wait a second,” says the low-voiced woman, ramming her way back to the front of the line. “You spelt my daughter’s name wrong on this.” Twirling the permanent marker in my left hand. Authors don’t misspell. “How so, ma’am?” “A-m-y? It’s not A-m-y.” Clear emphasis on “not”. She’s angry, scalding hot. Suddenly steaming. Afraid she’ll boil the guppies behind her. “Oh.” She heaves the book onto the table unempathetically. Cost me a pretty penny to publish that stupid thing. “I want you to apologize. Do it again, please.” Her freckly face inflamed with anger. Hesitation. Must be nice, people are watching. “Listen, I have a couple of people still waiting here in line—” Slams her fist against the polyethylene table. “I don’t give a shit.” Gasps from the line behind her, the crowd – the audience. “You need to do it again.” Pupils filled, blackened and wide, reflective. Is that me? A little boy’s voice from behind her legs: “Are you going to do something?” Cell phone upright in his hand, recording. It’s almost certainly his. Gulp. Bystanders by the clay crustacean models looking over my way. I’m not one for big crowds. Playing with the pubic-like hair above my upper lip, pretending to be deep in contemplation. “Uh…” A stellar start. Should begin my next book with that one. All eyes on me. My fingertips are arched, touching, centered above my waist. I can feel the blood pumping through them. Should really trim my fingernails. Haze glosses over my pupils. A metaphor. Kids don’t get those yet. Sounds high-pitched, volume cranked higher than normal. Tennis shoes squeaking on the dirty linoleum floor. Water sloshes onto it. Greenish tint. Probably needs to be cleaned. Children scratching at silicone Jurassic models of shellfish in the center of the floor. Also probably needs to be cleaned. Makes me wonder why— 97

“—Hello?” A bony finger shoved right between the eyes. “Listen, man, you need to get your shit together, you know that? You’re rude, you’re staunch, you’re pointed, and you’re a real piece of work.” She’s suddenly unfocused, a vague shape, undefined in my vision. I can’t help but feel no empathy for her. She’s still blisteringly angry, finger-pointing, lip-smacking. Her cracked, dry lips are definitely saying something, but can’t reach me. Her saliva slaps against the rims of my glasses. “Are you even listening?” Listening. Couple of months ago, my editor asked me the same question. Slim, bony, frail. Greyed eyebrows and a receding hairline probably due to my lack of sales. Get your act together, Yorke, he says to me. His breath reeks of Greek salad. I hate Greek salad. Came up with a new idea, I said. Did a little research. There’s a new wave of readers now, you know. Delicate, fragile, babied kids. Unrelentingly ignorant parents. I’d spent years not selling a single page, so it’s a relief to be relevant again. But I can’t help but wonder what we’re feeding them lately. I guess I’ll uncap my marker again. Does she realize how much each of these books cost to print? “Can you spell it out for me?”

Sarah Marek

Our Simba

Brickell

Jeremy Troetti

100

101

Marianna Rappa

The Palace During the Day

Conversion Jenna Sucato

Your mom tells everyone you hate change— you despise novelty. You reject deviation. You hate everything besides the comfort of the static relationships maintained over several years simply due to duration rather than quality. But what happens when you can’t fend off change any longer? When it grips you by the shirt collar and forces you To stare it in the face. And not for a second, or a minute, or an hour. No. When change becomes your parent. When it tries to lives with you, in your house, in that stagnant sanctuary. Forcing you to maintain eye contact, becoming a silent shadow traveling from room to room just so you know it’s there. You would think that you might get used to this new guardian. Change has an expiration date; then it just becomes stasis. And yet… What happens when you refuse—absolutely refuse— To satisfy change. You will not recognize its face. Its permanence in your house becomes evident And you bolt. You enter into the world where movement is constant. You see new faces; shake those static relationships. You take new risks—maybe speak your mind some, Develop a sense of humor. 102

Kiss a guy just for the hell of it. Kiss him again because You enjoy how rebellious it makes you feel to defy Everything that was expected of you. You cut your hair. You cut your beautiful, goddamn long hair that has hidden Your face for so long. So people wouldn’t look in. So you couldn’t look out. At the world that constantly shifts and evolves and is wonderful And frightening and downright evil sometimes. But it is okay. You have learned to deal with movement. Your mom tells everyone you hate the unpredictability of the world. No. You love the world. The world is your sanctuary. You will spend every second in the ever-evolving world if it means You don’t have to come home. You will not confront the figure that overtook your life. You refuse to recognize the face of change. You will never call him “Dad.”

103

Sunday

Madison Fraitag

104

Marco

Mike Fernandez

Wilder Fiction Prize -- Second Place Winner

I sit and stare at the painting for a long time. Well, actually, stare at is not the right phrase. It’s more like I’m staring into its dark brown eyes outlined by thin eyebrows that lead into a slightly larger-thanaverage nose curving down a soft, perfect pale face. Its lower lip is a bit larger than the upper lip, making the mouth appear just open enough to reveal a small overbite underneath. To compensate for its soft skin, it has a prominent jawline that protrudes outwards just enough to give it an aura of dominance. Yes, it represents dominance, but the soft skin ensures that it’s not too dominant. Long, black hair creates the environment around the face, rising from a forehead that isn’t too big or too small. Whenever I look over the features of this painting, I always find myself returning to the eyes. The eyes are so dark that they almost appear black, but you can tell that they’re brown once you’ve stared into them as long as I have. I may not have used the color brown to make them, but I can clearly see that they’re brown. Darker than bister, lighter than obsidian. I’ve trained myself to pay attention to every other shape, every other feature, every other color, but the eyes are magnetic poles that never fail to suck mine in. Two positives, two negatives, two pairs attracting each other. It’s complete. After spending weeks leaning forward to direct all of my focus onto the canvas, I recline back on my stool and scan the floor around me. It’s littered with the plastic cups of paints and oils and water that had each served a vital purpose at one point or another. The shades of yellows, oranges, blacks, they’re all there. The tube of brown paint is still toppled over the edge of the drab red carpet, creating a small pool that I never bothered to clean up. Such an ugly hue of brown. It just sits there, amassing into a small pile of shit that nobody could ever care about. There’s no depth to it, no personality. It doesn’t draw you in. I sigh and get up from the stool, shifting my focus over to the large shadow that my figure casts over the lamp light. I need to avoid getting trapped by the painting again. I tiptoe away from the light, maneuvering around the scattered cups so that I can get some fresh air out on the back porch. 105

As I step onto the shabby wood and close the rickety door behind me, I see Marco sitting on the grass, his eyes brilliantly reflecting the sky’s converging shades of blue and yellow and purple and orange. He doesn’t even react to the sound of the door closing. He’s hypnotized. I walk towards him while looking up at the sky, instinctually moving down the porch’s three steps after having done this same exact thing so many times before. I place my hand on his shoulder and kneel down beside him, staring at eyes that refuse to stare back. “Sky’s beautiful tonight, huh?” I ask. Well, it’s not really much of a question since I know he won’t answer back. I sit there in silence for a while and watch his blue and yellow and purple and orange eyes, wishing they could just have the perfect shade of brown that I had invented instead. His thick brow usually makes him look like he’s confident all the time, but it’s raised up a little bit, giving him a look of awe that I’ve never seen in him before. His dark, square face looks like the face of a child watching a magic show for the first time, or like the face of a dog having a treat waved in front of its expectant eyes. In my desire for intimacy, I rub my hand up and down his muscular arm. “Done with the painting?” he asks. I nod my head, in spite of the fact that he’s not looking at me. “What’s it called?” “I haven’t decided yet.” His thin mouth, agape beforehand, forms into a snide smile. “You don’t even have a name for that thing? After spending so many days on it?” I use my free hand to grip onto a cluster of damp grass. “Well, you should know me by now,” I reply. “I’m pretty bad with names.” “Oh, lighten up. I’m just messing with you. I know you’re bad with names.” He laughs a little at his own statement, but I can sense some unease in his voice. It’s hard to describe, since he has the same deep laugh that he always has. But…it really does feel different somehow. I can’t help but feel a sense of guilt as I stare at the face that I so lovingly stared into once. I still remember the dark shades of brown that I made 106

for his skin, the golden yellow with a red tint that I made for his hair, the two slightly different shades of pink that I made for his upper and lower lips. I remember all of the subtle black marks that I dotted around his face, the skin blemishes that I gave him so that he wouldn’t look like a plastic doll. I remember when I added a golden piercing onto his nose because I thought it would make him look more striking; I ended up painting over it because I realized it didn’t complement his face well. He still doesn’t let me live that one down. Marco was all I had for a long time. But now I have… “Untitled.” So, what’ll happen to Marco? I watch him watch the sky as the memories swirl around my head. He slowly reaches his right hand up to grab my arm. I feel his rough callouses rub against my skin, callouses that I had given him so that he would look more like a working man. He pulls his gaze away from the sky and looks into me with the shit brown hue that I had made his eyes out of, the shit brown hue that now lies forgotten beside the rug. He gives me a smile. “You’re right. The sky really is beautiful tonight.” In that moment, I stare into him for the first time in a long time. I haven’t done this since that perfect moment when I had first finished painting him. Back then, his rough skin was the type of skin that I had wanted. His dominance was the thing that I had prioritized. His eyes were the magnetic poles that I couldn’t pull myself away from. That shit brown hue was so much prettier to me back then. Marco used to be an it, and now he’s not. Why is it that I loved him more when he was an it? I continue to stare into him, taking in every painful detail that I had worked so hard to create; the large nose that doesn’t curve in any direction, the thick eyebrows that give him a stern but confident look, the thin lips that create small dimples whenever he smiles, the varied beauty marks and freckles that dot his cheeks, the tough jawline that underlines the entire piece, the playful shit brown eyes that manage to reflect a certain innocence and fascination in the world despite his cool and confident appearance. I get lost in him for one last time, as long as I can, ignoring the rickety sounds of the wind hitting the house, ignoring the blues and yellows and purples and oranges of the sky, ignoring the perfect shade of brown in the eyes of “Untitled,” ignoring the love that doesn’t exist between us anymore. 107

I just watch his beautiful, shitty brown eyes for the last time. And I smile. “You should head inside. It’s cold,” he tells me. “But what about you?” “I’m gonna stay out here for a bit. The sky makes me feel safe.” I don’t want to go inside. I want to stare at him – no, stare into him – for a while longer. I want to stay with the creation that I had once loved, even if I don’t love him anymore. I don’t want to move on. I don’t want to admit that I already have moved on. After silently sitting beside him for a while longer, I finally agree. “Okay,” I say. “Just know that I really did have a lot of fun with you. I’m glad that I got to know you.” He keeps his same, thin smile. “I’m glad that I got to know you, too.” At that, I get up and turn around to go inside. Halfway through the yard, I look over my shoulder so that I can get lost in Marco again. But he’s already gone. I sigh as I walk into the old studio and slowly shut the unstable door behind me. On the stool across the room, a man with soft, pale skin and long, black hair stares at himself on the canvas. I maneuver my steps over the paints and oils and waters again until I manage to get close enough to touch his shoulder. “Hey,” I tell him. “Do you know who I am?” He turns to look at me with his dark brown eyes that look black but aren’t. They do have a beautiful shine to them, yet they seem to be missing something. “Of course,” he replies in a gentle tone. “You’re my true love, my darling, my everything.” “Yes. And you’re my love, too.” He smiles genuinely, though he’s missing the dimples that I love so much. “What’s my name?” he asks. “Well, to be honest, I’m having trouble coming up with one. I was sort of leaning towards the name ‘Marco.’ Is that okay?” He lightly strokes my cheek with his soft hand. It feels harsh and uncomfortable despite lacking any abrasive callouses. “That’s perfect,” he replies. I momentarily fix my gaze back onto his perfect, underwhelming eyes. They stare into me with love and passion. But there’s no depth. There’s no personality. They look black now. Why do they look black now? Holding back tears, I clench my fists and stare into the dried 108

paint marks adorning the rug. This Marco doesn’t compare to the last, and neither of them could ever compare to the first. Painting him was pointless. It’s always pointless. Sensing my distress, he places his hand on my shoulder. Why didn’t I give him callouses? “Are you okay, babe?” he asks. I don’t bother to look up at him. “I’m okay. Can you just…leave me alone for a while?” He smiles. I don’t see him smiling, but I hear it in his voice. “Definitely. Take as long as you need. I’ll be outside.” I listen to him tiptoe across the room and creak open the door to the porch. As he leaves, I look over at what remains of the last Marco, a torn mess of a canvas propped up against the corner. A hint of his eyes somehow manages to shine through it. His beautiful eyes. I pick up the canvas I had been working on and replace it with a new one. Once it’s in place, I promptly lean over to pick up the drooling bottle of shit brown. After checking to make sure it still has a little bit left in it, I take my brush, dip it in water, dip it into the bottle, and start making the eyes of the next painting.

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Universe Inside You Amber Kolb 110

Dear Hiring Manager

Kenny MacMaster

God came to me last night and told me about this opening. This is the position I was born to hold. Your company is the greatest thing on earth. It is even dearer to me than my children. I have the utmost respect for the values and principles held by this corporation. Profit. Nothing is more important to me than the profits of whoever would be my boss should you choose to hire me. For years, since my youth, all I have wanted is to serve you. My highest calling is to spend eight hours a day, minimum, in your office, for as little money as I can subsist on. I sincerely hope you will choose to interview me. Yours,

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Bright Future Morgan Tencza

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THROUGH

Tajanae Crawford

The Lisa McDowell to a black king. Can we fasten the structures of our castle? A Tower of Babel—for us to speak in tongues, stacked and stacked with morning wood after morning wood. I sent up my sins with every curve of my back, with every orgasmic breath— hoping I could reach high enough to take every sin back. I was creating my own religion where I win and sin and God just sits back. All while caressing the pleasantries of flesh, I climbed that luring hill—and I know now I used to love him and I don’t want him back.

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Pop of Yellow Morgan Tencza

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[who we are] NIVEA ACOSTA loves nothing more than her rabbit and gaming and has recently experienced heartbreak in the form of her laptop breaking mid-game. She doesn’t know how to swim and once slipped into the deep end at a pool party and struggled to keep afloat without alerting anyone for help because she didn’t want to ruin the party’s vibe. Catch her outside on the quad as she ignores all her responsibilities and hopes they just disappear. PAGE 22 IAN ADDISON enjoys making colors and shapes, sometimes they even look decent! He falls asleep to Satanist cult chants in his skull knee socks, which are black of course. He loves cats, but is sad when they walk all over his keyboD@3D5!LU@P PAGE 20, 44, 53 HASSAN A.J is a graduate of the Yale Writers’ Workshop. He attended three summer sessions, 2016, 2017, and 2018 where he studied under authors Sybil Baker, Kirsten Bakis, and Michael Cunningham. He also attended the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown where he honed his craft with author David Shields. He is based in New Haven, pursuing a degree in English and Creative Writing from Quinnipiac University. His short story “Ghosted” has recently won the Wilder Fiction Prize. PAGE 17, 93

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NHUNG AN is a Game of Thrones fanatic first and foremost, writer and broadcast reporter second. She is not interested in being anyone’s armrest unless you bribe her with boba tea or financial stability. Her writing has been published in Hematopoiesis Press, and awarded first prizes for the Donald Hall Poetry Prize as well as the Wilder Fiction Prize. Nhung is excited to graduate in May and revisit the concept of sleep. She hopes to make enough money to adopt her very first dog whose name will be Nymeria or Ghost #FortheThrone. PAGE 24 KIANA (KIKI) AREVALO hates her first name and talking about herself. She writes for the hell of it, to escape into another world, or to get rid of the negativity in her head so she can (try) and be a positive person. She’s been published in Spillwords Press and won third place in the Thornton Wilder Fiction Prize 2018. She’s actually pleased with herself that she got off her lazy ass to submit something for once! PAGE 39, 49, 61 SAMANTHA BASHAW is a psychotic romantic who enjoys food, a lot. She used to suck at getting constructive criticism, but now can handle it with only slight teary eyes. She has worked on numerous publications and most recently interned for Flaunt Magazine in Los Angeles. She hopes to one-day work at Vogue or some cool, artsy-shit literary magazine and be broke, but happy, in New York City. PAGE 35, 79 WESLEY CLAPP is a student filmmaker and screenwriter. He’s a junior from a more-urban part of New Hampshire (wait…there’s an urban part?) that should write more often, but he’ll get to it eventually, because procrastination and all that. Wesley has been a finalist in the 2017 Fall Connecticut Collegiate New Venture Competition and has interned a couple of pretty sweet film production companies. PAGE 96

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TAJANAE CRAWFORD is going to have a TEDtalk one day.. she doesn’t know what it’s going to be about, but just wait on it. She’s been writing short stories, and poetry since she could read and write. This is the first time she is sharing her work outside of the classroom. She loves to collect vinyls, quote #BlackTwitter and has Drake’s discography permanently etched into her brain. She wants to thank God for this opportunity, and wants to publish a novel one day. PAGE 113 MIKE FERNANDEZ is a pretty cool guy, I guess. He’s always been passionate about writing and hopes to write for video games after college. His favorite book is Handmaid’s Tale and his favorite video game is Okami. He won third place in the 2019 Donald Hall Poetry Competition and second place in the 2019 Wilder Fiction Competition. Some call him a hall of famer fucker with none of the vulgarities of his peers. PAGE 58, 105 MADISON FRAITAG spends most of her time creating. Whether it’s a script, a photo, a drawing, a poem, an article, a design, or even just a home cooked meal, she loves to make things for others to enjoy. When she takes time for herself, Madison loves hiking, drinking green tea, eating fresh mozzarella, going to breweries, and rewatching the same sitcoms over and over. When Madison grows up, she wants to be Tina Fey. PAGE 63, 104 SOPHIE FRANK is not your typical horse girl. In her free time she enjoys photography, attending Montage’s biweekly cult meetings, and staying up late worrying about the consequences of climate change. She also hopes to one day adopt a dog with current editor-in-chief Rosie Persiani. PAGE 34

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JOELLE GRAY is a sophomore advertising major from New Hampshire who spends most of her free time wondering how some people get through their hard times without writing poetry. She is also a trivia queen, grammar enthusiast, and amateur photographer. Interests include celebrating Taurus season year-long and telling everyone she is morally True Neutral. She wants everyone to know that this journal totally wasn’t created with less than a year of experience with this software (and that she’s trying her best)! PAGE 95 ELIZABETH (LIZZY) HRYWNIAK is a senior English major in the 3+3 BA/JD Law Program. She’s totally rad, man. PAGE 48, 78 AVERY KIDD is an English major and a graduating senior at Quinnipiac. She is continuing on after graduation to pursue a Master’s degree in Elementary Education. She has had this dream since she was in Kindergarten, along with the dream of writing. She struggled with finding her creative voice when it came to writing poetry, but through her time at Quinnipiac she has learned the power of communicating her own story and does so in her writing. Avery intends to continue on with her writing far beyond college and hopes to inspire her future students by giving them the confidence to find their voices and share their stories as well. PAGE 90 AMBER KOLB is an English major with minors in Philosophy and Psychology. She’s a wannabe lawyer looking to address the global preservation and extension of human rights across the globe. She is also a fourth degree black belt, mediocre fencer, and a subpar artist who is doing her best. This Amber’s first submission to Montage! PAGE 41, 110

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CAITLIN LANDAU is an avid reader with a passion for photography. Her one true love is her cat. She is from Chicago, Illinois and was active in protesting gun violence while there. Her favorite hobby is staring at her computer screen watching YouTube videos while playing Sudoku on her phone. She would like to thank all the haters because without them she would never have been inspired to write anything. PAGE 52, 54, 60 WILL LEBOWITZ sucks at writing bios, so please bear with him. He is a senior film major from Demarest, New Jersey, and he has a passion for storytelling. Maybe that’s why he writes as much as he does. Now, please—please—turn the page and move on from this trainwreck of a bio. PAGE 50 NINA LEOPOLD will probably correct your grammar, but she’s really just trying to help. It comes from a good place, honestly. She is a junior at Quinnipiac pursuing an English major, creative writing concentration, PR minor, and psychology minor. She plans to do something with that, someday. For now, though, she writes sometimes and goes to concerts all the time. PAGE 83 KENNY MacMASTER, formerly a very enlightened existentialist philosopher, is finally able to call himself a writer. He is excited to have the opportunity to adapt his tinder bio into a longer format. His tinder bio is excited to finally collaborate on this groundbreaking project with his resume. He is a student of both Economics and Philosophy and is very smart. No real accomplishments to speak of. Kenny is graduating soon, so let him know if you’re hiring. He is also single, so if you see him on campus maintain eye contact, approach directly, and say the words “swipe right” out loud. PAGE 94, 111

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SARAH MAREK is a redheaded senior. She loves yellow, hippie dippy folk alternative music, and clementines. She won first place in the Donald Hall Poetry Prize in 2019 and loves the crap out of QU. PAGE 57, 76, 99 SARAH MCKERNAN is a rising senior Film, Television, and Media Arts major, with a minor in Anthropology. She enjoys photography, tea, and being tall. She only heard about Montage because her roommate Jen is super awesome and is part of the club. However, she intends to join next year. If you couldn’t tell by her red hair and translucent skin, she’s Irish. (P.S. Jen basically wrote this whole thing). PAGE 92 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 few years at Quinnipiac University where she hopes to practice her writing even more. PAGE 16 BETHANY NEWTON graduated in December and moved to Colorado in January to work at the United Way. The mountains are gorgeous. The weather? Completely unpredictable. She currently uses her English degree to write thank you notes (and plan a college community service competition) and her Health Sciences degree to startle her coworkers with scientific information in the middle of normal conversations. She is so psyched to be published in Montage! PAGE 45 AMANDA PERELLI loves telling stories, whether that’s through writing or photography. She’s a journalism major and soon to be graduate at Quinnipiac! She thanks student media for giving her such incredible experiences and even more incredible friends! PAGE 21 122

ROSIE PERSIANI is 279.4 Froot Loops tall (she did the math and created an equation to determine that number). She has been published three times in Spillwords Press, placed twice in the Donald Hall Poetry Prize, and was honored to be the Editor-in-Chief for this year at Montage. She is graduating in May and has no clue where life will take her. She wants to be remembered in Montage as a boss ass bitch, wonderful cult leader, and an All Time Low fangirl. PAGE 42 CHRISTINA POPIK is a senior graphic & interactive design major and computer science & psychology minor from a small town in Connecticut. She works in the Office of Campus Life as a graphic designer. 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 74 SRINITHI RAGHUNATHAN is not good at writing bios so this is probably not going to be a good bio. She likes to eat, sleep and watch conspiracy videos. Her favorite meal of the day is brunch. Some of her favorite things to do are taking pictures while traveling and writing in her blog alifesblogdotcom on wordpress (but only 2 articles are actually published). She loves trying new hobbies, and this year she has been learning how to knit. She also enjoys wine and paint night and her favorite movie is White Chicks. PAGE 82, 89 MARIANNA RAPPA is a creative, laid back kind of girl who loves to read and write. Through her struggles, she has come out stronger and better than ever, as a writer and a person. With music and books as her inspirations and her friends and family by her side, she has grown confident in her writing abilities and she looks forward to continuing to pursue her degree in Communications. PAGE 80, 101

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JENNIFER RONDINELLI is a junior Biology major who enjoys doing many things that have nothing to do with her major such as eating cheese, collecting stuffed animals, taking photos, and attempting to be funny. Jen has been a member of Montage since her freshman year and always enjoys submitting her work and attending Open Mics. Jen hopes to become a research biologist one day and find cures to rare neurological disorders while also staying up to date on memes. PAGE 38 RUBY ROSENWASSER is an artist, double majoring in film and graphic design. At Quinnipiac she is a part of SPB and ASA. She loves traveling, hiking, going to Disneyland, and drinking bubble tea. She will (hopefully) be interning in LA this summer. PAGE 75 JENNA SUCATO is a junior English major in the MAT program. When she’s not slaving away at analytical essays or attempting to teach middle schoolers, she occasionally dabbles in creative writing. Jenna loves eating sushi, watching Bojack Horseman, struggling with embroidery, and playing the Life is Strange games with her cool ass bf. Also, she was recently elected co-president of Sigma Tau Delta English Honor Society—affectionately called STD. Jenna would like to thank all of her fellow Montage members for all their hard work this year! PAGE 102 MORGAN TENCZA is a sophomore communications major from a small town across the Delaware River from Philadelphia. According to her mother, she only loves three things: Philadelphia sports, photography, and dogs. Morgan has spent the past year serving as The Chronicle’s photography editor and can always be seen around campus with a camera. However, she will not be around campus at all next semester as she will be spending it in London with her two other loves of soccer and Harry Potter. In March 2019, Morgan was featured in ZO Magazine as their Spotlight Photographer of the Week and her work is often found in articles on The Brotherly Game website. Find some of her outstanding photos on her instagram (@mtencza_photo). She is happy to be apart of Montage to showcase her photography in a different light. PAGE 112, 114 124

JENNIE TORRES is a woman of Panamanian descent who is not what she seems. People tend to find her to be very innocent and sweet, yet she conveys a maturity through her work that comes from living a complex life. Through that work, she hopes to help others notice that even the most introverted of people can create art for the public to see. Jennie is thankful that she will be recognized in Montage and will be certain to gush about it to her parents, brothers, and dog. PAGE 23, 32, 33, 62 JEREMY TROETTI proudly hails from Ossining, New York. He has been a member of Montage for the past year, as well as the Quinnipiac Chronicle for the past four years. He enjoys spending time with family and friends, traveling, reading, watching sports, and always loves to catch a good sunset. He is a die hard New York Mets fan, and has visited 16 of the 30 MLB stadiums – in addition to 25 of the 50 U.S. states. PAGE 100 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 Senior English and Media Studies student and is also out of space so he hopes you enjoy his story! PAGE 66 SHAYLAH ZORN is a senior psychology major who is a self-described nasty, fat, feminist who got a dummy thick sense of humor. She once waited in a line outside for twelve hours to get a $20 tattoo on Friday the 13th. There is nobody else who loves birds as much as this woman, who once listened to a video of a cockatoo screaming into a bowl of applesauce in the background for thirty minutes while taking a shower. Her favorite Instagram account is of a medium, sulfur-crested cockatoo named Coo-Chan who bangs his beak on the wall while making beeping noises. PAGE 18

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Acknowle We want to thank Joelle Gray for designing this journal, creating this cover, and pouring countless hours into creating this publication. Without her our vision of the journal would not come true.

We want to thank WQAQ for co-hosting the Open Mic series with us during the fall semester. With their help we were able to create a new atmosphere for the Open Mics and create a safe environment for Quinnipiac students to enjoy. We want to thank Student Media for always providing our members with a place to go for support, advice, and help. Thank you for always supporting us and lending a hand when needed. We want to thank Jeremy Troetti, Will Lebowitz, Ian Berkey, Lizzy Hrywniak, Sarah Marek, and Mike Fernandez for being our amazing features throughout the year. We want to thank Jason Koo, Ken Cormier, Valerie Smith, and Timothy Dansdill for educating, inspiring, and pushing us to continue with our writing. 126

edgments) We want to thank Joelle Gray and Nina Leopold for being our next Co-Editors. Thank you for always stepping up to the plate and always doing the best. Montage is in fantastic hands next year. We want to thank Jenna Sucato for taking on the position of Content Editor. Thank you for always keeping our grammar and syntax in check! We want to thank David McGraw for being an amazing advisor. Thank you for motivating us, pushing us to do our best, and always supporting us. Montage, and Student Media, is better when youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re a part of it. Finally, thank you to every single member of Montage. You created the best atmosphere to be a part of and to call home. Thank you for putting in your all and always going above and beyond. Montage is not Montage without you all.

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MONTAGE

VOL 38

2019