"Chaos" - Ellipsis 2020-2021

Sketch by Dr. Bob Jantzen Professor of Mathematics and Statistics

Front Cover Art: “Defective Identity” by Gabriel Garcia Back Cover Art: “Take a Walk” by Emma Burns

2020 - 2021 Ellipsis Staff President & Editor-in-Chief Tia Parisi

Vice President Sylvia Aalund

Art Director

Alexandra Penzi

Co-Editors Nikki Amoachi Jackie Molan Erica Marciante Isabella Riitano Catherine Messier Megan Rigione Mikyla Lemole Milagros Capcha Sanskar Agrawal Taleen Postian Valeria Torres Cece Schuller Emma Burns Arielle “Lu” Nogueira Sneha Beri Frankie Frabizzio Lexi Norcross

Faculty Advisor Kathryn Szumanski

English Department Heather Hicks Michael Malloy

Graphic Services John Gebhart Joseph O’Pella Barbara Joyce

A Letter (or Text) From the Editor

Again

Maeve Schumacher

Subtle sun slants through the curtains Good morning, quiet world Too soon, Your soft presence Plaguing my first moments Again, again.

It lingers.

The whisper of you - no Sooner than it unfurls, it fades.

Again.

Chapter 1:

Growth

“Change is Growth” Lexi Norcross

On Growth Arielle “Lu” Nogueira

When I wake up every morning, rooting my feet into the cold ground beside my bed, my eyes catch on the silhouette of my plants in the morning sun, cast on my bedroom curtains. I’m reminded every time I see their cascading leaves, those that have grown by almost double since I got them, that my own hands have cultivated such growth.

The thing I love about raising plants is that their growth is tangible, visible. It’s unarguable. You can see it in the way their stems rise towards the sky, standing tall and widening, reaching wide leaves in a morning stretch, and filling the space around them. I feel a sense of pride when I compare this state to the condition in which I received them.

I wish that human growth was this tangible. We can mark our heights against the wall of a doorway, we can step onto our doctor’s scale, or wheel our shopping cart past the girls’ section to juniors’ and eventually women’s. We can graduate from brushing asphalt from skinned knees to leaving tire marks on highways, from crayons to graphite to computer ink on paper, high fives to firm handshakes. We move from bunks to dorm beds to one-bedroom apartments, from hopping onto the school bus at 8 am to rolling out of bed to the smell of coffee and our looming 9 to 5’s, with deadlines and bills slowly creeping down the hallway toward us, but no matter how ‘adult’ we get, no matter how much distance we put between our childhood and our present, we’ll always find ourselves reaching for the phone to ask mom how much salt to put in pasta water, to ask dad what that weird symbol on our dashboard means, and no matter how long our wingspan gets or how much space we take up, it will always feel good to have a hand on your back, to fall into the arms that raised you, to forfeit control and regress to a time where the biggest question facing us was when we would be allowed to play outside again.

Every few days, I water my plants and test with my fingers how each leaf has filled out, and marvel at the growth, but wonder if I’ve made this much progress. I wonder, if I were to spend as much time caring for myself, the way that I spend time checking each leaf for discoloration, feeling the soil for moisture, researching the amount of light each individual one thrives in, I wonder if I might see the same level of growth in myself. I wonder if I might root down into the ground, sure of myself, comfortable in where I am, reaching my arms toward the sky standing tall and confident, reaching far out into the morning air, filling the space around me. I want to feel the same sense of pride when I compare my current state to that of my past. I want to be able to see this growth, unarguably clear, when I look in the mirror.

But I remind myself that I didn’t see the leaves expand day by day, It is only when I look back on pictures from months ago that I realize how far they’ve come, the same way that you can’t see your hair or nails growing until you compare it to weeks back, the same way that you don’t know you’re getting taller until you no longer have to stand on your tippy-toes to reach that high-up shelf.

So I remind myself, growth, healing, these are not linear processes. Leaves need to wilt and fall in order for the stem to reach the sky. And in this way, I know that, while I might not be able to see my growth on a daily basis, one day I’ll look back on the way that I feel now, today, and wonder, why I was ever worried.

“Happy Flowers” Paige Hanley

When Nature Is Home Lindsay Gallagher

Today’s flavor of summer reminds me Of childhood, running, falling down Hills of clover and pennywort, Mom calls me in, and I Run to her, gasping for Breath with kelly-stained palms, Pink, shiny cheeks. It’s Time to go, can I Sleep over? Not today. I’m not Looking at her, I’m looking Over her shoulder studying a Squirrel scaling a baby maple, Rivet to branch, oh mom, look At his tiny, tiny hands.

Never have I seen a sky So blue, air littered with Dragonflies, pollen in flight, yellow Moths soaring from goldenrod to Walnut tree. If I could, I would Fold this day’s moist grass and Hissing leaves, soft sun peeking Between the trees, wrap up it all Just for me to Return and fall into when the Days grow cold and lonely. I’ll Let this memory usurp my Mind like a tornado, unfold, Close my eyes, and let go.

“Grapes & Raisins” Paige Hanley

Design a Reality Worth Building Lexi Norcross

The ocean wanted To bask in the dry sun And lay with the tickle of grass; But all the ocean bore was The intense undertow and The sensation of drowning.

The land wanted To drift alongside the waves and Glide with the calm current; But all the land bore was The rigid rock and The heavy weight of gravity.

In the company of others Our minds wander To distant places and times.

In solidarity Our minds wander To faraway people.

We are unable To be right here In present time As though our reality Is painted in black and white And our thoughts Are coated in technicolor.

There will never be a tectonic shift large enough To give way to our ceaseless yearnings.

We must learn to live a life where The harsh waves make us grateful To know how to swim, The intimidating mountains motivate us To run faster, And every set back teaches us To design a reality worth building.

“Midnight at the Pier” Nikki Amoachi

The Flooding of the Bog Garden Alexandra Penzi

The bog garden, flooded by a heavy storm and pooling in the downpour, has never before lived up to its name the way it does now. Each garden circle has transformed into a small lake from which green plant pipes reach out, grasping for bugs seeking shelter and filling their flutes with the champagne of the sky. Finned and froglike, the pitcher plants seem dredged from depths of an alien swamp.

Of all the eclectics to be found in nature’s abstract jewelry box, these clusters of amphibious flutes come from one of her most striking collections. Green, yellow, red, and white, with dark red veins like nets woven of lightning, akin to the electric branching of the raging heavens above. So fleshlike, one cannot help but wonder if the plant would bleed red animal blood.

More animalistic than vegetal; if ever a doubt about that existed, the argument would fall away and die at the sight of them now: alive and fierce and dangerous in their dripping stillness, the way a predator becomes motionless seconds before it lunges to make a kill.

That thin webbed lid – more fin than leaf - hovers ajar atop anticipatory open mouths of the eyeless predators. They sit smug and feign innocence.

Within the belly of one plant, the silhouette of a bug struggles to climb away from its doom, the cold gray storm light from the deluge above illuminating its hopeless endeavor.

Needle-thin shadows tick frantically, a fruitless scramble in the throat of the plant. The bee is caught.

“Untitled” Paige Hanley

The Flooding of the Bog Garden II: After the Storm Come nightfall all lies quiet, lacquered in a thick skin of aggregate rainwater. The lushness of life is vibrant despite its sudden stillness; circles of miniature jungle serve as foils against the bleak cold slate of sky above. Piscine vegetation thrive in their aquatic habitat and echo the previous life of this land.

The undersong to the wildness of this place is something reverential. It becomes a watery hymn to whatever strange alien world its inhabitants hail from, and in the reverberation of its profound silence, the echoing stillness evokes something akin to the passing of the Great Flood of Genesis.

The pitcher plants, veined in their webbings like crackled lace, sit still. In this Atlantian kingdom their silent ballad is almost that of a siren’s, and it is all too easy to imagine needle teeth spiraling up the hollow interiors of each tube, their silent pheromone songs luring sailors of the winds to an unknowing demise.

Fat straggling beads of residual rain break inertia for their gravitational voyage; they drip down plant bodies like tears, bending moonlight into rippling molten ribbons of white paint. They slowly meld into the earth like ghosts returning to their graves.

Soon, the few lingering clouds depart, and the pitcher plants begin to pulsate with starlight. Under their hoods, liquid mirrors dance with silver reflections of the moon as if their water has transformed into mercury. As each lantern body is gilded into a pipe full of dreams under the glow of the heavens, they whisper of stars living and dying in galaxies beyond.

“Split” Emma Burns

My iPhone’s Ode to Me Tia Parisi

⁉

💡

You touch me and I LIGHT UP God, where have you been We have quotas to meet, honey You lost us valuable hours of screen time And we have some catching. up. to. do.

Open Snapchat.

I want you to see your reflection in me I want you to get arthritis from holding me Spend your days and nights glued to me USE ME, I say Let me validate your beauty You’re pretty You are SO pretty Now let me show you how to be prettier.

Let me show you girls who are prettier.

Let me give you a reason to blame yourself for not being prettier.

These girls use their iPhones more than you do They listen 🏻 to me more than you do.

🏙

🌆

‼‼

👂

🍝

When I tell them to eat this: These Instagram zucchini noodles These ~4 INGREDIENT~ instagram zucchini Your stomach should be no bigger than a

🍝noodles!!!

Tupperware container The calories you burn meal prepping Should breakeven with the fruits of your labor.

I tell them what to eat and they listen 🏻

👂

When I tell them to drink this: This kale spinach avocado smoothie This GREEN GIANT CUM This apple-cider-vinegar-esophageal-drain-cleaner They ask for a metal straw.

🍎

When I tell them: To make a Pinterest board of all the things they HATE about their lives, A collage of all the places they’d rather be than their middle-class-split-level-white-walled(and not in the aesthetic way)-house, They erect the foundation like they have nothing left to stand on And pin christmas lights to the studs so no one will notice.

I created a new album for you!

It’s called All The Fall Trends I’d Rather Wear Than My Own Skin Consult it every morning I’ve organized it by color, see Whitewhitewhite You white girl You basic white bitch This is your look book Do not stray from your look book

⁉

📖

📖

When I tell them: Open Instagram They part their lips , but do not speak They open their eyes , then squint They look prettier when we see less of them Face West, see the sun? As it sets?

Your favorite time of day should be when the sun

👀

👄👁

I want to see you

👀

shrink.

☀

Let golden hour erase you, I say, Tilt your chin to the sun and melt.

☀ ⏬sinks ⏬

🙂

And then I tell them: Make sure to smile The boys next door are watching The girls on their iPhones are watching Thousands of strangers who have emotionally invested in your synthetic stock market Are tattooing your social resume with red pen lines.

💸

👀 👀

💸

🙂 🙂 👂

When I say SMILE They smile They whiten their teeth before I even have to ask I am grateful for those girls, Who listen 🏻 Who respect me And all that I can give them.

My algorithm was not built for girls like YOU Who smile

🙂all. on. their. own.

“Untitled” Jackie Carroll

i, Phone

Franki Rudnesky MA in English Student

there is a girl who uses her phone to wake up in the morning set her alarm then occasionally wake up 5 precious minutes before it was supposed to go off and groan into her pillow the default alarm was so shrill, so unpleasant years ago she chose her favorite song as an alarm at first it made her happy to wake up to (“let’s have another toast to the girl almighty!”) but then she began flinching if she heard it throughout the day so she changed her alarm back to default but that’s not all; she uses her phone to text her friends (she just received a picture of her childhood friend’s engagement ring) and facetime her dogs (they never look at the screen but they do wag their tails and search for her when they hear her voice) and check the weather (she keeps all the cities she’s been to in her weather app … sometimes she looks longingly at the weather in Rome) and send emails to her boss (she never knows how many exclamation points is too many) and call a ride home when she had too much to drink (or call a ride to an ex’s apartment when he wants to hook up at 2 am, and she went even though her friends told her not to. it’s true love, she said very seriously. it wasn’t, though, in fact he made her leave at 8 am the next morning and she had nowhere to go and her friends weren’t awake yet) and take photos (she loves capturing flowers and sunsets and bugs, but her storage is always full so she hasn’t really been into photography lately) and listen to music (one of her main personality traits is being a harry styles fan) and and and well, she thinks she is using her phone but her phone uses her. her phone tells her when to wake up and keeps track of her location and listens to her talk so it can inform companies what she might want to buy and through a text message it told her that her friend passed away and the phone itself dies when she needs it most and when

new models come out her phone and her brain start to glitch because her phone contains things that her brain fails to recall like passwords listed in her notes app and her SSN saved as a screenshot and drunk videos full of laughter and friends who are no longer here and her cousin’s French phone number when she’s living just outside of Paris for part of the year with her fiancé and and and so she really can’t walk around without her phone working properly it’s an extension of her brain, or another brain altogether with its own mind is it time to buy a new one and what should she do with the old one? toss it? more plastic in a landfill donate it? someone else walking around with her brain, reset/wiped clean feels a little personal one time late at night after many drinks she got a text message he said he wasn’t coming again so she threw her phone only meaning for it to slam against her cushioned headboard that would have been enough but it snagged on a corner of her bed and crashed into her windowsill, then her wall, before landing on the carpet with a thud she stood there gaping

“Airport Air” Jackie Carroll

shaking alone in her bedroom but feeling paralyzed by the eyes of everyone in her life

“Ode to Years to Come” Jackie Carroll & Mads Scolio

by then the screen had become a mosaic of plastic and glass maybe it was beautiful but it was definitely broken angry at the disinterest, at the lack of time made for her, at being made to feel crazy for wanting more from the person who claimed to love her she could get hundreds of likes on an Instagram post but she just wanted one hour with her boyfriend you’re asking for too much and idk if I can ever make u happy mad at the message so she shot the messenger? shot herself really a lovers’ quarrel, ended in violence she continued to use it scraping her fingers through broken glass she cried because why did she take her anger out on her phone? threw it so hard it was bent the dude at the apple store, the “genius bar,” didn’t believe her when she lied and said she dropped it on the curb yeah, no shit, genius she made up a whole story, pictured it in her mind so clearly it felt real she was walking down the sidewalk at night heading home from a party, maybe a little tipsy, nothing too crazy! she tripped and her phone went flying, right onto the curb! oops! this was the story she was sticking with because her mom was with her at the apple store and what would her mom think if she knew of her drunken act of rage? the genius turned it to the side, showed them the unnatural curve that doesn’t happen just from dropping it

she has a family friend who’s in his twenties just like her they grew up together, playing outside til the sun set or making up games in the basement while their parents drank together and laughed loudly upstairs they grew apart as they got older nowadays, he has no social media presence at all ha, it’s like he doesn’t even exist! she says this and laughs there’s a pang of guilt a moment of wondering would it really be so bad for people not to know what she’s wearing that day or which friends she’s hanging out with or what her relationship status is or whether she got a new job? when her phone is dead or malfunctioning or missing her stomach drops her heart beats a little faster she becomes hyper aware of everything around her but she can’t focus on anything – her mom gets worried if she doesn’t text her every few hours – except the tingle she feels in the palm of her hand something’s not right she keeps itching to unlock her screen and check for notifications before she remembers “Supreme x Dali” a phantom pain

Alice Ke

“2021 Self Portrait” Charlotte Roberts

“Portrait #1” Madeline Scolio

Ode to My Abdomen Sydney Porter

ode to my abdomen folding, bunching, bending rolling hills, caves, and valleys a milky, fleshy savanna of skin ode to my abdomen stone wall barricading my organs soft sofa seat cushioning churning gears fierce fluffy dog stands guard of the miracle machine within ode to my abdomen i take both of my hands and squeeze at you wishing that i could rip out handfuls pull it out, push it down, destroy it i crunch, ab-rip, fat burn, shred ode to my abdomen only loved in the dark in the morning skinny in the 16 hours since i last fed you in the i see stars when i stand up

ode to my abdomen who i stuff into high waisted jeans who i berate in the mirror who i hide beneath sweatshirts who i dread to expose to even the people i love ode to my abdomen mine. not my friend, sister, stranger, lab partner’s any ode to their abdomen would scrawl seven pages long beautiful abdomen curvy cute cushiony abdomen every part of you is beautiful abdomen how dare you talk about yourself like that abdomen maybe if i didn’t spend so much time scooping out my insides shoving in self hatred comparison guilt i could love you abdomen

Rule of The Father Megan Rigione

a tasteful smear of rouge a delicate smudge of mascara a smile of complaisant agreement Slut.

Opinionated, obnoxious, outcast. clothe those who speak who standup who scrutinize Whore. “you’re making me uncomfortable” Disgusting. unshaven legs unkempt hair un-shapen breasts asking for it.

“I just don’t understand why girls dress that way!” even with shaven legs straightened hair suffocated shapes fat

ugly

still asking for it.

“I used to like her, but then she cut her hair short” she cries herself to sleep cursing herself you dumb BITCH

for her rash decision to try something new you’re too emotional

there’s something wrong with you without asking him he is gone. this is the way things have been. how they always will be. the sovereignty of anatomy cannot be denied

innate prohibition of equality

enclosure is natural. so we go on, enclosed. smiling subjecting submitting ourselves to the Rule of the Father.

“Overstimulated” Charlotte Roberts

You Were Right. A New Guy Is Just What I Needed.

Isobel McCreavy

It strikes me, as the edge of my glass does his, that when he buries his hands in my skin they won’t become your hands and I almost leave, but the clatter of my ice cubes reminds me I’ve finished my drink, so I buy another.

Blurred together, his eyes look like yours and already that’s an improvement from the one before who wore your cologne – or maybe he didn’t – that last call sounds familiar, though so it’s bottoms up again and my place or yours?

Mine then, since you are no longer an option and he seems to feel that too.

Even now, his mouth sour against mine like the whiskey left at the bar – don’t worry I’ve got more at home – he knows he’s not you but he’d like to be because he wants to be slinking out before morning.

Oh, right now?

I’ve got work in the morning, too, and there’s always another part of you sitting at the bar.

I sleep better alone anyway.

You taught me that.

“Portrait in Color” Tia Parisi

The

QOL Project Grant Carter The QOL Project was founded in 2018 as a new platform for sharing the stories and insights of students, both at Villanova and elsewhere. It has evolved to cover a number of topics, from mental health to immigration/international perspectives, and everyday thoughts. Although COVID-19 challenged the way stories are typically compiled and published, it also presented a great opportunity to get students’ thoughts on new extraordinary circumstances.

Art by Ryan Weicht

Lexi Norcross

“Not all your thoughts are true.

This is my most frequently played mental mantra. While it’s true that we experience each of our thoughts, they don’t always represent what’s actually true about the world.

Most of the time, our thoughts are just a story we tell ourselves to make sense of the world based on our personal interpretation, not a universal truth about reality. But when we hold onto our thoughts as if they are the utmost truth, unpleasant feelings, internal conflicts, and obstruction of personal growth are sure to follow...”

“They always say to live everyday like it’s your last. I think we’ve all gotten a small taste of what that would be like.

The worst part of this whole situation is that this feeling of mass uncertainty is a first for so many. In recent memory, this is the worst thing we’ve had to live through as a country before this virus was 9/11, and my generation was too young to even feel the effects of that.

So this is all basically new altogether, just as we are becoming functioning, participatory members of society – with employment, loans, housing, etc. This shutdown isn’t affecting us like we’re kids anymore – it’s not like a snow day or some time away from friends. We’re at the mercy of these huge forces, so it’s hard to feel in control...”

Maanav Patel

Nicole Conte

“In my house, we have a common rule that we all watch the news once a day. I never watch for longer than an hour, but I rarely watch for less than at least 15 minutes. I’ve realized that ignoring this problem is not going to help anything. In fact, not listening to the cries for help and solidarity is really nothing but selfish. Still, there is even a balance to be found in that. You can only do so much to yourself, and if you let too much news in right now, you are going to break down, I can speak from experience. No one can afford that right now.

This time has been so hard for so many reasons. For me, the hardest part has been wrapping my head around the idea that I cannot do anything to help. I’ve had a hard time convincing myself that just staying home really is the best I can do right now. It’s almost too abstract. Surely I am not the only person who has struggled with realising this, either. .We need to tune in and listen. We need to remain calm. We need to panic. We need to maintain normalcy. We need to change how we live. It’s contradictory, but it’s all true. It’s all overwhelming. We can do it, but not through ignorance. We just need to remember the rules we set for ourselves.

One hour, no more and no less.”

“Betsey” Charlotte Roberts

My Mailbox Maeve Schumacher

Perched on my porch, like my mailbox sitting empty—I’m missing someone I don’t know.

Little red flag cranes its neck, hoping you’ll see; but that’s not what you need.

Instead: rain, sunlight, rooted soil, slow days and patient ways. To grow.

Rich emerald leaves twirl and tangle as they climb the mailbox post.

But the little red flag, stubborn and set, turns its head expectantly.

That’s not what you need, I know; but sunny summer days slip by slow And I sit—like my mailbox—waiting, hoping, empty.

Wait.

Caleb Magoola

If not for rationality I’d wait For the skin to drip off my bones For my soul’s skeletal prison to return to dust For my corpse to join the garden of the dead If not for hopelessness I may wait until the sun kisses the shadows For the moon to rise from the west I may wait for my blood to water the crying stones And become one with history forgotten If not for hesitation I’d fear only how powerful my love might grow How dangerous are the temptations of the blind man A vision of impossible ecstasy If not for life I’d fall in love And wait for the falling to stop Until death loves me more

“Jackie” Charlotte Roberts

Self-Portrait Isabella McIlvaine

A cloud of heavy breath laden with the stench of black coffee flits over supple, scabbed lips.

Tangled throughout brassy waves of brittle hair, the dull smoke from someone else’s cigarettes still lingers.

Abandoned ashes sit, smudged underneath a smoldering gaze darkened by a harsh brow permanently furrowed in thought, and a taut jaw clenched, always, in anticipation of something.

An eternal tension trapped within a stocky frame, hunched shoulders fuse into a curved back, a crushed waist into hulking hips that hold together lumbering, little limbs, always sifting, dragging jagged nails across a desert of fair, arid skin, like aimless wanderers sorting through the sands, admiring every sudden fissure scarred into the earth, gawking at the grand scene captured atop the plateaus of moles erupting haphazardly from the terrain, hard and scratched: a land that carries the signatures of a thousand different eras.

“Max in the Mirror” Betsey Carroll

The Women That Keep Me Strong Carrie Sweeney

To My Grandmother (Yesterday)

To My Young Sister (Today)

Her love encircles every soul she greets, You’ll see it in her sea blue eyes - just there!

Embracing every course, each heart that beats, The meek and burdened haloed in her care.

She folds her hands and bows her head to pray, Though thanking more than asking in return.

She smiles and hugs and blooms despite decay, And tries to wipe away our deep concern.

My Mummum gives in full and loves in truth, Her zest for life aflame, my heart in embers.

Reminding me to celebrate my youth, Her “Velcro Child” grew up, but still remembers To let her love pour forth through love in me, Alive in what I am and who I’ll be.

To beauty, grace, and truth personified: Dear Sarah, through your eyes, the world’s made lighter.

For every childhood pleasure I’ve denied Myself, you give it back to me, yet brighter.

You’ve yet to greet the sorrows of today, And colors flood your mind as you unveil The soul that rises through your simple play.

The parts of you that still speak fairytale Remind us grown ups all to grow back down.

You fill our arms with toys and lives with wit And transform every verb into a noun.

Though in my mind, the dunes seem desolate, It’s only through your eyes I understand Just how to fashion castles out of sand.

“Unreliable” Charlotte Roberts

Just Words (Alternate Names) Carrie Sweeney Drenched in our ignorance, dripping with youth, Our interim safety: eternal untruth.

We dodged high school drama and seated ourselves With journals and lattes, notebooks, bookshelves.

We built worlds of wonder in bubbles of green; You wrote and I read, we turned seventeen.

Though petty pursuit we held at great length, The darkness stretched out to its tensile strength.

You called me by “Care,” and named me my gift: Relentless support for a mind far adrift.

Then “Care” became “carry” and “help” became “save,” Your flaws I took fault for, the hurt I forgave, Your weakness I buried and dubbed my demise, At war with the version of me in your eyes.

That [love] [for my love] was a burning, a cyst, Our words were “I love you”s, but yours had a twist.

The moment I handed myself to the flames, Your words then presented their (alternate names):

“I love how you love” (but you love me too much) “Your words are my healer” (but moreso, your touch) “Your mind’s full of beauty” (but your body holds more) “I’ll always be there” (but, in truth, it’s a chore) “No, I love when you talk” (but I hate when you sing) “You’re an angel to me” (but I’m clipping your wings).

The way to your growing kept making me small, Your language of love wasn’t true love at all.

So I’ll carry our scrapbook, but toss out the cage Erasing stray marks, dog-earing the page, Commending deep strength and the scars on my soul, With pride for conviction, but newpledged control.

Those stories are slowly reclaiming their stars, The new narrative’s mine, and what’s mine is not “ours.”

Chapter 3:

The Human Experience

To Be 20 in 2020 Maeve Schumacher

When I’m 20 in 2020, I fill a weird and awkward space.

“I feel for you” “I understand” “It’d be so hard to be young right now” But everyone can recognize I don’t know where I’m going or how.

So I scowl.

What else am I supposed to do?

I’ll just keep trudging through Because I’m 20 in 2020.

When I’m 20 in 2020, everyone’s losing the race.

“Best years of your life” “Wish I could go back” “You’re going to have so much fun!”

Interviews, internships, too-early intentions. My own expectations. I’m numb.

So I go on a run.

What else am I supposed to do?

Need to get out of my own head, too Because I’m 20 in 2020.

When I’m 20 in 2020, I’m pushed to patience by life’s pace.

World falling apart. Building, breaking, beautiful coming together.

A paradox—long days, short months—and I reminisce on better.

So I sit outside. Enjoy the weather.

What else am I supposed to do?

No one has a clue Because I’m 20 in 2020.

When I’m 20 in 2020, it’s in the subtle I find grace.

Old friends around, I’m down, I’m sound, I might be kind-of okay.

A blessing here—more than you’d think— and I get through the day.

So I pray.

What else am I supposed to do?

Lean into what’s true Because I’m 20 in 2020.

Previous Page: “EXPERIENCE (2020)” Betsey Carroll

“Readings (2020)” Betsey Carroll

Taleen Postian If two Armenians find each other in the world, see if they will not create a new Armenia, Saroyan promised. But what happens when you open your mouth and ‘odar’ comes out? What do we do when we are mute to each other because I cannot speak the tongue I was born with? What happens when I am stuck hearing the most familiar and achingly foreign sounds I know? My mother and mother tongue in another room, separated by a wall and a cavern where it should be/Where it could be if I just tried hard to know something that was engraved on my heart and skin but not my left hemisphere. Thank you to the western hemisphere for stripping me and mine of what’s rightfully ours. Thank you for stripping my left hemisphere from functioning as my mother’s does.

Years and years in the basement of a church chanting and reciting recitals to distract me from what it lacked. We are a lost generation, Hayeren lost to my generation.

Thank you, America for saving my life and taking my language. Yes Hay Yem. I will keep beating back the loss but it’s hard, my daddy failing, and I fear so will I. My family a melting, sweltering pot. Funny how my flavor was dampened and evaporated to steam, drifting up and out of my head, unlike the words that stick to this page. I bleed garmeer, gabooit, narenjaquooin, and yet it won’t spill out my mouth on a whim.

A small girl, just first learning and leaping, but when she stood back to take it in, they thought she was falling. But she wasn’t, she was just unsure, yet, of where she was. That scared them and they wanted to help. But they sought the answers from someone unaccustomed and the answer they gifted drifted the girl towards the land of the assimilated.

Eem anooneh Taleen yev yes hay em.

= I am Armenian, but I do not have Armenian.

“Chilenos Anti-Yuta” “Street Journalist” Theodore Hovivian

Watershed Pictures is a student-run production company that stems from the social justice documentary program at Villanova University, lead by professor and professional producer Hezekiah Lewis. This year’s team is dedicated to telling the story of three Native American women who seek to reclaim, own, and sustain their culture during their lives, with an emphasis during the pandemic.

The times in which we live are a watershed. Streams as powerful as calls for justice and as persistent as the hope for a better world flow into the common river through which we all float. In 2020, people from all walks of life have come together to change our world, uniting as a mighty current against the injustices that stand in the way of progress and equity.

Watershed Pictures recognizes our time as a watershed moment. This is a point of no return, a divide in history after which the status quo will never be the same. This is a moment to embrace and to inspire us to join as makers of change. We aim to create our own watershed moment through the medium of film. Our documentary will highlight the stories of those whose voices are too seldom heard—amplifying their calls so they may no longer be ignored.

Megan Amico, Kathleen Connor, Theodore Hovivian, Michaela Scott

How Do I Become?

Gwen Downson

I didn’t feel the plagues of the world until they lodged into my psych I didn’t know the depths of despair until I was faced with human reality There is a shield of privilege that gleams white against my skin For so long this system hid the sins of my ancestors The schools preached lies and gave us a false education The books so soaked in bleach It led to A national system of indoctrination This generation has been given a dumpster fire Disease flaming red through the forests Everyday the earth tells us in another way that she’s dying A pandemic does not come out of nowhere And It needs people to fuel its destruction Have we been plagued since the conception of difference?

Why are you indifferent to suffrage and pain?

Greed greed is what the white breed has fed upon for centuries They hid secrets of genocide celebrated rapists and did nothing to protect the children They craved salvation - were so hungry for forgiveness But never knew the true essence of god I cannot get past that evil in man Truly, where is the love But in this year, in this moment A feel a passion - I feel a drive There is change in the air We cannot let history continue to repeat itself again, and again, and again Is this a moment of awakening?

Or are we veering on the path of disaster I find myself asking, has it always been about the land?

When did they stop seeing the world as living?

And why did they all go blind?

I heard it was evil who cast a spell upon the people You could call it a plague upon humanity I guess they saw that there was so much to take - and There was an urge spurred from the feeling of power The dynamic of an animal mind What is innate human behavior?

I was born into a fabrication of one sided history

But when did they start to crave money and power But Where are my true origins What beats through my warm blood?

Who is looking through my eyes?

Before there was man - there was water and land Before there was thought - there was wind and fire, and they sang together Mighty they were they danced until they birthed a new awareness A true gift from the gods

God bless the unknown for always making me question My life - myself - my being - my beliefs I will not be held down by your mental encagement

My mind wanders into the cosmos searching for meaning From that perspective, we’re a meer grain of sand And will I ever understand? - how I came to be breathing

For I am not me, I am moment I see the peace and beauty that rests in our souls And I feel the power of my own heart I know love is my strongest emotion And I think that’s where we need to start Our intelligence is a doubled egged sword There is no knowing without the unknown No light if there is no dark

But who am I? I am a figment of my own imagination I am a single song of expression Simply composed to ponder the feeling of being something And isn’t that the answer We’re all chasing after The question of - why we are here

Cinematography & Editing by Corbin Meier, Sofia Bottini, Hezekiah Lewis

Truest Version

Janelle Giovenco with contributions from Meg Martin, Qignaaq Cordelia Kellie, and Ienonkwahawis Montour “Everything I do will be connected to the truest version of myself.

I at one point didn’t think it was cool to be native.

But I think about the love of our elders I think about the warmth I think about the importance of being a whole person.

And I I love myself more than I did before. you have to be thankful for everything. Like the grass, the water, the fish, the insects...the sun, the moon, the sky, even the thunder.

My name is Ienonkwahawis, and I feel really connected to the water.

My name is Cordelia, when I hear those sounds of the drums, it’s like the music is coming inside me My name is Meg, and I just want to tell the untold story And something I wish i learned earlier about my tribe’s history Is just how much fight that there was and how powerful that we are as people”

“Equals” Emma Burns

Chapter 4:

OUT OF THIS WORLD

“Elevator Music” Charlotte Roberts

Hamartia Alexandra Penzi

The vastness of the smoky sky is great lid overhead: all-encompassing, covering, swaddling us away from nebulas above.

I wonder if it is there to shield us from the might of heaven, or to protect the stars from our greedy gaze?

It is the human condition to lust for the stars, to thirst of peeling back the gray cobwebs of the sky and behold galaxies living and dying light years away, to know what it means to be so fearfully and wonderfully made.

In the quiet night, the clouds continue bleed into the gauze of the sky. They do not deign to answer.

Overview Effect Taleen Postian

Sometimes I turn out my lights to reprise the oppressive, imploding enclosure of the airless heavens I originally belonged to.

The days I don’t have to tilt my head to feel the nothing are days I’m pulled between my achy dirty roots and the popping weightlessness of space above, below, all around encompassing me and the earthly ether.

Paper Plane Carrie Sweeney

For life renewed by mindless thoughts, She begs her core for some commotion.

A wandering from trivial things To city sky or roaring ocean.

She now recalls the strength of wings In combing heartache’s thickened knots.

A sheet of printer paper tasked With causing spirits to ignite: By folding up and changing form Brings boundless joy through unmapped flight.

Avoiding waters too lukewarm For true souls once they’ve been unmasked.

She holds the paper in her hand And creases slowly down the center.

Then focusing her breathing, aims And sets art free from its inventor To visit things with higher Names (With life to give but course unplanned).

She finds herself now clinging to That paper plane she set in flight Amidst kaleidoscopic flames That flickered silent through the night.

A life set free from mortal frames Might glimpse the soul it’s singing to.

“Built to Give (2020)” Bailey Quinn

“Take a Walk” Emma Burns

Photo: Katie Keane Previous: “Quest for the Happy Side” Charlotte Roberts

Poltergeist’s Soda Jackie Carroll

“Oh, good, you’re finally here,” Ava said as she pulled open the door. “Jimmy, you have no idea how hard it’s been to live in this room under these conditions.” He recoiled at the use of his name, forgetting that his stained uniform polo displayed it in white embroidered script. The room’s walls were covered in maps of places that were not planet Earth, and the floor disappeared under heaps of unfolded clothing. “She usually stands right there,” Ava said, pointing a ring clad hand to the space between the door and the minifridge.

“I’m sorry,” he pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. “Your maintenance request reads-“ “Poltergeist.” Ava interrupted.

“Yes, ‘Poltergeist in dorm room. Messes with the thermostat, turns radio on and off, and drinks soda.’”

“That’s exactly right,” Ava responded with a sharp nod that kicked her bangs over her eyes. Jimmy surveyed the room. The top of her desk was hardly visible under piles of papers highlighted in a rainbow of neon colors. She had draped the window blinds in scarves, and ten empty coffee cups stood in a high tower on her nightstand. He looked at Ava, then back at the room, checking to make sure there were no hidden cameras. Her facial expression remained dead serious.

He sighed and shook his head, “Let me look in the ceiling,” He furrowed his eyebrows together and attempted to look lost in thought, “maybe there’s an issue with your AC unit.”

“Sure thing, Jimmy, but just telling you now, you won’t find anything wrong with it.”

Ava insisted as she stepped aside. Jimmy pulled out her desk chair and clambered onto it awkwardly. He popped out a tile from the drop ceiling and poked his head into the dark space above.

“I didn’t know ghosts drank soda.” He said, his voice muffled by the fiberglass boards.

“They do. They drink it by the barrel. It’s so sweet they can taste it even in the afterlife.”

“Have you tried buying seltzer instead? It’s better for you than soda.”

“Oh, I don’t do sugary drinks. I only bought the soda because I knew she’d like it.” Jimmy pulled a flashlight from his toolbelt and stuck it next to his head.

“Well, have you tried unplugging the radio?”

“No, I don’t want to unplug my radio. I want my dorm room not to be haunted. I would call a priest, but I don’t know how to get in touch with them. The monastery doors are always locked, and I was going to perform a smudging ritual but-“ “That would set off the fire alarms?”

“I was going to say I can’t find dried sage on campus, but I guess the fire alarm thing too.” “Have you tried emailing Fr. Peter?”

“Are you mocking me?”

He poked his head out from the ceiling and turned off his flashlight. “Almost everything looks normal here.”

Photos: Nikki Amoachi

The Archer In Blue Cece Schuller

The Grind Clare Sceski

Art from “Illuminations in Dark Times: An Embroidered Bestiary” by Sarah Wingo Liaison Librarian for English Lit, Theatre, & Romance Languages

They called him Grind, and he preferred it to his birth name. A drunken poet once asked him why, and Grind answered, “because it was what he was,” which kept things simple. And Grind preferred simple. The poet had responded by saying that there must not be much to him, but poets--especially of the drunk variety--always say more than they should.

Grind had met all the varieties--poet or otherwise. It was the curse and the amusement of a tavern owner to meet all sorts. The peasants might travel to escape famine and plague, and the privileged travel for business and pleasure, but they all stopped at taverns: knights riding off on quests, damsels fleeing enchantment, chosen and marked children.

He had seen the fay people too: elves, dwarves, and a fairy or so.

Now though, it had been months since Grind last saw a traveler of any sort. A stupid fool would assume it was the weather--even now rain was beating with a vengeance against The Grind’s roof (life was kept simple by sharing his name with the tavern)--but Grind knew better. Humans and fay were peculiar in that way. Nothing would stop them from getting to where they wanted to go.

Nothing, that was, but darkness incarnate.

Without a steady flow of wandering travelers, Grind had spent the last couple months serving the townsfolk.

The weather being what it was that afternoon though, even that blundering drunken baker had stayed away. And so, alone in a room built for many, Grind had mopped the floors, wiped the tables, and polished the glasses.

He had stoked the fire, exchanged the dying candles with fresh, and even dusted the top of the shelves where no one but a giant (and they rarely came around) would ever see. With all that finished, he sat by the hearth and

watched the flames sizzle as stray raindrops found their way down the chimney. After a while, his gaze wandered to the bar where a plate of cold meat and bread had been sitting for the past two hours. With a sigh, he heaved himself up, grabbed the plate, and labored up the steps.

From outside, The Grind only appeared to have two stories. But Grind knew if you went down the second-floor hall, there was a trap door with a ladder to a tiny loft.

In his early years, Grind had kept his room there. Too many nights spent up and down the stairs had brought him to his senses though, and he moved his cot to the kitchen. The loft was turned into a storage room, the solitary window on the back wall barred from the inside, and no one but Grind knew of its existence; or so he preferred it.

Grind did not bother to knock. He pulled the door open and, climbing the ladder, shoved the plate across the floor to make room for himself. Then he stood and waited for his guest to acknowledge him.

Grind had never received a name. The guest had shown up in the dead and darkest part of the night a month ago and asked for the room in the loft.

“Don’t have a loft,” was Grind’s response.

The man passed him five gold pieces, and said, “Tell no one.”

Which was enough to assure Grind he should kill himself then and there and save a darker power the trouble. Afterall, no honest man ever asks to not stay in a nonexistent room.

But curiosity was a weak point in Grind, and his new guest was just that.

As was his usual habit, the man stood, staring between the cracks in the barred window at the dripping shacks of Quelm. He was tall, lean, and had rigid posture. The hand that clasped the windowpane, in contrast with his dark hair, was pale as dew.

“Food.” Grind said, setting the plate on a barrel, and picking up the still full tray from breakfast.

The man said nothing.

Grind waited for a response, but was unsurprised when he received none. He headed back towards the ladder.

“Grind?”

Grind paused.

“Who is he?”

Grind, intrigued by the intensity in the man’s tone, came to the window and peered between the cracks. A boy, dripping wet and caked in mud, was running from the forest towards the village. It was still raining wrathfully, but the boy had a limp that even a thunderstorm couldn’t hide. “Byorn. Blacksmith’s son.”

“Why’s he running?”

“It’s raining.”

“Shouldn’t be outside.”

“An errand.” He began to leave, but the man grabbed his arm, and turned upon Grind with black eyes.

“Go and fetch him.”

The man thrust him towards the trap door. Grind, regaining his footing, waited a moment.

Guests--even of the secret variety--had a habit of getting too comfortable giving orders if they stayed too long. Fellow should remember Grind knew he did not exist in the loft.

But--and Grind began descending--there was murder in those eyes. Not that Grind, as a tavern keeper, minded murder. He simply had preferences about it, such as who was the one with the knife in the back when all was said and done. Unfortunately, certain preferences about theoretical murder dictated going out into wet hell.

He considered getting his cloak from the kitchen first, but the man, unable to see or hear from the loft, would know. So he shoved the door open, let the water pelt his face, and called out, “Byorn! Inside.”

Byorn, either literally or metaphorically kicked by a horse at birth, stopped running, but that was it. He stood in the mud, staring at Grind with unusually wide eyes.

“Inside.” Grind called again, and this time, Byorn moved slowly towards the door.

“Grateful. Very grateful, Grind, sir.” He mumbled, crossing the threshold. Grind said nothing and shut the door.

Immediately, he smelt it.

Smell, Grind had long ago discovered, was the most reliable of the senses. Eyes and ears were easily deceived, and taste was useless unless you had something to sell. But smell--it was never wrong. Sweet was sweet. Rotten was rotten.

Grind grabbed the boy’s hood and pinned him to the oak door. “It’s a bad time to be prying about the dead.”

“Yes sir--I mean no sir--” Byorn struggled.

“Listen,” Grind shook him, “woods aren’t right no more. Fay know it. People know it. It’s dead.”

“No sir, I mean, yes sir,--but it weren’t dead, sir...”

“Babbling fool.” Grind shook him harder, “speak sense.”

“It don’t make sense--she wasn’t dead--” Grind raised his hand back, and the boy cowered. “Sense.”

“It don’t make sense, honest! She weren’t dead. She was breathing, plain as day! But the bushes!”

Grind lowered his hand. Good actors--and Grind had seen his share--never got true terror just right. “Saw something?”

“Yes, sir” the boy nodded solemnly, “in the woods,” “A girl?”

“Thought she was dead, sir. I wanted a closer look.”

Death has that effect--draws you in. “And?” “When I got close, she was breathing.”

“Asleep.”

The boy shook his head, “The thorns were all grown up around her--like she’d been there for months.”

Grind released the boy all together and wiped his hands on his shirt. “Magic. Leave the place alone. Could be either kind.”

But the boy though, had grabbed Grind’s arm and had finally met his gaze. “Sir,” and he was whispering, “she was holding a blackthorn staff.”

The back door--the one in the kitchen--slammed shut. The boy began screaming, but Grind ignored him.

At least, he would no longer have someone living in the room for rent he didn’t have.

Sketch by Dr. Bob Jantzen “Make a Wish” Emma Burns

Professor of Mathematics and Statistics

Midterms Mood

“Taking Notes” Sydney Porter

Maeve Schumacher

I’m stressed today.

Then the breeze says good morning with a gentle, knowing nudge, and the knot falls undone.

Even though I’m stressed today, I’m on my way. I’ll be okay.

I’m tired today.

But the sun peels back the curtain of a freshly burnt-out leaf, and I can breathe.

Even though I’m tired today, I’m on my way. I’ll be okay.

“Chemistry Notes” Nikki Amoachi

“Picture of Dorian Gray” Milagros Capcha

Math & Me Maeve Schumacher 9:22 a.m., waking up to Wednesday morning, And skipping along the freshest tile of my Innocent 11th year.

Tainted by the click-clacking Of my teacher’s blood orange nails On a desktop keyboard, As she spits Matter-of-factly That I don’t seem to get it.

1+1=3

Art by Dr. Bob Jantzen

Professor of Mathematics and Statistics

Sure, I still have to use a calculator to make sure my waitress gets the 20% tip she deserves; I think that 7x7 has Friday energy, while 9x8 is more of a Wednesday; And I have to triple check the change that I clink back in your palm for your medium morning coffee.

But does that mean I don’t get it?

My enemies-to-enemies trope with math May well be true, But I still know a thing or two.

And maybe, just maybe, you’re the one who doesn’t get it.

I can leave tattered mementos laid out bare, with the battered heart that gets me there.

I can bend beauty back in To a practiced, plastic grin, And walk into the kitchen And laugh.

I can let the breeze whisper “good morning” With a gentle, knowing nudge, and soon the knot falls undone.

Those things that I can do Have shown me I know a thing or two And that maybe your blood orange nails Just don’t get it.

winter haiku Sydney Porter “Carebearitas” Alexandra Penzi chunky white clouds marshmallow bellies burning gooey sunset smores splotches of black ice winter’s most embarrassing blemishes i fall in front of a boy shovel left by a front door i warn him that snow is coming. poor guy. big work day tomorrow. bare branches reach for my window. knocking. pounding. let me in! wet snow boots exhausted from trekking, sledding, sliding sweat onto dorm hall carpets snowy trees line the road heads bowed. arms outstretched. worshipping speedy red hondas

“Snow Day” “Ski-Man” Andrew Osburn

A Potato Chip in a Candy Container in a Locked Metal Chest Samuel Gunther

I hear the click as the lock releases its grip, so I open the hundred-year-old metal chest that my grandfather bought for his shot glasses when he was still young and still drinking and still alive.

My fingers caress the container from inside the chest, a clear plastic thing that once held candy, the kind that would make my anxious heart start skipping after too many sugary handfuls. The tissues inside act as a white nest of downy feathers for a delicate mourning dove egg, except, as you might have guessed, what I so carefully am extracting from the candy container is not a mourning dove egg, or any other sort of vessel for new life, but an ear-shaped potato chip.

However, I am sure I must look like a mother bird gazing lovingly at her hatchling, in the way I stare at my potato chip, in the petrified form it has been in for eleven years, covered in a thin layer of dust, the sprinkles of a long-forgotten flavoring just barely visible. Of course, this chip was never meant to be eaten, for it is a teleportation device, always yearning to take me back to the beginning when I displayed the chip to my grandma, my hands shaking, as I nearly yelled, “Look, it’s just like an ear!”

She smiled and glowed, a moon reflecting the light

emanating from me, the center of her universe.

Then she told me, with that serious grandma voice she reserved for such occasions, to bring it home with me and never forget it.

I was too young to understand that what she gave me that day was not just a baggie for the chip, but a reminder of an ancient power inside me, inside us all, one of the few she had left in this world as she even lost the power over her own body. The power to notice the mourning doves chirping the fattened squirrels away from the bird seed out in the yard, or the tickling aroma of the lily of the valleys that flourish in the garden overgrown with weeds, or the burnt sweet bread that whispers from your oven mitts, “You tried, now try again.”

To notice these tiny, beautiful things and smile, cry, feel something, shout to your grandparents that you found an ear in your potato chips.

And I blink back to my dorm room, tuck the chip back in its nest, close its sweet-smelling case, shut that old, metal chest, and lock it until next time.

Wiping away the tears that had stained my face all day, I remember that earlier I noticed the detached arm from my cactus, named Peppermint, took root in the soil and is growing and green and will hopefully sprout its own limbs one day.

I remember this and all the tiny, beautiful things, and I cry again, but this time, I let the tears come gratefully.

@portablechairsofvillanova @portablechairsofvillanova was created out of our need to share laughter in such chaotic times. After over 250 posts from ourselves and the hundreds of hilarious submissions, we’ve learned that this platform has shared community more than anything. From the students’ standpoint, portable chairs was such an atypical response to the pandemic than practically every other university plans in the country to the point that it became comical: it became meme-worthy. Memes brought us together and helped ease the anxiety that came with this past summer and semester. I know that we, the creators, and the rest of the Villanova community are overjoyed and grateful that we were able to successfully complete an inperson semester this fall, an abnormal result for most universities in the country. All jokes aside, we recognize how the portable chairs helped us socially distance, and we are excited to wear our cozies next semester. Thank you to the administration for laughing and working with us as an outlet to the students and to the over 4,000 fans we’ve gained since August. #chairarmyunite These three randomly-selected memes cover the three most popular subjects of our debauchery: cozies, Anthony’s Party Rentals, and of course, portable chairs.

The Portable Chairs Creators

“a note found in my moms car” Jackie Carroll

“Supportive Graffiti” by Anonymous, Collected by Taleen Postian & Tia Parisi

“We Used this Seat” Submitted by Annika Soderfelt with contributions from Anonymous

Grocery Folly Cece Schuller

When Tim McClendon went to town With groceries as his goal He knew not of his pride’s extent Nor what would be its toll.

So humble Acme is the scene Where Tim began to shop.

“It’s only a few things,” he said, “Barely enough to stop.”

And so he entered basketless Into the glittering lands That were so full of tasty foods.

He soon filled up his hands.

Bananas, pasta, bread, and cheese Soon balanced in his hold.

And from the jug of milk, he found His arm was growing cold.

The chips were nestled ‘neath his chin, And jam, pinned to his side.

And Tim began to think perhaps It was the price of pride.

He’d gone too far to turn back now.

(What would the people say?)

And eggs and chicken still remained, He needed those today.

So deeper in the store he went His arms already sore But even burdened as he was He kept on grabbing more.

Potatoes, onions, sour cream, And chicken breasts at last.

The mountain spilled upon the counter, And Tim could rest at last.

The clerk, she couldn’t hide a smile, Which fired up Tim’s pride.

And when she offered him a bag“I’ll be just fine,” he lied.

as the year ends Arielle “Lu” Nogueira

we have become so busy throwing metaphorical bricks at the oppressors speaking up until our lungs give out we have become so distracted watching the numbers crawl past the millions protecting ourselves and the people around us we have become so preoccupied with what happens beyond the walls of our homes that we have forgotten about the contents inside empty cups and plates pile on our nightstands while the mounds of clothing grow like weeds that cover the last visible part of our room floor

cold seeps in as the seasons change the open windows invite a bitter gust of wind as gradually, the events of the year make their way past our hard exteriors. it is so easy to feel helpless, but burdensome as the dust wrapping our room slowly mixes with the snow from outside slowly covering us we feel so broken, we are so tired of trying to find our place in a world that consistently buries us in the icy cold constantly wishing for the clouds to part, because at least feeling the sun’s warmth on our frostbitten noses would make the cold a little more bearable or for new buds to sprout in the spring for the frost to melt away to green grass so finally, our open windows could let the light back in

Ellipsis Thanks Kyle XY fish poems that “know what they are” - Sylvia Frankie, for finally showing up speedy red Hondas (and slow blue Subarus)

Ellipsis Does Not Thank ranDoM CaPitaliZation fish (held by frat boys) Harry Styles’ mustache (and nipples) ugly swimsuits

Ellipsis is Indifferent To the possibility of Isabella beating Erica in a fight Zoom emergency GroupMe voting space (except Taleen, she loves space) “Sunset on the Bridge” Mary Swikle