the blue route 20

special 10th anniversary issue

the blue route

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the blue route 20 Spring 2018 Widener University

the blue route, issue 20 (Spring 2018) widenerblueroute.org

Editor-in-Chief: Jennifer Rohrbach Blog Manager: Carlie Sisco Social Media Manager: Kelly Bachich Faculty Advisors: Michael Cocchiarale and James Esch Staff Readers Kelly Bachich, Emily Garofalo, Emma Irving, Jasmine Kouyate, Vitaliya Lypyak, Jennifer Rohrbach, Carlie Sisco, Rohan Suriyage Widener University’s online journal of undergraduate writing takes its name from the Blue Route (I-476), a north-south highway running through the suburbs of Philadelphia.

Cover art: “Hidden Peacock” by Remy Groh

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Contents Note From the Editor..................................................................................v Jennifer Rohrbach, Widener University

To the American Standard ..........................................................................1 Zachary Thomas, John Carroll University

Katydids .........................................................................................................3 Maria Bell, Vassar College

August, Open ..............................................................................................13 Colette Gerstmann, Swarthmore College

Moscow........................................................................................................17 Valerie Osborne, Ursinus College

Holding On .................................................................................................19 Julia O’Malley, University of North Carolina, Wilmington

the art of taking back ................................................................................25 Keyla Ynoa, Franklin & Marshall College

The Riveter ..................................................................................................27 Eve Wittenbach, Central Michigan University

I’m Running Away to the Andes..............................................................31 Jordan Gakle, Central Michigan University

An Interview with Catherine Zobal Dent ..............................................32 Carlie Sisco, Widener University

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Special Feature: Looking back on 10 years of the blue route .............38 divorce ..........................................................................................................41 Katherine LeCours (from Issue 1)

Istishhadiyah................................................................................................45 Stephanie Ciner (from Issue 3)

Before We Knew ........................................................................................49 Katherine Pierpont (from Issue 5)

Skeleton Pieces ...........................................................................................53 Dana Diehl (from Issue 7)

Kora, After Her Mother’s Diagnosis .......................................................57 Rachel Ann Jones (from Issue 9)

Culpable Spontaneous Explosion ............................................................61 Regina McMenamin Lloyd (from Issue 11)

I Confess to Enjoying the Shame of our Brother, Mr. Nip ................67 Zachary Weber (from Issue 14)

Stability Through Motion..........................................................................71 Lauren Reagan (from Issue 15)

The Yellow Bucket .....................................................................................75 Christine Nguyen (from Issue 17)

dear siri, ........................................................................................................79 Robin Gow, Ursinus College (from Issue 19)

Contributing Artists ...................................................................................84 Submission Guidelines ..............................................................................86

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Note From the Editor Jennifer Rohrbach, Widener University Issue 20 of The Blue Route is a special one for many reasons. Ten years ago, a group of Widener students and advisors got together because they realized that there were undergraduate students across the country producing amazing work that wasn’t being seen. Flash forward ten years and twenty issues later, and The Blue Route has become a steadfast force in the literary community, publishing work from across the country and even internationally. The Blue Route continues to be a literary outlet for students and, I hope, a light to illuminate the talented and diverse voices that continue to create art amidst the joys and challenges of contemporary life.

The pieces selected for Issue 20 are a mix of both the heavy- and light-hearted: A Ginsberg-esque depiction of a college party; a lonely father briefly reuniting with his estranged daughter; a queer woman connecting with her Caribbean roots. Yet all these pieces have something in common: They make a connection between the writer and the reader. Catherine Zobal Dent, the author of Unfinished Stories of Girls who is featured in an interview in this issue, believes that this is an important part of writing. She says, “I write to create order in my world and hope to communicate a sense of connection, belonging, and order for other people too.�

Connection, I believe, is what writing is all about. We want to reach readers on a visceral level, to speak to their passions, dreams, and despairs, but also make them smile and laugh and bring whatever light we can into their days.

I want to thank The Blue Route staff and advisors who brought light into my days nearly every week of this semester putting together this incredible double issue, which was an unprecedented amount of work, but well worth it. Thank you to the incredible artists who submitted their art to Issue 20, making this the second multi-media issue of The Blue Route. Thank you to the College of Arts & Sciences and the English and Creative Writing department at Widener for their continued support. Thank you so much to the inspiring writers who have graced the pages of this issue with their incredible words and experiences. And lastly, thank you, the reader, for choosing to connect with us. I hope this issue can bring a little a light into your day.

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Artwork by Gabby Rubino

To the American Standard Zachary Thomas, John Carroll University

You crowded dingy off-balanced Warrensville Center of my spinning lopsided universe porcelain toilet, thank you, for being there with me more times than my "I told you not to take another shot" of a fuq-boi friend while I perform Edvard's Scream, especially after that far foggy yesterday I beer crawled from the loud basement disco sauna through the not-so-lively living room under the legs of he’s weird and she’s more wasted than a full dinner plate tossed in the trash, then around my bystander responsibility into a desperate “I was here” selfie between a "fuck you" "no fuck you" tandem in front of a locked bathroom door whose knob I jerked, no, jiggled, no, emasculated, yes, on accident. wya, he texts.

I heart-emoji you, I text,

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hovering over your grimy pee-stained open mouth bowl filled with my shit, unlike him, you can take it.

Three dots hop-scotch across my fickle unsettled stomach to plummet deep down bodily space as three dots dissipate.

What happened?

Unless – shit shit shit–I'm too much of a handful down your throat plunging for what's got you choked up.

Was it something I said, and didn’t mean?

Do you need more time?

Am I over flowing in excuses as to why I do what I do who with whatever?

cool, he texts.

Zachary Thomas is a graduating senior from John Carroll University in Cleveland, Ohio. He majored in Creative and Professional Writing. He intends on traveling to Latin and South America to teach English during his gap year before attending graduate school for his MFA, so he can, of course, increase the amount of college debt he has as well as increase the amount of time and experience expended toward becoming a better writer and a better person.

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Katydids Maria Bell, Vassar College

I learned to swim in the pond behind the trailer park. I didn’t have a swimsuit but Ivan said it was alright, I could “skinny dip” which he said was a fancy word for swimming without any clothes on like movie stars do in the movies Mamma watches when she thinks Clio and me are asleep. She was staring at the TV the night I learned to swim too but there weren’t any movie stars on it or anybody else because it wasn’t turned on. If Clio were here we’d sneak up behind her and say boo but she wasn’t. But Ivan was and when he found me with Froggy under the bed where I’d been since the policemen came, he said want to go swimming, Cady-did? It was dark and the ground was bumpy so Ivan held my hand. I liked holding his hand, it was cool and firm and big, not like Clio’s which was hot and sticky and smaller than mine. I decided if this is what having a brother meant I wouldn’t mind him coming more often, not just when Mamma turned her silent switch on.

The pond was on the side of the trailer park that the playground wasn’t, so I hadn’t gone there much before. It looked different in the dark, a round blackness that was all white where the moon glowed on it. I wondered if the river behind the playground looked like that in the dark too. I didn’t know because Mamma made us bike home when the sun went away, except Clio broke the rules. Ivan left his jeans and T-shirt on the big rock and ran into the pond with his funny-patterned shorts on. I wiggled out of the purple overalls that matched Clio’s except hers were yellow and used to be mine. I stood in the tufty grass where my toes wouldn’t get wet and stared at the shiny water until Ivan splashed me and said be brave, Cady-did. The water was cold at first and I screamed and Ivan said sshhh I must be quiet or people might get confused. It wasn’t so cold after a little while and Ivan held my arms so my head wouldn’t go under and I thought how jealous Clio would be when she got back. I told Ivan so and he asked if Clio got jealous a lot.

“I guess so,” I said. I blew bubbles in the water and Ivan laughed.

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“What does she do when she gets jealous?” he asked. His face was all dark but I could see his lips move.

“She kicks me,” I said. I stretched my toes down to see if I could reach the bottom but I couldn’t. Clio didn’t like it when I was better at something, which was most of the time because I was almost six already and she was only four. But I didn’t tell Ivan this because then he would feel bad for Clio and I didn’t want him to feel bad for Clio, I wanted him to feel bad for me because I never got to go anywhere without Clio except this time.

“Did she kick you last time you were at the playground?”

“Yeah. I did the monkey bars all the way across.” I kicked my legs in the water. “Can I learn to swim now?”

Ivan laughed and pulled me closer. “Okay, I’ll lay off the questions. We’re going to start with you pushing me around the pond, okay? Hold onto my arms. Stretch out your legs behind you and kick hard, one-two, one-two.

That’s it!”

I held onto his wrists and made the water go splash splash with my feet. I shrieked as he started going backwards so he said sshhh again and I giggled. I wasn’t noisy anymore but as we splash-splashed across the pond I thought about who the people were that I had to be quiet for and what they would get confused about. Maybe they were the policemen who crowded up the kitchen. They looked like the policeman Daddy sweared at. These ones smiled at me but I didn’t like them because they called me Cadence and only Daddy called me Cadence, but he was in jail now. At least that’s what Ivan said the last time I saw him which was also the first time I saw him. Mamma hadn’t said anything because she stared at the TV for two weeks after Daddy didn’t come home anymore. But that was long ago. I knew because my old front teeth were only wiggly then and now the new ones were almost all the way grown.

“Ivan?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you only come when Mamma isn’t talking anymore?”

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Ivan stopped moving backwards so I stopped kicking. “Mom doesn’t talk when she’s thinking hard. I come to help her so she doesn’t have to think about so many things all at once, so she can start talking again sooner.”

“That’s why you played with me and Clio when Daddy went away?”

“Yeah, and because I missed you two. I miss you a lot.”

“If you miss us why don’t you live in the trailer with us?”

“I used to, but you were very little then. Before Clio. I lived in the trailer for a long time, even before Mom shared it with your dad.”

“Why’d you go away?”

“I grew up. Someday you will grow up and live far away from the trailer park too.”

“Will Clio too?”

“Yeah. Clio too.”

“Why did your voice go funny?”

“You know what? I think you’re ready to swim for real. I’m going to put my hand under your stomach and you’re going to kick with your legs and move your arms like this.” Ivan stretched out the arm I wasn’t holding onto and pulled it back towards him, making the water ripple. “Okay?”

“Okay. I hope when we grow up Clio goes to a different far away so she can’t kick me when I do things better.”

Ivan laughed again but not as loud. “You’re going to let go of my arms now, okay? Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Stretch out your legs, now bend your arms at the elbow and cup your hands. That’s it. Let’s try the arm motion. Left arm, right arm. Yep. Curl your hands a little more— you want to pull the water towards you. Good. Now a little faster. Ready to add the legs?”

I nodded and began to kick. One-two, one-two, Ivan counted. The water rippled all around me. Ivan’s palm pressed against my tummy and it tickled.

“Look at that! You’re moving. Way to go, Cady-did.”

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“Ivan?”

“Yeah?” He kept his hand steady under me and I kept splash-splashing.

“Why do you call me Cady-did, not Cady like everybody else?”

I heard his smile when he talked. “Do you know what a katydid is? Spelled k-a-t-y.”

“No.” I concentrated on my arms, this one, that one. This one, that one.

Splash splash.

“It’s like a grasshopper, or a cricket. When you were very tiny, you saw one and started crawling after it right into the bushes. I almost lost you. Started calling you Cady-did after that.”

“Oh. I know those. Clio tried to catch them. Ivan!”

“Don’t stop, don’t stop! My hand is right here if you need it, see? But you’re keeping yourself up all by yourself!” I looked down and saw his hands pale in the water below me but not on my tummy anymore.

“I’m swimming! I’m swimming, Ivan!” My arms and legs felt heavier now but I didn’t stop. Splash splash, splash splash. I heard Ivan breathing next to me.

“You’re swimming, Cady-did! See the big rock with our clothes on it? You’re going to swim all the way to it. Nice and steady. That’s it.”

I fixed my eyes on my purple overalls the moon made bright and kept paddling. My chin went in the water and I felt Ivan’s hand on my tummy but then it went away again. I took big breaths in, out, and kicked harder. “It’s far,” I said.

“But look at you, you’re getting closer every second.” He spoke just above me. His hands stayed close.

“I can’t do it. I’m tired.”

“Yes you can. Focus on the katydids, Cady-did. You hear them? They’re all around us. They sound like a bunch of those wooden instruments you shake. Maracas, that’s the name. Match your strokes to the pulse of the sound.”

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I wrinkled up my nose and concentrated on the katydids. The ones by the playground weren’t as loud as these ones. They got louder though when the sun started to hide behind the trees next to the river. I heard them when I did the monkey bars all the way across. So did Clio. Hear the katydids, not do all the monkey bars. She could only do three bars, which was the problem. My overalls were closer now.

“Clio wanted to catch the crickets,” I said. “The katydids.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” My arms were all achy but I pretended they weren’t. Splash splash. I kept kicking. “I said she couldn’t and she said I couldn’t but she could because I could do the monkey bars and she couldn’t.”

Ivan laughed. “What?” He was still right next to me but not touching because I was swimming all by myself. I could hear my breaths puff-puffing.

I felt like I’d just biked really fast to the playground.

“Can’t talk paddle same time.”

“You’re almost there. Ten more strokes. You can do it. I believe in you.”

I breathed out again and listened to the katydids. I wanted to stop kicking so Ivan would put his hand back on my tummy so my arms wouldn’t feel so heavy but I didn’t because then he wouldn’t believe in me anymore.

“Five more strokes. So close.”

I had to look up to see my overalls now. My chin was on the water again but I kept splash-splashing, this arm that arm. This leg, that leg. I could almost touch the rock. The dark space in between got smaller and smaller. The katydids went sshhh sshhh sshhh.

“You did it! Look at that. Told you you could do it. You swam all that way!”

I felt Ivan’s hands on my tummy and I reached out and poked the rock with my finger. “Here, grab my arm,” he said. I did so I was floating up and down again and looking at him. The moon glow was on his face so I could see his smile. He had little dents in his cheeks when he smiled like me and Clio did.

“I can swim, Ivan! Wait ‘til I tell Mamma and Clio! Clio’s gonna be so mad.”

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“You can swim! You’re a natural.” Ivan put my wet hair behind my ear so it wasn’t stuck to my cheek anymore. “So what was this about Clio and katydids and monkey bars?”

I didn’t want to talk about Clio when I could swim now but Ivan had a serious face. “Clio wanted to catch the katydids. Cickets she said because we didn’t know they were katydids and she can’t say her R’s right.”

Ivan smiled the kind of smile Mamma did when her head hurt. “Cickets, huh? Why’d she want to catch the cickets?”

I wiggled my toes against Ivan’s legs so he laughed. “I did all the monkey bars and Clio kicked me and then she lay on her tummy under the swings and kicked the ground. Then she saw a katydid and tried to grab it and I said no one can catch those.”

“What did she do then?”

“She said I couldn’t catch the cickets but she could because she could do stuff I couldn’t do.” Her overalls had big grass stains on them when she stood up and her eyes were all big like they got when she got stubborn to do something, which was a lot because Mamma said she got Daddy’s stubbornness like I got his red hair. She only said that before he went away because she didn’t talk about him anymore, but Clio still had his stubborn and I still had his red hair.

“Did she catch any katydids?” Ivan’s voice was quiet and I looked around to see if any of the people who might get confused were nearby but I didn’t see anybody.

“I dunno.” I blew bubbles at Ivan’s tummy but he didn’t laugh this time.

“Did she go somewhere to look for them?”

“She looked under the swing set but there weren’t any.” Ivan and me were still floating by the rock but I was bored now so I let go of his arm with one hand and splashed so drops went up and then went plunk plunk back in the water again. “I said she was looking in the wrong place.”

“What was the right place?”

“They were loud by the river.”

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“She went to the river?”

“I dunno. I said they were louder there.” I wanted Clio to catch the katydids so then she wouldn’t be mad when I did the monkey bars all the way across.

Or learned to swim. I splashed the water again. “I bet I really could catch katydids faster than Clio but I didn’t try because I was being nice.” My leg hurt because Clio kicked it hard so I didn’t want to stay at the playground.

When I looked back at Clio she was standing under the monkey bars and then I biked home and didn’t see her anymore.

“Cadence, did you tell the people who came to the trailer about the river?”

There were clouds now and the clouds made the moon not bright anymore so Ivan’s face was all dark again and the water wasn’t as shiny.

“No. I didn’t like them. Why’d you call me Cadence?” I was grumpy now because Ivan didn’t laugh when I tickled his legs and I was cold and we weren’t moving anywhere at all and Ivan called me Cadence.

“I’m sorry, Cady-did.” Ivan took my hand that was splashing. “Oh no you’ve got goosebumps all over your arms. The water feels chilly after a while doesn’t it.” His voice sounded funny again. “It’s time we get back.” I said okay and Ivan put his hands around me and lifted me up up so I was sitting on the big rock. Then he climbed out too.

“It’s c-c-cold now,” I said. The air didn’t feel warm like it did before and I was all wet and my skin was all bumpy and I didn’t like it.

“I know, I’m sorry. Getting out’s the hardest part.” Ivan picked up his Tshirt and rubbed me with it like Mamma did but with a towel after bath time so I wasn’t so wet anymore. Then he put it on which was funny because it was wet and then he helped me button up my overalls. He wasn’t very good at it because he tried to do it too fast and his fingers were all wobbly.

“Ivan, will Clio be back when we get to the trailer?”

“I don’t know, Cady-did.” He fixed the last button. “Do you like piggy-back rides?” I didn’t know because I gave them to Clio but she never gave them to me because she wasn’t big enough, but Ivan was so he scrouched down and I climbed on his back.

“I want to tell her I can swim now.”

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Ivan unscrouched so I was high up and I giggled and Ivan put his hands around my ankles and said hold on tight and then he started to run.

Ivan ran faster than me or Clio could. I hugged my arms around his shoulders and snuggled my face into his neck because there were branches all around and they looked like claws and I didn’t like it. We went bump bump bump. I could hear the katydids really loud and I wondered if Clio caught one.

Then the bump bump bump stopped and Ivan made a funny noise in his throat. I looked up. The trailer looked red and blue because there were flashy lights shining on it and on the people standing outside. Then one of the policemen who called me Cadence came out of the path that goes to the playground. The policeman was carrying something heavy but I couldn’t see what because the moon was gone, and then he walked into the flashy lights and I saw yellow overalls and they were dripping water drip drip drip on the ground.

The policeman stopped and looked at Ivan. He shook his head back and forth once, twice, really slow and Ivan squeezed his fingers tighter around my ankles and the katydids went sshhh sshhh sshhh all around us.

Maria Bell is an undergraduate at Vassar College studying English literature and creative writing with a minor in sociology. She has written for College Magazine and serves on the editorial board for Vassar's student literary journal. If not jumping on a train to explore somewhere random, she can usually be found writing in a café or befriending any nearby animal.

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Art by Gabby Rubino

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Art by Elena Bo4s

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August, Open Colette Gerstmann, Swarthmore College

Cold light of the Upper East Side of the city I was born does not feel like a womb (dark, warm).

This month, 19 years ago it was not long since I passed out of utero and gave my mother post-partum/bliss – now at this desk I tell the woman that I came in for a cyst.

Her eyes drop with relief, draw taut shame like a thin veil over both our faces; her fingers bear me

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pen and pad and questions (do you have a history with anxiety, depression?).

Waiting for the hard white hands to ask me about college in between asking me about the barrier method and entering methodically, the opposite of parturition, dividing me out from myself like a partition of my lipstick and my words.

The white ceiling occurs.

At nine years old I’d thought my soul was on the right side of my abdomen, a cushion for appendix, ovary. My ovary

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is cysted, garlic, bloated pearl. Hot liquid that the hands slide up inside of me. I split up like something half-solid, like cereal, bits of real serious things that laughter eyes and apathy run in and out of. I cannot choose what enters me, the wand – what is it called?— probing; me—what am I called?—hoping for my body’s empathy.

Colette Gerstmann is from Brooklyn, New York, and is currently a senior at Swarthmore College, where she studies English and Art History. She likes bagels and avoiding rain.

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Photo by Kelly Bachich

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Moscow Valerie Osborne, Ursinus College

There are cheaply made string lights haunting a cold, white wall.

They fight against the night. Inert glass raging contra some tattooed reaper’s steady hands. Hands laying seconds, minutes, hours to rest in the grasp of calloused fingers. Three bulbs have already died out, ceding only shadow, the remaining light formed in a dim isosceles dangling overhead.

Triangles, I remember, are magic and I am not quite in love with the light across my ceiling, but I am marching there slowly.

Napoleon marched slowly.

Six-thousand French soldiers stumbled towards Moscow and never made it, freezing on the banks of the Berezina and melting with the snow. Belarus is four white walls, and my only guard against a broken A/C is one homespun quilt, soft weapon needled by my great-grandmother in the 70’s when my mother’s first love was scheming my name. In my hands I blow warm memories. They remember heat, moving over to the dark side of the gym, when they gripped your own two blistering palms in theirs as that hot, hot fever turned our faces pink. I was an inept ballerina, spinning doubtful under your arm as you stepped out of my rhythm and the DJ started spinning Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture and the cannons blew the rubber floor apart.

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I had stopped too close to the sun, burned and missing Moscow completely.

The dead skin feeling peeled away as I slowly began to forget your name, one syllable at a time.

Hot breath evaporated, I pull my hands from my lips and stretch them to drywall sky, shaking these searing memories off the tips of my fingers.

The cold is not so bad if you keep moving.

The last light dies in battle as I pull out its electric plug, but car headlights cast silhouettes of Moscow’s domes across my wall and I know I have a hearth ahead that will thaw the gathered snow from my boots and warm my fingers without burning away the prints. And it will be my own lingering afterglow conquering these dark hours of night.

Valerie Osborne is a senior English major at Ursinus College in Collegeville, PA. Her work has previously been published in Pennsylvania's Best Emerging Poets and Ursinus' literary magazine The Lantern.

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Holding On Julia O’Malley, University of North Carolina, Wilmington

Macy’s here to return the truck. That’s all. I know this, but my heart still sputters as she pulls into the driveway. I can’t help it; I don’t control my heart—she does. She has since the first time she blinked into the hospital’s fluorescent lights and wrapped her little pink hand around my finger.

She sits so close to the steering wheel, I can barely see her there. Two white-knuckled hands clench the faded leather. Above them, a pair of aviator sunglasses and a mass of caramel-colored hair peek out.

Her hair used to be blonde like corn silk.

I remember how, when she was younger, she would sit up on the counter while I shucked the summer corn. She was made of knobby knees and crooked elbows then. Everything about her was sharp except the curve of her lips. Her smile ran like the wide, soft line of a watermelon rind.

When I’d finished peeling off the husks and picking off the silk, I’d run my fingers through her yellow hair. I never said a word about it, just carried on like normal—like I was still prepping the corn. She’d sit real still and try not to giggle.

“This here’s a mighty fine looking ear!” I’d say, scraping the fine strands away. Then I’d chomp on the lobe with lip-covered teeth. She would laugh and scream and flail her arms and legs until I lifted her off the counter and spun her around and around.

She was my little corn cob.

She’s a woman now, and everything has softened out. I see that clearly when she hops out of my truck—much too big for her—in shorts that

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are much too small. Everything is soft now except her mouth.

Something invisible tugs at the corners there, forcing a harsh frown, when she sees me.

“There you are, Macy-maize,” I say. I dig one hand into the pocket of my Levis and stagger down the rickety steps of my front porch. My bum knee is acting up again, but I don’t want her to see that, so I smile through the grimace. “How’d the moving go?”

She just got her own place—some dinky apartment two towns over, not too far from the community college. Seeing her by my truck, it’s hard not to think of when she moved in with her mom. She’d tried to sneak off while I was sleeping, but the engine woke me. By the time I hobbled down to the street, all that was left of the truck was two red pin-pricks and the smell of diesel.

At least this time she’d asked to take it. At least this time she’d told me she was going.

Macy moves and, for a moment, I think she’s opening her arms for a hug. I remember how it used to feel to tuck her under my arms. She’d bury her face into my waist and ball my shirt up in her fists. I imagine how it would feel to hold her there again—to fold her up and feel the faint echoes of her heartbeat reverberating on my ribcage.

I lift my arms and take a step toward her. She dangles the keys between us.

“Here you go,” she says. She drops the keys into my limp palm. “You need gas.”

“Do you want to come in for some lemonade?” I ask. “Maybe have something to eat?”

“No, I’m just gonna wait for my ride.” She bites her lip before adding, “My boyfriend.”

She glances at the road, and I don’t know if she expects a car to appear just because she said something, or if she just doesn’t want to look at me. Either way, the street remains empty. She crosses her arms over her chest and turns away.

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I can’t stop staring at her hair. It glimmers like copper in the sunlight.

Sophisticated. Hard. I touch my own thin, corn-silk hair and feel lost. I know, without her saying, that this change is because of me. Because she doesn’t want to look in the mirror every day and be reminded of me anymore. The one thing that still tied us together is gone, and I didn’t even know. You’d think something—father’s intuition or whatever you want to call it—would have told me that the last thin thread that tethered us had been willfully snipped.

“You don’t have to wait with me,” she says, still facing the street. She’s pushed the aviators up into her hair—and it really is her hair now—and I can almost see her face. Her eyes fix on the stop sign at the opposite intersection. I am familiar with the burn of that gaze, yet I still wish that those eyes would settle on me. “Go inside. Drink your beer. Do whatever it is that you do, but just do it somewhere else.”

There was a time when she wouldn’t have had to guess what I was doing, because she was at my side. I’d crack open a can of Bud for me and a can of Barq’s for her. We’d watch the game or go fishing or cook over charcoal in the back. When did that stop?

I shift my weight between my feet. My knee throbs and begs me to sit down. I consider the wooden rocking chair on the front porch, then Macy. I don’t know her, but if I sit down, I never will.

“I want to stay with you,” I say.

“Yeah, well”—she rolls her shoulders back—“it’s a little late for that.

Don’t you think?” She wriggles her nose, and my heart sputters again.

It’s the same bunny-wriggle she’s always done when nervous. I latch onto it. She hasn’t been nervous with me since before she moved out—since she gave up on me.

I want to say that I am still here. That I never left; that I stayed in this house where we’d laughed and danced and spit sunflower seeds in the backyard, hoping they’d take root and grow. That she didn’t need to worry so much all those years ago. That I am better now. That I can be there for her again, the way I was before my knee and the drink. I want to tell her that I never meant to abandon her.

“It doesn’t have to be, does it?” I say instead.

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She perks up, and I think that maybe I’ve reached her. But then she waggles her fingers, and I see the little Ford Fiesta rolling toward us. A guy with hair as long as hers and tattoos running up and down his arms is driving it. I think this can’t be her boyfriend—she’d always talked about marrying a nice country boy with corn fields extending out to the horizon—but she starts toward the car before it even comes to a stop.

She wears that watermelon grin.

The guy, her boyfriend, rolls down the window and says, “Sorry I’m late.

I got lost.” Then his gaze shifts to me and he adds, “Thanks for the truck, man. That was really cool of you.”

I nod, because I don’t know what to say to this man whose name my daughter won’t even tell me. Whose existence I didn’t even know of until ten minutes ago.

“Oh, uh—happy birthday, Dad,” Macy says over the hood of the car.

Her nose twitches. “That’s today, isn’t it?”

She slides into the car and they leave before I can tell her it was yesterday, but it’s okay. It’s enough that she almost remembered. I watch my little corn cob disappear around the corner and dissolve almost completely from existence. All that’s left is her bunny nose. I hold onto that.

Julia O’Malley is a fiction writer pursuing her BFA in Creative Writing at UNC Wilmington. Though she’s proud of her New Jersey roots, she is eager to see more of the U.S. and the world at large before settling down anywhere. In addition to writing and traveling to lands both real and imagined, she is passionate about food. Her ideal job would include writing, publishing, and eating her way around the world. Or maybe owning a bookstore/grilledcheese-shop/bakery hybrid. She’s not sure yet.

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Art by Elena Bo4s

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“Caribbean Waves” by Remy Groh

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the art of taking back Keyla Ynoa, Franklin & Marshall College

Three seasoned caribbean bodies beat their hips to musica de palo.

Load the gun their ancestors left them as inheritance.

Cleanse the energy of Dominican men.

Rattle and sprout and Embody.

Exist to heal. They are abandoned remedy.

The reason Don Diego Colรณn colonized himself a casket.

I sometimes wake up forgetting to love the still forest of my leg hair.

Forget to load my gun.

My queer, afro-indigenous tongue and all its accents.

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I refuse death by waking up every morning as I am In castor oil-stained eyebrows, and acne scars.

In my caramel flesh, and the mantra of diaspora.

In my refusal of white penis and white privilege.

In the breathless living, celebratory and loud, awakening the island that resides in my bones.

Keyla Jailene Ynoa is a 20 year old, Bronx-born, AfroDominican spoken word artist. She is currently studying Sociology at Franklin and Marshall college, where she centers her writing on healing, race, sexuality, the body and her childhood. Not only does she serve as an advocate for women's rights in the Alice Drum Women's Center, but she is also the Community Service Chair for Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc. She was awarded the John Marshall Fellowship in order to continue her conceptual poetry about Black mental health, and she won a feminist flash fiction contest her junior year of college.

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The Riveter After “Growth” by Philip Levine

Eve Wittenbach, Central Michigan University

In the press room, air thick with vapor solvent, I pulled the heavy switch of the electric green riveting machine to set the flywheel in motion.

I held steel to anvil, set my toe to the worn pedal and pressed down, drove the metal pin through the gap with a brief shunk. In earplugged silence I repeated the ritual a thousand times, my worship to the deity of production.

At lunch I’d grab a sandwich from Michelangelo’s deli, read Levine on the curb while ghosts outside stood waiting for work.

I wheeled grease-petrified wood carts stacked with the fruit of my labor to the old beast of a degreaser, hooked the arrangement to the overhead crane and dipped it in.

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The Serbian foreman once warned me not to fall in, else I’d be suffocated and burned alive all at once, like seeing the face of God. Then back to my machine, to admire the grimy beauty in its chipped paint, the way the rivets bunch up on the track, tin plaque on the front where I could still make out Model 912 - Fabricated in Chicago 1942, a year of growth.

Eve Wittenbach is a trans woman studying Political Science and Creative Writing at Central Michigan University. She is currently an editor for The Central Review, CMU’s undergraduate literary journal. After she graduates, Eve intends to pursue an MFA in poetry. She hopes to be accepted somewhere warmer than Michigan.

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Art by Gabby Rubino

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Photo by Kelly Bachich

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I’m Running Away to the Andes Jordan Gakle, Central Michigan University

I’m running away to the Andes or maybe, I’m running away to Andy’s— not sure if it’s the mountains or the man I crave.

I want to be high enough to watch the fog bloom from snow sprinkled peaks, or maybe sunken into a stained mattress up the block, a tangled mesh of skin and sheets.

You ask me if it hurts to leave slices of myself like a trail of over-ripe fruit in every stream, street, and hotel, but they mark where I’ve been, from the mountains to the men.

Jordan Gakle is a student at Central Michigan University where she is studying English Education and Creative Writing.

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An Interview with Catherine Zobal Dent Carlie Sisco, Widener University Author Catherine Zobal Dent visited Widener on April 3 and 4 as a part of the English and Creative Writing Department’s Distinguished Writers Series.

In May 2014, Dent published her debut collection of short stories with Fomite Press, called Unfinished Stories of Girls.

The collection includes sixteen stories. Taking place on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, the short stories invite readers i n s i d e t h e l ive s o f characters tr ying to figure out the problems and challenges of the gleaming, marshy world.

On campus, Dent spent time speaking in creative writing and English classes about her collection, as well as offering insight and advice on how to pursue a writing career. She also individually met with several students within the department for tutorials.

“Writers need other writers. That’s just the way it is,” Victoria Giansante, a senior English major said. “We workshop off each other; we get ideas from each other; and we help each other to be the best we can be. Any writer could benefit from closely analyzing their habits and their strengths, especially with guidance from someone with genuine experience and expertise, like Catherine.”

Dent’s latest projects include writing a novel and a nonfiction book about the Appalachian Trail, as well as a translation of the French short story writer Cyrille Fleicshman with her colleague Lynn Palermo. She

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began publishing her stories during graduate school and her work has gone on to appear in such publications as Drunken Boat, the Harvard Review, North American Review, Echolocation, PANK and elsewhere.

Currently, Dent is an associate professor of creative writing at Susquehanna University, a position she shares with her partner and fellow writer, Silas Zobal. She is also the director of the Forum for Undergraduate Student Editors (FUSE), a national organization that provides a network for undergraduate student editors, writers, and their faculty advisers.

Dent concluded her visit with a public reading surrounded by art made by Ann Piper, which accompany each story in the collection. After the reading, Dent took time to answer questions, sign copies of her book, and speak to students, including Rohan Suriyage, a junior English and communication studies double major whom Dent offered advice on organizing ideas for a short story.

“I was interested in her passion for exploring the relationship between art and literature, specifically how the art her colleague made coincidentally reflected the subject matter of her short stories,” Suriyage said. “She has a good grasp on including real-life aspects into her stories and encapsulating the human experience and its authenticity in the subject matter of said stories.”

During her visit, Dent also sat down for an interview with The Blue Route which can be found below:

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You’ve mentioned that this collection, Unfinished Stories of Girls, took roughly ten years to complete. What was the process like during that time?

The first drafts of the stories came as individual pieces, and I published some of them in literary magazines. But then I would be working on a new story and I would look back at an older one and see how they might be connected. I wrote the first of the short stories in graduate school, starting in about 2002. The story “Rise,” which is a piece “When I’m not writing I about a family, was written when my first child was turning don’t feel as alive as one, in early 2007. There are sixteen stories in all, and it took when I am writing. me years to revise them and discover how the characters When I am writing, I were all related! It really was a process of generative work, am noticing the world revision, and editing over the years. Of course, I was writing in a much more other things during that time, and also having an academic meaningful way.” career, and raising a family. Still, I’m not a fast writer. It takes me a long time to get a story to the point where I feel satisfied, and it took me even longer to be happy with the entire collection.

Your stories are incredibly vivid and imagistic. I’m thinking specifically of the last paragraph in “Sanderlings” with the ocean imagery. How are you able to immerse yourself in a scene in order to get those images to flow?

I close my eyes, try to picture everything, the details that I might see, and I overwrite, so that I have many more details than I might let stand in a story. I don’t think of myself as a natural detail writer. I have to struggle to find the right images, so I overdo it and then I cut back. For example, in a story like “Sanderlings,” maybe I finish with the purple scoop, which came up earlier in the piece, and the birds, but in an earlier iteration I would have the waves, the sound of children playing nearby, the smell of popcorn, and my job is to figure out which images hold more meaning.

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How do you choose the point of views in your stories or the voices you choose to depict? For example, the way “Wheels” rotates through point of views. How do you decide on whose voice is able to tell the story?

I think point of view might be the single most important force in a story because it dominates the reader’s whole experience. So, when you figure out the right one, the right voice and psychic distance, it feels really good. The concept for “Wheels” came from reading another story about a community that was looking at a tragedy. I had been seeking a way to write that story about a hit-and-run.

When I read Lee K. Abbott’s “One of Star Wars, One of Doom,” I wanted to try a similar narrative movement. “Wheels” came out in a rush. I wrote it and moved from character to character and then did a lot of editing work to balance. Part of the challenge is to find balance if you’re moving through perspectives inside of a story. How do you make the reader understand how important a character is, or how relatively unimportant? What is the role or function they all play in the story? We move, for a moment, to the social studies teacher as he contemplates the students in his classroom. Then we move away from him. I don’t ever have to go back to him again, but I do need to balance him out with other people who work at the school. Also, I don’t always know whose story it is until revision. In “Wheels,” I don’t necessarily want to be sure. Is it Becca’s story? Or Eliza’s? Or the whole community’s?

How do you create characters, voices, and point of views that are different from your own or different from each other?

I do a lot of research. I think as deeply as you can about the way voices sound different from each other and also the types of preoccupations characters might have. You can have a handful of characters who see the exact same object in the material world and, depending on their

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emotional state, each of them would describe it in a different way. I try to think of where the characters are coming from in a particular moment in time and find a preoccupation that would dominate their voice. In my collection, I have a number of stories that veer into second person where the narrator is addressing you, the reader. I’ve tried different ways of involving the reader in the work, and one of these attempts is to adapt the readers’ perspective and try to convince them that they are actually in the story. In “The Truth You Know,” I have the first-person narrator addressing the reader and saying, “Now you have to tell the end of the story.”

What drives you to write? Has there been a specific instance or a piece of advice that has driven you in your writing career?

When I’m not writing I don’t feel as alive as when I am writing. When I am writing, I am noticing the world in a much more meaningful way. I’m actively constructing meaning around me. Flannery O’Connor said, “I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say."

Sometimes, I feel that way. I can go and recreate an experience in a way that makes more sense or is more satisfying to me. That’s one of the jobs of fiction, to try to create meaning out of chaos. That’s one of the jobs of identity, too, to try to stake, for a temporary period of time, a sense of order in the world. I write to create order in my world and hope to communicate a sense of connection, belonging, and order for other people too.

What is one piece of advice that you typically give to your students?

I tell them all to enjoy failing. It seems so hard to accept that you’re going to mess up and yet that is what you do as a writer over and over again. You try to create something that is bigger than the sum of its parts, and it’s a tall order. I think that writing is about not stopping writing. You wake up one day and there’s this choice: are you going to write that day or not? When people say they have writers’ block, what they really mean is they have the fear of failure. My job is to communicate to my students how to embrace that fear of failure, how make it yours, how to stop being afraid of it. If you embrace failing, then you will enjoy the process of writing.

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If you could recommend an author or a story to aspiring writers, what would you recommend?

It would depend on the aspiring writer. Aspiring writers have to read what they love to read. Writing, like any art or craft or vocation, is about finding good models that feel magical to you. I think it doesn’t matter what you read, just read!

My favorite author is Margaret Atwood. I love her blending of the literary, historical, political, feminist, scientific, and poetic. I love the way that she has had a terribly prolific career. The ways that she keeps reinventing herself in each new book, that’s a model for me.

Unfinished Stories of Girls is published by FOMITE Press. For more information, go to http://fomitepress.com/FOMITE/Girls.html

Photo by Gabby Rubino

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Special Feature: Look Back on 10 back yearson of 10 SpecialAFeature: Looking

the blue route

years of the blue route Ten years ago, a group of students and advisors saw a need for a literary journal dedicated to publishing undergraduate students and amplifying their voices in the literary community. Now, The Blue Route celebrates its present and past with this special issue: A compilation of new work by current undergraduate writers and pieces selected by the editors of the past nineteen issues.

The pieces you are about to read deal with relationships, crises of identity, and social injustices. They are told from diverse perspectives through unique voices, with characters that jump off the page and circumstances that, whether or not you’ve lived them, feel familiar. Connection is a major theme not only in the first eight pieces, but also in the next ten, bringing these new and old voices to you, the reader. This is our legacy.

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Looking Back: January 2009 Jamie Gibbs The piece that I remember the most from my time as editor of The Blue Route (Issues 1 & 2), appropriately, was from Issue One— “divorce” by Katherine LeCours. I remember being struck by the use of white space in the piece, the way that it reflected the slow spread and distance between the speaker and the person they’ve separated from.

Starting out as a standardly-spaced poem, eventually the lines become so vast that it becomes a challenge to keep the rhythm of the poem in mind while searching for the next word across the page.

For an undergraduate, I thought it was a striking decision to mate visual design with content. Even now, in January of 2018 (the first issue was published in January of 2009), I find the piece to be an examination of the minutiae that gets lost in the process of two people falling away from each other.

Jamie Gibbs is a Widener alumnus from the Class of 2009. A major in English and Creative Writing with a Minor in Women’s Studies, she received her Master of Arts degrees in English Literature from Rutgers University, Camden, and has since gone on to achieve PhD Candidate status at the University of South Carolina. She lives in northwest Ohio with her husband and three cats, Morrigan, Heathcliff (from Wuthering Heights, not the cartoon), and Cirilla.

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divorce Katherine LeCours (from Issue 1) Fused as one body for so long that I forget where I end and you begin until you, the right half of our brain have run off with an older left side.

In sympathy, the left side of our face slouches, I cannot

speak

without slurring and I cannot

remember

how to

spell my

our?

name.

this betrayal is baffling. bodies are

meant to

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stay whole. brains

cannot

simply be

cut

in half. I can

only

analyze. I

balanced

our check book

every

month, did our

taxes.

wrote down every argument we had in

first-order

logical notation.

recorded

all

your contradictions. it was up to you

to

feel

both.

for us

to write

our songs

about tomatoes

and scrambled

eggs. to paint

our

portraits, our

landscapes and

mostly our

living room.

to blow seven hundred

dollars

twenty-two cents we didn’t

because have a

crocodile skin

lamp and

it called

to you.

to rearrange the

letters

in our

names and

to

and

finger-paint poems

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on the

walls of

the

dishwasher.

your side

of the

skull

is empty

silence

shrieks

do the crossword and leave

puzzles space for

your twittering

comments. I have

done

my

research and not

only does left side

your new not know

times tables,

her

the upkeep

costs

twice as much

and she

does not

have the last seven years of

your breaths

on file.

she cannot

graph your

happiness because

it is

wrapped

in mine and she

has stolen

my post-it and

notes, our

past.

and

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Looking Back: January 2010 Danella Shallow As editor of The Blue Route, I liked to run our editor meetings by committee. We all would read the submitted pieces and then discuss our favorite ones. For the third issue, we received many amazing pieces of poetry and fiction. Before our meeting, I remember thinking, “How are we going to choose between all of these incredible pieces?” There was one piece that stood out for all of us —“Istishhadiyah” by Stephanie Ciner. We couldn’t stop talking about it—the way it evoked every sense, the way it drew you in slowly, the emotions it created within you when you read it, and the way, for many of us, it was something we had not, and would not, ever experience. “Istishhadiyah” was powerful.

It made us think. It made us hurt. For me, it made me cry.

Danella Shallow was the editor in chief of The Blue Route from 2009 to 2011.

She and her history teacher husband live just outside Philadelphia and spend all of their time planning their next vacation with the hope to one day visit all fifty states.

Danella is currently the library/media specialist at a K-8 school in Media, PA. She loves teaching her students about all the great new young adult and children’s literature, in addition to all of her old favorites. She is a voracious reader and writes whenever she finds a spare moment.

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Istishhadiyah Stephanie Ciner (from Issue 3)

“Stay beside me, Asan,” the whisper came softly from behind her veil.

He took her hand, the gentle pressure urging her forward.

“Walk faster, Sadiya. I won’t leave you.”

Her husband’s stride lengthened and she hastened to keep up. Sweat beaded above her eyebrows but she had no desire to brush it away. Her abaya-clad body brushed hundreds of human forms in the marketplace.

Underneath the fabric, her skin tingled with each contact.

I possess one focus, one mission.

Despite her intentions, the everyday activities of the market engulfed her senses. She inhaled the sweet scent of fruit-ripened air as it mingled with the aroma of fresh-baked bread and fragrant spices. On every side swirled the vendors’ bright fabrics, their gold and silver bangles sparkled to attract shoppers passing by. Women chattered back and forth in Arabic or Farsi, enveloping each listener in a whirlwind of conversation. When Sadiya’s sandaled feet brushed the ground she felt a part of the earth itself, interwoven tightly with all that surrounded her. Every sensation was deep and concentrated, sparking with intensity.

How had she forgotten the incredible beauty of her city? Or what it felt like to be a part of a place so full of brilliance, a world pulsating with language and movement? Two boys, chasing each other through the dusty street, bumped up against her legs. A slight smile crossed her face at their antics. That surprised her. She hadn’t looked upon a child in a year without the familiar stab of grief.

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Today, though, she felt strangely peaceful. Alive.

She knew Asan was nervous. Tension radiated from his body like heat from the sun-blistered stones. He desired this honor for himself, but not in the same way she did.

She too shared his fury at the foreign occupation, loathed the razorwire fences and 12-foot concrete walls dividing up neighborhoods where they’d played as children. She felt his humiliation each time he was patted down and searched by an American soldier, forced to display his ID card at every checkpoint. Asan would easily give his life if it meant fewer soldiers in his country. Die for martyrdom, istishhad.

But for now she is the better choice, a female martyr. Istishhadiyah. And just as they anticipated, the checkpoint guards searched her husband but allowed Sadiya to pass through as though she was nothing more than a shadow at his side.

Her hand-made vest weighed upon her shoulders and torso, but she’d practiced wearing it the last several days. The steel balls clustered beneath her breasts, and beside them rested a C-4 plastic explosive.

The detonator was only inches from her hand.

None of those items felt foreign to her body anymore, no more heavy than what she carried since Jamail’s death. She’d been in the kitchen that last afternoon, baking his favorite date cookies so that they’d still be warm when he arrived home from school. Any minute, she expected his slim eight-year-old body to bound through the door, greeting her with a cheerful salaam omi and a kiss on the right hand. She began to worry when Jamail was late and wished that her husband or one of her brothers was there so that she could leave the house accompanied by a man. Instead, her older brother came through the door with Jamail’s body. The boy had been shot twice, in the mouth and in the chest. Stray bullets from a skirmish between troops and insurgents, her brother said.

Sadiya carried a worn photograph of Jamail in her abaya. She pulled it out and glanced down at his little-boy face. A serious smile, but his eyes were laughing. How absurd, she felt like laughing as well. She hadn’t done such a thing in months. But the sky gleamed bright and beautiful, the sun smiled its warmth into her eyes. She would see him again, and soon.

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Yes, her son died for nothing. But she would honor him, take herself to him. Her husband thought only of revenge, but she imagined reunion.

Meanwhile, the war continued.

Violence is the only language they speak.

But now she has learned their language. She will repeat it back to them in elegant fluency, with her own body—her self—as the message.

Just a moment longer, my child. Don’t be afraid. Today I will be with you in paradise.

Photo by Kelly Bachich

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Looking Back: March 2011 Danella Shallow “Before We Knew” (Issue 5) shows brief glimpses of a special relationship—the companionship of a best friend with the love only possible from a close family member. It evokes such clear images and feelings.

For some, it probably brings up memories of times with favorite cousins, siblings, or even old friends. However, all that seems overshadowed with the powerful ending. It speaks to so many of us whose lives have been affected by cancer. It captures a universal human feeling so well, creating such raw emotion.

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Before We Knew Katherine Pierpont (from Issue 5)

The way we laugh, the smell of our fingernails, the slight movement of the delicate v of collarbones right before we inhale.

Cousins. Learning what that word meant.

It was the happiest I had ever been, when I was four.

Our faces are painted in shades of pink and gray, symptoms of the exacting brush strokes of a purple lamp.

The light makes maps of the world in your hair.

Or at least as much of the world

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as can be seen through the pinhole of fifteen years.

You want cereal.

We stumble into the kitchen, like drunken deities, smothering our pious chuckles.

They seep into the walls, infecting the house. You snatch some Captain Crunch, tossing it up into the air.

It arcs down into your mouth.

Down towards pockets of flesh, stretching, crimson and swollen.

The tumors sit below the stomach like bed-ridden birthday cake.

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Photo by Autumn Brown

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Looking Back: January 2012 Meredith Gaetani (Madigosky) There were so many quality submissions by talented writers and poets during my tenure as Editor in Chief, but Dana Diehl’s “Skeleton Pieces” uniquely speaks to the reader, freeing itself from the page and taking form. She begins by telling a story—school children looking at various bones from small critters, told by their teacher to reconstruct the small animals. But how? At a micro level, these bones are different; she describes ribs and vertebrae and teeth, diverse shapes and angles, each belonging to its own species. On a macro level, these bones take on a life again, blending differences together to create a whole. “They can have order again,” Diehl states, and “they can stop being pieces / and become parts.” If anything, this poem still resonates with me, six years later, because it tells the story of a shared human experience in exactly that way—pieces becoming parts. Even Diehl’s line breaks lend themselves to this theme. Parts imply function; purpose. We are all just parts of a whole, “Frankenstein-monsters” blending together to create pockets of people, groups. Our bones, cartilage, teeth, are the same as every other humans’, yet uniquely our own. We are held together by our vulnerabilities, the “soft spaces,” yet strengthened by our “growth rings.” Diehl does a beautiful job of demonstrating this in her metaphor; a pile of animal bones jumbled together and recreated, hung on refrigerators or tossed away.

Meredith Gaetani (Madigosky) is a 2012 graduate of Widener University and a 2013 graduate of West Chester University’s Masters of English program, where she specialized in poetry. She returned to Widener to teach English as an adjunct after graduation for two years. Meredith currently works for Chubb, a global insurance company, as an adjuster. In her free time she enjoys reading (currently Truman Capote’s short stories), attempting to bake, and taking day trips with her husband, Nick.

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Skeleton Pieces Dana Diehl (from Issue 7)

We paste skeletons to note cards, mistaking bird ulnas for mouse femurs, connecting vole skulls to spines made of wings.

Put them back together, our teacher told us, handing us each a box of bones.

But stripped down to their cores, coracoids jumbled with ribs and vertebrae closing against teeth, what makes them different dissolves into what makes a cell a cell and how many seed-sized cervicals it takes to support a body.

We place the bones in lines like rows of piano keys with all the sharps and flats left out, because like this, they have order again.

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Like this, they can stop being pieces and become parts.

Every ten years you grow a new skeleton, our teacher said.

Your cells constantly renew, rebuild, replace.

And so when we take our skeletons home, Frankenstein-monsters with the hips of a mole, rib cages of a snake, and tape them to the spaces over our beds or to the fridge next to the coupon clippings or bury them in the compost heap where tomatoes and apple cores and peels also disassemble until they become something whole and together again, we run our hands over our own ribs our knuckles our jaws feeling for the soft spaces that hold us together feeling for growth rings feeling for all the hard parts.

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Photo by Autumn Brown

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Looking Back: January 2013 Jillian Benedict I felt “Kora, After Her Mother’s Diagnosis” was very powerful in its simplicity and the power of association. This poem focuses not on the speaker’s mental state after her mother’s diagnosis, as suggested by the title, nor does it focus on the absent grandmother’s role in the life of the speaker and her mother. Ultimately, the piece is about how in times of despair, people look to the past, dredging up meaningful moments as a source of comfort. The reader can deduct from the title that the action in the poem is a memory, which reminds the speaker to stay strong and remember those who have moved on. The poem is successful in part due to the purposeful nature of each line. The poet only provides details necessary to cultivate the tone and set the scene, avoiding heavy figurative language and statements of emotion. The short lines and frequent breaks divide the narrative of the poem nicely, often emphasizing some of the more meaningful lines like “Told me/’Go back to Africa’” and “Of course/I didn’t know.”

While everything in this poem is specific to the speaker, the simple details and lines allow the reader to reflect on and bring personal experiences to the poem and take from the poem whatever feelings the reader feels without worry of misunderstanding. This poem does not pressure the reader to understand some large truth, it just asks the reader to remember that the foundation of who we are starts with family.

Jillian Benedict currently works a Sales Administrative Analyst at Cigna in Philadelphia. She received her BA in English and creative writing from Widener University in 2014, and she was the Editor-in-Chief of The Blue Route for issues nine through twelve. In her spare time she enjoys running, yoga, and rock climbing.

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Kora, After Her Mother’s Diagnosis Rachel Ann Jones (from Issue 9)

Steve Johnson once asked me about my braids.

Told me, "Go back to Africa."

I gave Steve Johnson a black eye.

My mother, warm hands and soft skin, sat me between her legs and ran her fingers through each braid.

"Honey, you know what your Grandmother

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used to say?"

She'd tell me between shudders, heavy breaths.

Of course I didn't know.

I never met my Grandmother, only found my face in her pictures.

"No, Mama, what did she say?"

I ease my head against her knee, the only part that isn't soft.

"A woman's strength is not in her hair," she paused, pulling for air, "but in the roots

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she chooses to cultivate, to keep."

I nodded, felt tears, warm, falling against her legs. She fell asleep there, and I stayed with her, all night long.

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Looking Back: January 2014 Jillian Benedict “Culpable Spontaneous Expulsion” is not afraid to confront issues that many people are scared to confront in daily life and leans into the conflicting feelings and intricacies of marriage and pregnancy. Despite not being the most likable character for her resentment towards her husband, the protagonist is a sympathetic one. Violet’s self-worth has become so intertwined with her inability to have children, the last act that would confirm her identity as a woman. Violet feels dirty, as if she is “so black and acidic nothing could grow in her,” feelings which are reflected in the nature of her bath. She recounts all of the possible ways in which her uterus could have been contaminated in an effort to find an answer. Even though she knows logically that “sometimes there is just no one to blame,” she is culpable.

The vivid and disturbing visual details in this piece are powerful and purposeful, emphasizing the feelings Violet has towards her own body and her inability to see past her womanhood and identify herself as an individual. The repetition of images elicits a visceral response, particularly those that relate to both sight and smell like “rusty fish and meaty pig’s blood.” As the piece progresses and the images get more disturbing, it creates the appearance that Violet is spinning out of control in her own mind, unable to see the world around her. While there are aspects of this piece that are unsettling, I feel it is successful in what it is trying to accomplish.

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Culpable Spontaneous Explosion Regina McMenamin Lloyd (from Issue 11)

Violet stewed again in a tub of her own regret. The faucet dripped loud drumbeats of water into the gray water of the white tub. Violet knew. She suffered the familiar sadness. The dull and sharp pains were like a crescendo of orgasmic confusion. Love, lust, hate, death, sickness; all sometimes share the same instruments and quarter notes.

As the water clouded pink, Violet watched as big red blood clots formed into the shape of a fish. The congealed blood clot swam away from her. It must have been a baby, she thought. Just another quartersized clot of something organic that wouldn’t grow in her. The clots danced around the tub finding each other, like the way an eggshell will cling to its bits long after you crack it and beat the yolk.

This latest bit of nothing was made, like all of the recent bits, from the quick mechanical lovemaking Jack and she had been practicing. He came at her like a piece of rubbery fish flopping in the monger’s hand and she would let him. She liked to think of other things these days, as he pounded at flesh. She would think sometimes of her own childhood bedroom, imagining what it would be like to find the same animal covered lampshade. She would pay bills in her mind. Violet would not think of him, she would close her eyes and not smell him. She would not let her breasts feel the stubble of his shaved chest. She would not let herself enjoy his manicured fingers. She would replay the news; she would mentally make a list of things to do when they were done. When they were done she would lay in her bed thinking always I’m on the wet spot. Jack would pop up immediately and shower. He couldn’t get her off of him fast enough. She would roll over and begin stripping the bed.

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She was tart, like a lemon, so black and acidic nothing could grow in her. She was a desert, a wasteland: barren. She imagined her womb like sandpaper, razor sharp cervix, like a plastic bag too weak to hold a gallon of milk. A cancerous black dried out womb filled with jelled up Sambucca.

What had she done? Was it too many hot baths? Not enough fish? Was it too much red meat? Not enough red meat? Had she exercised too little, danced too hard? Was it that one glass of wine before she knew?

Were the prenatal vitamins not enough, had she missed one day? Was it because she and Jack had made love last week? Or was it because she had some unknown sick or hidden STD dwelling inside of her from too many, long ago one night stands? That one guy, what was his name? Joe, Jim something, he had a dried crusty patch of something, had it been something that might have soiled her womb? It had to be Omega Acids, it was always Omega Acids. Maybe it was that little slip on the wet bathroom floor, she was always telling Jack to towel up the floor after he showered.

She stuck her belly out as a little girl and imagined she would be pregnant some day. Someday, like a rainbow in a musical of inevitability, where princes come and people push babies in fancy prams. Violet had stared at female reproductive organs in the Encyclopedia Britannica with her sister and imagined herself, without her skin, in layers of sheer velum paper. Producing a baby seemed as easy as watching her turn the page. Velum paper, as thin as onion peel could hold the baby Britannica. Violet—the brute, strong as an ox, once captain of the girl’s field hockey team, couldn’t hold a baby.

Growing up, she felt sorry for women who couldn’t conceive a child.

She always believed she would produce beautiful blonde haired children. She always imagined herself pregnant, toting two or three towheaded children wearing coordinating Lands End cable knit sweaters on the beach. Jack was a pop out paper doll in her image of a perfect family. Jack fit into her picture with his blonde curly hair, and great bone structure; he even wore a cable knit sweater on their first date. Violet never bothered to make sure she loved him; she just let him fill the space in her picture frames.

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Now, she watched blobs of red and black circle around in the tub. She wouldn’t go to the doctor this time. It was all inconsequential, enough.

They endured all of the genetic counseling. No reason, try again in 3-6 months, give your body time to heal, grieve this loss. No, she wouldn’t sit through it all again.

Jack. She wouldn’t tell him, couldn’t tell him. He held her as she cried salty tears, too many times. He had looked pathetically sad. Jack needed to grieve. He’d wear blubbery mucus and pathetic tears on his face with eyes that said “I love you no matter what.” She hated that look. She hated it more than she hated the way he ate broccoli quickly with his front teeth; like he didn’t want her to see he didn’t like it. She hated it more than the way he clicked his tongue when she wore something revealing. She hated it more than the way he turned his head on a slant and said she looked fine when she needed to hear, “you look good.”

She hated it more than the look of frustration in his eyes when he tried to bring her pleasure and couldn’t. She hated him because he possessed all of these looks. She hated him because he could never just pick a place to go to for dinner. She hated him because he wouldn’t admit he was mad at her with her acidic womb. Jack would have written her love letters and painted her toenails again if she wouldn’t have locked him out. She hardened her spirit and it had calloused and crusted into a leathery Kevlar clamp. She wore her clamp like she once worn her heart, on her sleeve, and it became both her protection and her prison.

She knew he was a good man and her hate was her fault. She knew she was caustic.

She sat in the tub, unwilling to drain the gloppy bits of jelly that could have been a baby. Don’t come near me, she silently told the big bits of something organic that would never be a baby. Violet watched as the blobby fish shape shifted into a bird, bloodied and bruised and flying toward her. She knew this bird; it would fly into the glass of the window, time and time again. She pushed the water away- careful not to touch the congealed bird. The water rippled the feathery red wisps off the bird and it became a figure, a baby, crawling and clawing its way to the drain.

Maybe Jack would come in. He would see her. He would comfort her and she wouldn’t need to tell him. He would pull her up from the rusted water. He would pull the big white fluffy towel off the chrome

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bar. Jack would deal with the tub. Letting the red, blubbered, bits, of never-a-baby drain down the tub leaving a meaty fishy smell of something dead behind. He would get out the Lysol and light a candle.

The dead smell would disappear; there wouldn’t be a rusty cranberry stain. Violet could get back in the shower, she could scrub, shave and luffah. There would be no more fishy smell, no more raw steak and meaty bits of cotton candy pouring from her thighs. She would have cleaned every trace of the organic never-going-to-be-baby up.

Jack would have that look. That look would smell like rusty fish and meaty pig’s blood. She would see it, there like rotten germy botulism or salmonella on his face. She would hate him more for that look of shock, pity and disgust. He would pull out the big, yellow, rubber gloves and she would hate him even more. Because he made that bloodied blob of feathery red yolk but couldn’t get his hands dirty with it. He kept planting seeds in her black acidic lemon vodka womb, but he never got his hands dirty. She sat so many times with thighs quivering, shaky knees, and diuretic womb.

Jack never had to feel it alive and dead. He never was obligated to feel something flutter like confetti being thrown in his stomach. He never experienced unexplainable guilty tears when it just stopped fluttering without rhyme or reason. Never, would he feel how special it felt to have life like glitter in your gut or how truly hopeless it felt to watch it drain from you in big globs of crimson guilt. Jack never had to sit knowing he was at the very core a person squalid, dilapidated, barren, and toxic. He wouldn’t look down and see Chernobyl between his thighs. If she could unzip her skin, oozing melted black licorice, paint thinner, Chinese throwing stars and rusty nails would probably spill out.

She should call Jack in and let him take care of her. Instead, she sat in her tub, quiet, legs like frogs, in a tub that was quickly becoming crimson. Sometimes there is just no one to blame. She pulled her knees to her chest, laid her chin on her knees. It would be easier, you know, to have someone to blame, she thought. The tears dripped silently from her eyes, trailing to her knee and down her leg, and dried somewhere along the way.

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Art by Elena Bo4s

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Looking Back: Spring 2015 Emily DeFreitas There are many wonderful pieces in issues 13 and 14, but I remembered “I Confess to Enjoying the Shame of our Brother, Mr. Nip” in particular and was excited to read it again with fresh eyes.

The speaker’s reflection on a friend’s mischief shows growth through an understanding of the serious harm done. Yet the event itself is unexpected and has real humor to it. Readers may find themselves enjoying Mr. Nip’s shame too.

Emily DeFreitas was editor-in-chief of The Blue Route during the 2014-2015 school year, and graduated from Widener in 2015. She lives in central New Jersey, and works as general administration coordinator for NeoStrata Company, Inc, a Johnson & Johnson company. She recently married a fellow Widener alumnus, and continues to write in her spare time.

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I Confess to Enjoying the Shame of our Brother, Mr. Nip Zachary Weber (from Issue 14)

I watched Joseph sell catnip to some skater-boy freshman who asked for pot in between stutters.

And he smoked it.

I was seventeen and riding shotgun in the Honda Fit that scooped up this young client at the promised time, for a slow business-lap through the neighborhood, while children performed rain dances around lawn sprinklers and responsible adults melted slowly into the distance.

I still have trouble pinpointing what I enjoyed so much about this— it wasn’t his reflection wavering on Joseph’s aviator sunglasses, as he ad-libbed a salespitch for the master strain which was essentially a vial of dehydrated leaves and plantmatter from Petland, nor was it the steaming mound of stir-fry we ordered at Khan’s Mongolian Grill on 2nd and Nolana, as two

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Swiss Army Knives of hustling, now a whopping 40 dollars wealthier— and it certainly wasn’t the fact that our entire student body was consumed by the wildfire this story ignited— one that spread through the congested hallways like a fever between the outlines of teenage boys crippled with laughter as Joseph, now at the center of the universe, pointed the kid out and shouted ‘nip!’— a nickname that forced him to transfer to another school, one that foamed at the mouth to receive him, though some say he was lucky to be remembered at all.

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Art by Elena Bo4s

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Looking Back: Spring 2016 Sierra Offutt There is so much going on in this poem on the line level, such as the metaphorical comparison of the mother to the waterbed, and the through-line of physical therapy, but ultimately it is about the relationship between a mother and daughter. I love the back and forth of the daughter offering up her struggles and sadnesses, and the mother responding with compassion and perspective. In returning to the Issues from my time with The Blue Route, I remembered the last lines of this poem before I even opened it – “When I whisper Moth /she says Butterfly” – and to me, these two lines perfectly encompass the emotions of the poem.

Sierra Offutt is a Maryland-born writer currently residing in Louisiana, where she is pursuing her MFA in the Creative Writing Workshop at the University of New Orleans. She can usually be found writing, reading, or searching for her next adventure.

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Stability Through Motion Lauren Reagan (from Issue 15) The waterbed in my parents’ room is the most stable thing I know— every movement sends waves across the gray surface, an action spurring an equal reaction like Newton’s laws and the way my mother’s eyes send back answers in ripples, messages in bottles, love letters in response to the secrets I spill.

Physical therapists find stability through motion and patience; she puts on scrubs each morning to help patients learn how to use their bodies again, to understand the muscles and bones holding them together. In the evenings, I, too, earn stability through motion: we rock and talk and it’s always been this way; everyone tells me I look like my mother.

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I got her blue eyes and the dark circles under them, but also the chasing of light: I hand her my brokenness, and she answers God, cry for my brother and she says progress, tell her about picking up my drunk best friend at five in the morning, helping her up the stairs and tucking her into bed, how caterpillars work and work to earn their wings and die, on average, two weeks later.

She offers carpals and metacarpals, though her specialty is in shoulders and legs; she only studied a human heart in a jar for eight weeks in college, but she knows it well.

I don’t understand the chemical imbalance in my brother’s brain or how skin holds us together like fabric, how the waterbed never popped when I fell onto it over and over.

When I see only shadows, she guides me toward light, When I whisper Moth, she says Butterfly.

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Photo by Carlie Sisco

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Looking Back: December 2016 Emma Irving It rained in Chester the day after Trump got elected, which made it even harder to drag my bones from bed and attempt to get on with life. I did finally have to get up to go to a Blue Route meeting though, and that's when I first encountered "The Yellow Bucket." On a day when most of the world seemed to fall into a stunned, dreary silence, Christine's words on the anxieties of assimilation broke through vividly to me. The piece does not demand empathy, but as we look into the most vulnerable moments  of a girl's life, we are drawn to ache with someone else. The image of the yellow bucket has remained with me ever since and reminds me that such luminous stories always find a way to break through the grey.

Emma Irving is a senior English major interested in the stories women tell. She's had a wonderful time at Widener, gaining her certificate in textual scholarship, traveling to England to hold treasured Romantic works and hike with sheep, and editing The Blue Route during the 2016-17 school year. After graduation, she plans to travel and hike amongst other animals, and continue to amplify the voices of female artists.

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The Yellow Bucket Christine Nguyen (from Issue 17) When I was little, my broken Vietnamese was “cute.” Not anymore.

My grandparents say I am an apple that has fallen too far from the tree. They cry, what a pity I have sawed my roots off for the American dream. When I was five, we took a vacation to Vietnam and stayed in my grandma’s house of thirteen people and one toilet. The day I desperately needed its company was the day my dad decided to lock himself in the bitesized bathroom with three, thick books and no watch.

Forced to stand outside, I crossed my legs in confusion until my aunt took pity. She gave me a yellow bucket and a corner of the kitchen to do my duty in shame. In the midday humidity, I sat on my golden throne, a red-faced imp, and shook chunky fists and hissed hexes in Viet-glish at people who didn’t understand little girls had dignity, too. They thought my screeches were adorable, rất dễ thương, like a duckling that squawks in shallow waters because she cannot swim. Now that my skin

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has stretched to fit my twenty-year skeleton, my stuttering Vietnamese croaks glued together with English fillers are no longer “cute” — they are laughable. I don’t know when I consciously understood that Vietnamese is not my first language, even though I was born Ngọc-Anh before Christine ever opened her eyes. These days, I smile briskly and say little in Viet. I gossip in soft, southern flavors to cover my aunts’ and uncles’ accented drawls. I no longer tell my grandparents con không đói but rather I am not hungry.

And when I am told to greet the strangers visiting from Vietnam, with their haughty eyes and muffled smirks, I bow with American indignation, I snatch their tittering mouths, I toss them out into that backyard, into that murky trench where I had dumped the yellow bucket years before.

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Photo by Autumn Brown

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Looking Back: December 2017 Jennifer Rohrbach My two semesters as editor-in-chief have been incredibly rewarding. It was nearly impossible for me to choose one favorite piece from Issue 19, because the quality and diversity of work we received went above and beyond my expectations.

From a story of a boy suffering the loss of his twin brother to a poem about a mother learning to accept her queer child, Issue 19 was packed with meaningful, heart-wrenching work. But the poem "dear siri," has stuck with me since the moment I read it. There is no doubt that we are rapidly moving towards a technology-reliant society; in fact, we might already be there. Yet the speaker of this poem connects the apathetic, automated Siri to human nature in a way that strikes deep into my cynical, millennial heart. At once nostalgic for the past and yearning for future adventures, "dear siri," asks us to think about what home really is: If it is just a place, or something deeper, an integral part of ourselves. The Blue Route is run by, publishes, and has a main audience of undergraduate students. This is such a pivotal time in our lives where we are learning who we are and who we want to be. Yet who we were is also an important part of our story as it shapes who we become, and "dear siri," reminds us that wherever we end up, home is never far: "you tell me that home / has an ETA of twelve foot steps—/ eight breaths—& / an open window —"

Jennifer Rohrbach is a senior English and Creative Writing major at Widener University. After graduation she plans to attend Emerson College for her Masters in Publishing and Writing. In her free time, she enjoys writing, watching television, and posting pictures of her dog, Chocolate, on social media.

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dear siri, Robin Gow, Ursinus College (from Issue 19)

if i place my finger over top of a city a thousand miles away will you tell me how to walk there? we can flatten mountains with our thumbs—raise gas stations from the ground & eat apples in parking lots. we'll plant the seeds there between lamp posts. tell me how to come back siri—take me home the way we came so i can see a parking lot full of apple trees— catch golden delicious on the roof of my green Volvo with the squeaky breaks & a trunk full of places we only visit on google maps i’m in the process of becoming the creases of a map—

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a mystic snake crawls on its belly to bite the cities of our dreams— siri, can you tell me what the best way to walk across the ocean would be? i'm not going to paris but i might end up there— i just want to cross the Atlantic—the most direct route would be best— siri, when was the last time you watched the sun come up? do you keep track of all the perhaps places i've asked you to take me? is this intimate for you like it is for me? to know the blue lines i ask you to draw in the dirt—do you laugh when i miss my turn & keep driving? oh siri, let's be strip mall lovers—drink coffee from the back seat—let's

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just draw lines on top of lines & trace what a journey should look like— let’s take buses to the moon— or are you scared we won’t get 4G up there? to the bottom of the Mariana Trench then? or somewhere else impossible as us— you know i'm not leaving so tell me how to get there— you know i'm drowning in this room— in this stop light hymnal— oh siri do you know what i mean when i say i want to go home now—i want to go home— when the ocean is done being blue would you pick me up? drive the car for me—one hand on the steering wheel like my father—letting me lay down in the backseat—a little girl again whose father waits for her to be done with guitar lessons or brushes her hair after swim lessons—

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oh siri be my father for me—be my mother & show me where the nearest honeysuckle bush is—i'm thirty & my ankles are covered in snake bites from all the places i pretended to travel with you— oh siri oh siri— i know where we live on noble street— i know the flat of land where we used to have a house on main & the brick face of our old home on franklin you tell me that home has an ETA of twelve foot steps— eight breaths—& an open window—

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Photo by Autumn Brown

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Contributing Artists Kelly Bachich is a junior English major at Widener University. The majority of her photography comes from her travels and the impulse to capture that which can’t be put into words.

Autumn Brown is poet and a sophomore majoring in English at Widener University.

Her goal as an artist in any medium is to perfectly present the past. From a series of South Jersey suburbs, Autumn enjoys recording moments impressed into her own mind to share with others. She works across mediums to capture the hilarity of suffering in the first world, and internally.

Elena Botts has lived in the Hudson Valley, Johannesburg, Berlin, NYC, and the DC area. In the past few years, her poems have been published in dozens of literary magazines. She is the winner of four poetry contests, including Word Works Young Poets’. Her visual artwork has won numerous awards and has been exhibited in various galleries; occasionally there is also sound and moving image art. Check our her poetry books- a little luminescence through small press, AllbookBooks (2011) we'll beachcomb for their broken bones through Coffeetown Press (2015), the sadness of snow through Transcendent Zero Press (2017), and epochs of morning light with Mwanaka Media and Publishing, distributed by African Books Collective (2018) and poetry chapbook through Red Ochre Press (2013).

Remy Groh is a senior at Miami University (Oxford, OH) studying Art Education and Studio Art. Her studio concentration is in painting and she aspires to be an elementary or high school art teacher. She has studied abroad in Italy, was involved in her residence hall community, and is an active member of the National Art Education Association student chapter.

Gabby Rubino is currently a senior at High Point University, aspiring to attain a Bachelors Degree in Studio Art and a minor in Psychology. Her overall goal is to help others by using art as a therapy. She enjoys using all different mediums and exploring all variations of art, including film photography, sculpture, painting, drawing, and ceramics. She often finds her muse in intricate designs and abstract thoughts. Growing up in Connecticut made her realize she needed to explore her mind. Living on the beaches in Rhode Island during the summer has

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influenced her work to incorporate nature into her pieces. Since her recent move to Atlanta, her thinking continues to grow and be even more diverse. Gratefully, she was given the opportunity to do Semester at Sea where she traveled to 14 Countries in 104 Days, which expanded not only her knowledge mentally, but physically as well. Her Golden Retriever, Malibu, is her best friend and art assistant. She truly hopes to one day make a difference through the use of art.

Carly Sisco is a junior English and Creative Writing major at Widener University in Chester, Pennsylvania. She is blog manager and a staff reader for The Blue Route.

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Submission Guidelines Prose—Submit 1-3 pieces of fiction or creative nonfiction totaling no more than 3000 words.

Poetry—Submit up to 3 poems.

We want good, highly imaginative writing about contemporary life as you see it. We’re not interested in genre writing (romance, detective, horror, sci-fi) unless it somehow rises above the conventions associated with those types of writing. If your writing is clichéd, inspired by TV, emphasizes end rhyme above all else, has flat characters, exhibits a general insensitivity to the beauties and subtleties of language, it will not find a place in this journal. No pornography. No racism. No sexism. If you’ve got to use profanity, remember a little goes a long, long way.

We do not accept previously published work. However, we do accept simultaneous submissions, but please notify us immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere. Our response time is about three months.

IMPORTANT: Undergraduate Students: Only previously unpublished work of current undergraduate writers will be considered. In order to verify your status as an undergraduate, we ask that with your submission you send along the email of a faculty member from your department. Until we gain confirmation of undergraduate status from this reference, we will not be able to publish your work.

Frequency of Submission: If your work has been published in The Blue Route, we ask that you please wait at least one issue before submitting again.

Terms: We pay twenty-five dollars upon publication. We acquire First North American Serial Rights, a one time, non-exclusive use of Electronic Rights, with all rights reverting to the author upon publication. We will archive your work online. If your piece is later published elsewhere, we expect that you will mention The Blue Route as the original publisher.

Formatting: We ask that you put no identifying marks on your submission. Instead, in your submission email, we would like the following information provided: Name (First and Last) Title of Submission(s) Name and Email of Faculty Contact for Enrollment Verification A Brief Biography (No more than 100 words and written in the third person.)

For submissions: Please write “Poetry–Your Name” or “Fiction–Your Name” or “Nonfiction–Your Name” in the heading of the email. Send your work in an attachment in .doc or .docx format. Submissions that do not follow these simple directions may be deleted. Send all poetry or prose submissions to wutheblueroute@gmail.com.

Issue 20 Special Double Issue featuring undergraduate writers from Central Michigan University Franklin & Marshall College John Carroll University Swarthmore College University of North Carolina, Wilmington Ursinus College Vassar College

PLUS Interview with author Catherine Zobal Dent A 10 year retrospective: Former editors pick their favorites from past issues.