front cover artist unknown, photo by Mary Fleming
back cover art by Emma Burns
art by Emma Burns
do you remember me?
ELLIPSIS STAFF
2023-2024
Editor-in-Chief &
President of Operations
Lu Nogueira
VP: Margaux Barrett
Creative Director
Nikki Amoachi
VP: Maddie Rhodes
Director of Social Media and Marketing
Valeria Torres
VP: Emily Hanlon
Director of Outreach
Taleen Postian
VP: Sonia Singh
Secretary
Katie Christine
Faculty Advisor
Kathryn Szumanski
English Department
Amanda Eliades
Heather Hicks
Michael Malloy
Staff
Anastasia Orel
Ava McKula
Caroline Donnelly
Catherine Messier
Celia Ford
Emma Burns
Emma Spangler
Erin Florio
Frankie Frabizzio
Gaby Girault
Gemma Krautzel
Hannah de Melo
Maggie Parham
Maria Therese Barry
Marie Loroz
Megan Rigione
Milagros Capcha
Phoebe Swiatek
Sanskar Agrawal
Taylor Newcomb
Vinnie Graham
Graphic Services
John Gebhart
Joseph O’Pella
Barbara Joyce
A Farewell from the Editors
The truth of this edition is that Deja Vu is a hello, not a goodbye. Deja Vu is a spark, a seed, a beginning. For the 4 of us, Ellipsis has dominated our time here. It has been our passion project. For many of us, Ellipsis was the first club we ever joined. The past 4 years have seen countless hours and unbelievable effort, and it is hard not to be overwhelmed with emotions at the thought of leaving.
We worked to build a home for the voices of Villanova, expanding our spoken tongues past word and image to new mediums and messages. We worked to create a framework which our successors can continue to strengthen. We worked to create a new image by which you would remember us, to be present and known, to let students, staff, and faculty know that they had an outlet for their creativity – from professors in the law school, to business majors, to librarians.
Deja Vu is about reflecting on our growth, the ways in which we’ve evolved from our past selves. It’s about how we’ve discovered what makes us tick, what ignites our passion, who keeps us happy, and how we can keep moving along. In our longest edition yet, we hope that we can inspire you to reflect – to commend yourself for how far you’ve come, and to continue growing, whether here or elsewhere.
We could not be more grateful to every single person reading this, and we could not be prouder to pass down the torch. One day, the four of us will look back fondly at our time at Villanova and at the head of the magazine and feel the throes of Deja Vu passing through. Time moves fast around here. Enjoy it while you can. May we meet again.
Love,
Lu, Nikki, Valeria, and Taleen
Remember Me
by Sonia SinghWhen you can’t buy cereal straws, Or when your Silly Bandz snap, Or when you stop talking to your imaginary friend, Or when your dad stops driving you to school, Or when you have to drive yourself to school, Or when your Barbie breaks your body image, Or when you dream of a 401k instead of chocolate milk cows, Or when your mom stops scheduling doctor’s appointments for you, Or when you file your own taxes, Or when your bones become blackberry brittle, Or when you substitute a juice box for whiskey, Or when your doctor starts mentioning things like arthritis, Or when you no longer want to adult, Or when your parents turn into scrapbook pages, Or when you want time to stop moving forward, Or when you want me to stop being real.
“Head still in the clouds”by Liam Mote
CHAPTER 1 THE BLUEPRINT
My Mother’s Smile Lines are From Korea
by Isabel ChoiSometimes I can see them when she smiles …the people, I mean. They’re swimming in her eyes
All gathered on the rooftop balcony chattering, squabbling telling stories about lifetimes. It’s been ten years since her last visit.
When my mother came back from her trip that summer, unpacked T-shirts and nostalgia and shorts and happiness and dried seaweed and childhood stories She brought back old photographs:
Eyes arched into a smile against an ivy covered wall red T-shirt with university font. Six friends clutching each other atop rock formations, but the picture caught an unfortunate moment–she’s blinking. Running towards the crashing waves laughing, hair in tangled curls, she used to grow it out back then.
photo by Mary Fleming
One time, I asked her, How could you leave it all behind?
Because I never understood why she left the crest of joy for something much less.
I wished that she would have gone on a rant about the things she used to have things she can’t have anymore.
Fancy pantsuits, ornate perfume, office job, comfort language, comfort people comfort food Dreams. Silence.
Still, she stared. Only earnest belief etched in her pupils. That was the difference between us.
Because all along my mother never searched for comfort, she searched for love.
And here I was, right in front of her.
Artist
Unknown
“inquiring”art and poem by Nikki Amoachi
inquiring whether i still breathe under the bubble of who I have become whether i am seen for the priceless idiocy i have grown from cherishing the youth that seals itself inside layers and layers of paint and memory
Wet-down by
Owen DorlacMy ghost and I look through the glass, Ten feet tall-- to the ceiling-- it gleams
Down on rain-reflected, tarred car paths, Sparkling and grimier than I’ve ever seen, Hauntingly empty, twenty cars shoot by One more stretch of man towards infinity, Bright life’s dimmer, the heart won’t fly, No name, no spark, not a memory.
Have we lost more than we’ve won?
With the concrete paths And the steel-- two ton?
With emissioned wrath And the manmade sun?
Rain2
by Owen DorlacI wonder what you do when it rains; You can know people many ways, But nobody lies in the rain.
Maybe a fire suits this street more, Ash and dust like fertile snow, Let in the light we’ve been begging for, Maybe then, at least, something might grow.
Is it soft on the forehead, Like newborn love lost
To consciousness, When it hits the trees And rocks at your feet?
Is it loud like cannon, Hammering on Lear, Pure like insane truth, And raw like loneliness?
I think you like the rain-It’s too similar to you: Vibrant, alive, unabashedly true, Whenever it falls, whisper Or thunder, You know the ground is sacred. artist unknown photo by Mary
Fleming“St-st-stutter” by Liam Mote
Venetian Red
by Annabella NordlundThe walls of his staircase were coloured Venetian red.
And so I will sit as he sat, solitary, entranced by the glow, slowing down time for half an hour, audience to my own musings. You see I can never quite detach a moment from the walls of my mind; it is plastered like the paint not yet ready to be scraped. I can peel a piece, but I will always smooth it back down. My eyes are still transfixed by the glow. I want to become him, for a moment, but I fear I would not be able to handle the heaviness of one who paused at his stairway to contemplate the paint at the age of eight. Or maybe I am more like him than I think.
It seems to me to be the same type of red with which I would paint my sister’s lips. And smear, and fix, and scold, and wonder what it would be like to take (just one) bite. Of course that is foolishness, but nothing will ever stop that thought.
The sweet scent draws me in, the twist of ribbed gold, the click of the lid in the capsule, like that of a bullet in a gun, enthralls me, constantly, only on those few occasions. Now the tube is almost gone, I yawn, and forget, once again, about the old scent of red.
art by Maggie Parham
Venus de Nova
by Riley NelsonAlone in the early light of morning, she hurries down the walkway, messenger bag bouncing, cursing her clunky Doc Martens. Down here, time runs differently – And humans are so particular about being late.
She shoves a freckled shoulder into the door and spares a passing “thank you” for those on the way out. This form is short, otherwise she would take the stairs two at a time. She settles for stomping, huffing, puffing, crying Triumph upon reaching the top. Up here, tucked in the corner of a building few know exists, is where she’ll make Eden.
The door is already open (as it always is for her) cracked just enough to watch that early morning light flood in, spilling over half-finished canvases laid about with little care. The one who waits for her, always waiting for her, already sits at her easel, back bent in a poor imitation of Rodin’s “The Thinker.” She crosses the silent forest of easels and drying racks to sit next to the lonely statue.
God sits at the easel next to me, searching for a hair tie beneath the excess of bracelets wrapped around her wrists – she knows she put it there this morning –And she is Untouchable. All thick eyeliner and dragonfly wing earrings, a rabbit running up her forearm, jumping with each flex and stretch of muscle as she unpacks her paint.
It is me and God in an empty room, the one who waits and the one always late, with only the hum of electricity and our own breathing to fill the silence. She adopts the poor artist’s posture, spine curved like the hills in her barely begun landscape, tongue peeking out from her chapped lips, frizzy hair shining in her own personal halo.
Time slows and the universe leans in as God arranges her palette in such a way that would make the old masters cry and only she can understand –Phthalo Blue next to yellow ochre, next to crimson, next to true white. She shifts, stool creaking beneath her weight, as she reaches for the water bowl waiting for her. A quick dip, that’s all that’s needed for her to render new life on the waiting canvas.
Eden and Self-Portrait – reflections of the same original. God eyes my shaking hand, holding a paintbrush that hasn’t moved in ten minutes. She knew the minute it stopped,as she knows everything. She knows I’m too unsure, knows I hate the girl who looks back at me. That girl is only paint but she knows, like God, she knows that she is all I could ever wish to be.
Sliding from her stool, God peers over my shoulder. She is warm, everything good, in this world as arms wind ‘round my waist, cradling, holding together the pieces of a girl who is one brushstroke from shattering. Her chapped lips gently press on the back of my neck.
“It’s good,” She tells me.
“You are good.”
Breaths and Blinks
by Sinead MastersonGround near the still pond is slick and sinks easily under light feet.
Find the tall grass
Fold it over as a thick quilt of green thread and flower
Lay back and Wait for the deer-girl.
Notice your bare forearms spotted with freckles and specks of raindrops, cool light snuck through gaps in the silver canopy of leaves sprouting taller by the moment, bug branches under star specked sky
In that moment of breath:
A deer-girl head lifts from the still pond
Listen to her eyelids blink away dark droplets to look at you Know she is just as scared, You are made up of the same stuff.
“Repentance” by Katie Christine
Dusty Journal
by Maddie RhodesDusty Journal on the shelf, I want to pry you open but my cold hands quiver, wouldn’t dare come close does your fingerprinted pattern scatter with thy letters in ink, or are unwritten words hidden except for when I blink? were there pages worn and torn or is your cover just for show? they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder but without opening, how could one know? I hear you grumble softly Oh wait, that’s just my hungry mind I wonder whose finger will next line your spine tell me, does anyone ever find the time?
“wall of books”by Margaux Barrett
poem by Chris Sheridan
“The Fixer” by Liam Mote
“Simulation Theory”
by Sofia Ong
Realities”
“Shift
by Sofia Ong
REDISCOVERING WONDER Chapter 2
A fairy’s
by Grace Russo
fairies (drawn for fun) by Isabel
hideaway Choi
Dear
Autumn,
by Maddie RhodesThe leaves smell like you they rustle like squirrels painted yellow light illuminating my soul shimmering rays shine through the branches dancing on my cheeks they tickle, make me giggle with each step I hear an irresistible crunch from below.
Tell me, how is it that one can feel so warm in the cold?
It is you, it has always been you.
photo by Ava Goff
art by Riley Nelson
To Be Seen
by Ciara CoulterTwo rabbits pitter softly through pure snow
With so small a sound It could pass as the wind. Rabbits never hibernate, they are too hungry.
I sit cross-legged, a stone’s toss away, On the trail path edge, Breath puffed like smoke but silent, Unwilling to reveal them, an observer to the schematic.
But from the hawk, crest-tailed and Crowned at the peak of a tall pine, No creak or crevice eludes notice. It dives down, 125mph.
The pair freeze in fear before he snatches one rabbit in clawfoot scythe, The smaller tawny, unblended in the snowbank.
A bird’s success rate is their survival.
I feel the rush of terror of something torn from me, The remaining rabbit bolting with Some profuse desire to be survived by. Will he make the textbook’s projected nine years?
I wonder where mine has gone, my desire.
Whether it was snatched from the sky or I simply let it fly Away, stopped short in the snow. What are the odds I move in my lifetime?
That primal fear lives in me, Of ending without accomplishment. It paralyzes me in place with the dread that I will be left unfounded, or worse—found flat.
I scribble some notes with stiff gloved fingers, A life reduced to words. It is quite some time Before I get up to go.
“The
Girl and the Hare”
by Riley Nelson“caves” by MarjorieCarlson
“coast of amalfi” by Marjorie Carlson
Beware of Thorns
by Marie LorozI dig up your old postcards
And think of a future
We’ve lost sight of A rose bush
Growing out of my ribcage
And digging its roots into the Crevices of my stomach
Its flowers stretch up through my neck
And touch my brain
Blooming color behind my eyes
The world looks different, then For a moment
photo by Lu Nogueira
Childhood Bliss
by Maddie Rhodesseagulls cry as children play they dance in the shallow waters faces melting in the blue on a hot summer’s day ripened bodies glisten in sunlight, hues of gold shimmer down their naked spines
big sister, perfectly buttoned up in pink, peers out from the shore, winds gust she grasps her straw hat protecting her eyes for she needs them to oversee her brothers while they swim in oblivion, not knowing the weight of the waves that crash down on her how could they? there’s a reason why few dig in the sand searching for their reflection who would ever wish to pull out their shadow buried beneath the sandy surface of childhood bliss?
“beauty on the jersey shore”
by Natalie Zickel
A Moment of Stillness
by Sophie Stevensin a moment of stillness, i am behind the window. i watch as you stand, i watch, as the sun illuminates your silhouette. you remind me of spring, and you remind me of fall. the way that newness appears, and yet so quickly disintegrates into drifting leaves waiting for cold. But you are a season, a memory, that i cherish from a distance. for even the leaves that die, nourish the soil beneath the snow. and the flowers whose petals scatter in the april storm, remain standing in summer. in a moment of stillness, i am behind the window watching as my seasons melt into one another, watching as you walk by, and newness begins.
“Window to Tuscany” by Marjorie Carlson
Under The Mattress
by Anastasia OrelI saw a Picasso once, hidden under a mattress in Morocco.
We were in Fez, making dutiful rounds of all the shops since we’re here for authentic experiences and real culture. And you could be sure you were getting it because you were so expertly fooling the locals despite your jean shorts and sunscreen-slathered nose. No one would dream of upselling you!
Your mother is fawning over a questionable piece of jewelry while the eager salesman tells her about its rich history, and I wonder if the rose gold version in the booth a few rows down also has the same rich history.
You, on the other hand, display a feigned interest in Medina’s surrounding architecture, you, are different. You imagine the combination of Islamic architecture with Spanish influence takes your proverbial breath away until you zero in on a hole-in-the-wall shop and almost trip upon entering. You look back at your mother trying on the necklace that will inevitably color her neck green and decide it is not worth notifying her. Dusty woven rugs hang from ceiling bars, yellowing glass cases of various gold plates sit atop each other, and there are fewer touristy items than you’d imagined. Thorough and insightful inspection is then interrupted by a scrawny wrinkled man offering assistance. It isn’t clear whether he could be in his 30’s or 50’s or somewhere in between but a part of his hair sticks up on the side and it’s all you can notice.
He leaves you after a polite smile and shake of your head, only to return and catch you gazing at a frameless painting.
Do you like art?
Sometimes. You say hesitantly.
I have more to show you if you like.
No, that’s ok.
art by Mary Fleming
I am here if you need any help.
That’s ok, thank you.
You feel pressured to look at the piece a beat longer before moving to the next row of the shop. It was larger than it looked from the outside, aisles were separated by the hanging rugs which swung at the occasional touch, or gust of air from a rotating fan.
I have something to show you, only for art lovers.
That’s ok.
Please I insist you see it.
Ok.
He brings you back to the front of the shop and you see your mother, still enamored, this time by a pair of earrings. She glances up as you wave, partially to reassure her, partially to ensure you won’t get murdered by this stranger now leading you up the shop’s staircase. A staircase which, should be noted, had painfully uneven wood steps and no guard rail. The two of you ascend to a desolate attic with a few boxes in one corner and a bare mattress in the other; this is when your palms begin to sweat a bit and you regret trying to be the adventurer you thought you were. But he simply lifts the mattress, not without a bit of difficulty, and leans it against the wall.
He explains that he will never know if it is real or not, it would cost too much money to send it for verification, so he keeps it here, under the mattress, just in case. You imagine him one day earning enough to package up the canvas and ship it to a historian, or archeologist, or someone else important, somewhere. You imagine them inspecting the wide blue and red brushstrokes and confirming that, yes, the scrawl following a very distinct “P” is authentic. You imagine that you saw one of the world’s hidden treasures first, in a dirty attic under a mattress.
by Emma Burns
Novelty
by Marie LorozIt is July
The days are too hot
But the raspberries are ready
I decide it is easier to love the fruit
Changing with the seasons
Than something constant but life-giving
When my back is never cold I forget to be grateful for the sun
“breaking the fourth wall”
great gorgeous & gone
by Valeria TorresI remember spending my Sunday afternoons at my grandma’s house. The fugitive rays of sun that nimbly dance through stained glass windows, Transforming the ruby-colored tiles into its stage. The living room bathed in a honey tint light. With the deafening world outside, her house built its own serene society.
Our laughter echoed, through my grandma’s wooden collection of carved colorful houses on the wall, And bursting with life was the garden, whose existence defied the concrete city. Tomatoes, mints, Flores de Maga, and coquis, the council that gathered on the grounds. Her house, my Eden.
Sensitive, like my grandmother, time is. Seconds skip and memories slip.
But I still remember those Sunday afternoons. Great, gorgeous, and gone.
waking thoughts
by Marie Lorozi want to be a bird not to soar swoop dive
but to leave gracefully when i’m no longer wanted broadcasting your own fragility only works if you trust people to treat you gently
i was foolish to think that when you grabbed my hand you would hold on for more than a few seconds
“Fallen for Love, Again” by Liam Mote
I’ve Seen NGC 7006
by Ava WahlOn the outside of the Milky Way, yet we find it so close. As it’s stars sprinkled into life.
NGC 7006 has crazy weekends.
The salt shaker knocked over the obsidan countertop, Scattered and crystaline.
A bag of glitter spilled on the concert floor, Never clear, even after a vaccum.
White spray paint grazed the mural wall, Hopefully, the mistake won’t be painted over.
As the cluster draws you in, Suddenly, it’s snowing.
A hail of hot gas.
NGC 7006 calms down by Monday.
Powdered sugar decorating a belgian waffle. Only a light tap or it would pile on.
Dust catching the sunlight on an afternoon nap. Plan to clean tomorrow.
Dandelion seeds blowing in the breeze. Make a wish, for you and I.
photo by Ava Goff
CHAPTER THREE
Wish you were here!
it was never that sweet
by Gemma Krautzellies and deceit coated in a thick glaze of soft golden honey memories enveloped in a sticky haze of insincere sweetness and pleasance reminiscing as the honey leaks from the jar down the sides crusting over.
“Lover’s Nook”
by Ava McKulaDays of daffodil
by Sinead MastersonYou sit together, best friends on the front steps in the days of daffodil, crocus, forsynthia When you are still small and concrete leaves dotted imprints on your thighs
Section off a small corner of sidewalk for Fence of twigs Bed of leaves small and green
We made a home together for the caterpillar fuzzy, striped black and brown inching about his protected playground still small
But he is gone now, I am here forcing myself to think of him the same way I feel long swims in a freezing pool must be good for me
swallowing down the sting of he is gone and I am here.
Frozen Warmth
by Maddie RhodesMorning sounds, birds chirp up and at ‘em, another day of work sun hits my eyes, glimmers with light sparks a fire translucent to my inside
eyes meet, lips speak cradle me in those tender, loving arms they rise with me without alarm
layer me with clothes, head to toe why drape me in these flamboyant scarves? such silliness is your work of art
we tread quietly downstairs unlock the door and interlock our fingers blanketed in snow, but who would’ve known with my mother’s soft touch
hand in hand we trail along, I begin to sing in song one block down, but then held back my mother completes a spell just like that
and before I know, I’m in her grasp paying no attention to her short breath or gasp yes, there’s honking, a motor scowl while I remain as happy as a clown
in my mother’s arms her racing heart links with mine together our hearts beat and intertwine
she sets me down and yes, I mind because we both know this intimacy doesn’t happen all the time it comes and goes just like fleeting breath clouds
ice eventually melts away and the day and the next will soon decay
but the warmth of her hand never lets go because those memories we hold are forever frozen in the snow.
by Marie Loroz
“Flight”
beer showers and guilt devours
Anastasia Oreli am sickly, and half-clean. someone poured cheap beer on my head before I stepped out of the shower. the water stopped running before I could go back and wash it off. realistically, i know the beer trickled down my scalp along the roots of my hair and down my sides. but on a much more real plane, i know that pale liquid seeped into my brain and insides.
i carry that guilt sloshing around inside me. the liquefaction of the calls i don’t return and don’t plan to, the abandonment of my family, my lack of effort. i miss ignorance being an adequate excuse. i miss being clean and blissful and smooth. if only taking responsibility meant becoming responsible. if only good will made me do good.
instead the ale churns and burns a hole inside. i jam two fingers down my throat and try to force it out but it just slices my throat on its attempted escape. i begin to turn inside out and it finally spills out on the pavement beside me. i am free.
photos by Mary Fleming
Busy Signals
by Sophie StevensI am always busy. Surrounded by busy people, Doing busy things. My head is always busy. Filled with busy signals, Thinking busy thoughts.
Yet,
The phone rings, And, I’m never too busy for you. Tell me about your day. Let’s go for a walk. I’m proud of you.
And,
I’ll never forget your birthday, Or your favorite foods And I’ll come to your show. Even when I’m busy, I’ll send you a photo, When I see your favorite flowers Or hear your favorite song.
And I’ll think of you always, Even when I’m busy, I’ll laugh at an old joke, Not passively, I’ll set my pencil down and, Relish the sound of your voice, Smile at the deepness of your eyes.
And I’ll shake myself of this daydream, And pick my pencil up, Because I’m so busy, But I’m thankful to have you fill my time.
And when you tell me you’re busy, With never ending lists, I’m squeezed into schedules, An afterthought at best.
I’m left wondering if you think of me, In between your thoughts, If you remember it’s not time consuming To remember me.
I have no doubt, That you are busy too. But I didn’t make the cut.
That’s the difference between me and you.
“Retired
Friend”
by Ava McKula
If You’re Reading This Nova
Our Mission
Empower students to strengthen their support networks & closing the gap between students who suffer in silence and the people who care about them through a collection of letters.
If you’re reading this...
...know that healing has no time frame, and that is okay.
-Haley Smith ‘25
...remember masculinity doesn’t have one definition.
-Colin Nemeth ‘25
...it’s okay to not have it all figured out.
-Kelly Keil ‘24
...your pain shouldn’t go unnoticed.
-Findlay Roberson ‘25
...loving yourself first is treatment.
-Ciara Hibbs ‘24
Sophia Crossan, President
If You’re Reading this Villanova has been a major part of my experience at Villanova. I got involved as a freshman and have stayed involved since. One of my favorite things about IYRT is giving students and faculty the space to share their stories with the community and seeing the outpour of support that they receive once their letter is posted. I do a lot of the behind the scenes work for the organization and hope to give the spotlight to our letter writers, as they are the reason we do what we do. Everyone has a story to share, no matter how “small” you think it is, I promise someone needs to hear it. I encourage you to put yourself out there and see the impact you have on the community. We are stronger together, so
If you’re reading this, know you have a place with us.
Annie Arner, vice President
Mental health has always been a huge focus in my life as many close to me, including myself, struggle with it. I got involved with IYRT during my freshman year, shortly after our campus founder, Julia Stanisci, kick-started the Villanova chapter. I started as an editor and, over time, began to take over this role. The experience of reading and editing letters at Villanova has carried me through some of the most challenging times I have had thus far. I am so impressed with the vulnerability and courage within our student body that has led this organization to become what it is. Thank you to everyone who reads our letters, submits letters, and promotes them. Villanova has become a better place because of you.
If you’re reading this, thank you for bringing our organization to life.
New Greys
by Ciara CoulterEvery time the ink dipped silhouettes Of trees slide by on the highway, My eyes well and my throat grips, as if clutching the brake.
My mother drives me away from home, Towards my other life, The one that does not contain her. It is always evening and We are always quiet, Wrapped in that soft contemplation of leaving.
She will return home without me And remake my bed And fuss over dusting And mull over tea alone.
A new grey hair will turn tomorrow, And I will not know of it.
All I have is the resounding pound Of a car door re-connected And tail-light red effervesced into the darkness.
“His spot in the park” by Ava
McKula
Family of 4, Sunbathing by Ava McKula
velas y amor
by Lu NogueiraTime passes slowly
In my great grandmother’s room
Corner windows pour in sunlight
Passing through her crystal glasses
Refracting rainbows onto the ceiling
Filling the space with warmth
I slept in the same room as a child
Wandering in dreams across from my sister
Littering the floor with elementary school uniforms
Light up sneakers and polka-dot pj’s
When I hold her hands
I feel the energy rush back into me
I trace my thumb back and forth across her skin
Wrinkles and veins dancing beneath my fingers
After years of neglecting my spanish
I have molded my tongue just for her
So that her words can reach me without interruption
And resonate as they were intended
She asks my mother after me
Knowing from afar when I feel lost
And where my mind goes at night
She once told me our souls are intertwined,
Like siblings locking arms
Exchanging knowing glances
Time passes slowly
In my great grandmother’s room
I pour my gratitude through the doorway
For the time she’s spent at the crown of the house
Still, I wish it would stop completely
And she could stay with us forever
In a snapshot of these perfect moments
That I have spent by her side
poem by Chris Sheridan
photo by Lu Nogueira
“Passenger” by Liam Mote
Train Rails
by Maddie Rhodes“Merion Station!” The conductor calls, the rumble of the tracks awakens us from our deep slumber, it’s too early to speak over the muffled speaker,
only whispers of wind hum in your ears, blurry eyes mistaken Fall for Winter this year
the gray skies spur up alibis, giving you a reason to shut your eyes
“one more minute” but not a second too long, for the train knows not of where you belong.
a thank you to my friends
by Margaux Barrettyou did my dishes this morning and i didn’t ask you to now you’re sitting in our couch and reading something new yesterday you made me laugh last year you got me through and i know i have to leave for class but one thing before i do i just wanted to let you know how grateful i am for you.
“Girls in Bloom” by Ava McKulaCuts and Bruises
by Mallory BerningBowing over the trash can
My mother sculpts a singular delicate spiral
And it drops from the glistening apple
In one piece.
I am not allowed near the knife
Which presses into her thumb after neat hills are eased from the core
I do not know why she doesn’t bleed.
As I chisel peels from my bruised apples
They shoot off in rugged chunks,
Hitting the trash can like heavy raindrops.
I notice shallow peels of skin
Where I hold the knife to my thumb
I can barely distinguish them from the grooves of my fingerprint.
I wonder if my mom shared these cuts
Bearing silently the crumpled line in her skin
To me her hands felt perfectly smooth.
“Consistency”by Emma Burns
Last Words
by Ciara Coulterthere’s a bullfrog in my Grandmother’s throat. we were always so proper with Titles like that, even though she laughed so unabashedly and kept her cash balled up in a recycled tin.
it balloons out from beneath her sallow skin and bellows in guttural tongues that I try so hard to understand. the Death Rattle is a language foreign to me.
the sun rises on her deathbed, the light spilling through the lace curtain she sewed so long ago and past our family portrait, propped up.
as if evading the rays, the Bullfrog leaves my grandmother’s mouth at last and leaps right into mine. it prefers the dark.
now, i can no longer find the words.
“Intertwined”by Emma Burns
chapter 4
photo by Ava Goff everything by Sophie Stevenswhen i bend my knee the right way, i can see the scar from falling off my bike as a kid.
i still call my mom to tell her what i learned in school.
and when my brothers tease me, it reminds me of home.
my dad always tells me he’s proud of me, just like he did when i was little. proud of every fingerpainting, proud of everything i write.
sometimes i touch the scar on my knee and i am back in my kitchen crying while blood streams down my leg.
growing up is scary. i don’t ride my bike anymore.
but i still have the scar to prove that i am brave, to prove that when everything changes, it really just stays the same.
A Ballad of Mother Nature
by Natalie ZickelLooking out past the frame, Searching for something else to blame.
Palpable silence leaks into the leaves
Leaving echoes of footprints someone grieves
The dead badly buried, Their love alone carried, To the cruel and crumpling globe
Waiting for a kind goddess to be probed.
Spring flowers welt with rain, Rivers trickle with pain. Floods overrun a tiny life, Water twists a kite to a lethal knife.
Summer ushers firm heat, A soft gag like a sheet. A suffocating sum of sun, Once innocent succumbed to fire have won.
A light whistle’s sharp punches, Mortal whispers crunches. Howling screams of daft savage winds Spare no mercy in plucking native linds.
Quilt of soft sleet and snow, Twist to a keen stern foe.
Rigor mortis in all creatures, Darkness conceals all of nature’s features.
“Where the sky meets the sea” by Grace Russo
Moving to forlorn ache, Of the earth barely wake. Oh goddess where have you perished, She murmurs “oh child what have you cherished?”
“Is it the pure blood brick, Forged in my spine you pricked? Your every rousing thought consumed, By the dim comments of impending doom?
Is it your plastic bag, Squeezing my young stag?
Only devised in convenience, Yet you rudely ask for my lenience?
Is it the heinous bombs, That ensures my mad qualms? Eradicating all in sight, Without a lone care all you do is smite.
These lessons you have learned, Of land and libel earned, By vulgar pillaging puppets, Meek before myself, master of ruckus”
A naked breath escapes my maw, Greedly devouring the outside thaw. Carcasses of autumn drowning in sleet, She commands all that we can seek.
How sweet to peer behind, Clear glass walls tinted blind, Of turbulent truths and crowded pain, Incessant cycle till habits are slain.
“Adventure lies beyond” by Grace Russo
Cartoons are Liars
by Carlos AlvarezComedic cartoons commonly contain turtles removing their shells. Sure, terrapins’ keratin sheds, but turtles aren’t hermit crabs or snails.
Only the bright box turtles, with skin painted flaming yellow and reddish-orange, can fully hide within their shells, their plastrons a closing door’s hinge.
Brave turtles’ backbones constitute their carapace, the shell shown on their back. Some are round, some sharp, some saddle-shaped, like that of old George, who has hit the sack.
Old George, called Lonesome, was last of his Pinta Island kin. One subspecies of many to go extinct, since humans hunted their numbers so thin.
Turtles cannot take off their shells. That’s skeleton; it’s bone. Like we can’t walk without our skin, or slip out our spines for fun. Turtles cannot flee without their shells, (Though pancake tortoises can run). It’s an intrinsic part of them, the two of them are one.
Turtles’ homes are not their shells, but the forests we overrun.
The seas we feed with plastic jellyfish, and trash with which we’re done.
Habitats bisected with new paved roads filled with hazards turtles cannot weather. Nesting beaches flooded by tourists unearthing eggs like buried treasure. Their homes are not bedrooms of kids whose parents don’t want a dog, but the ponds we fill with beer cans, and industry-owned drying bogs.
If only they had the absurd strength of those imagined cartoon shells, or could undergo brumation long enough to avoid our man-wrought hells.
But alas a turtle is just a turtle, no matter a sea farer, tortoise, terrapin. They are subjected to manmade hurdles, victimized by our kin.
So fantasize their durability, imagine mutant powers. Consequences are largely theirs though blame is wholly ours. Even claiming they’ll outlive our species cannot change the fact that we’ve wiped out so many of theirs, our irreversible impact.
Life at best...
by Carlos Alvarez
Dodge the Streetcar
by Mickey WilcoxDodge the streetcar, brave the rain.
Keep the bouquet of pink Rite Aid peonies hidden from the drizzle, tucked inside your pink fleece. Well worn, frayed slightly at the hems, with an ice cream stain at the right cuff, it protects the petals from an overcast sky.
Ford the crosswalk, slip past strangers. Like a stick in a brook, bouncing between boulders studded with Balenciaga and Burberry. Take 4th up through Anistar Court, where the stench from your side of town can’t reach.
No rodent nests or lit cigarettes. Hard left at the fountain to find Sunlit Suites. A fortress, walled, dated, and golden.
Give your least-threatening smile, most casual wave to the security guard, a neon warden in his box.
Now inside, perfumes peel away the pungent smell of rain from your fleece. You feel the silver swan sculptures scream “Leave! Go back to your hole!”
But four floors up. Three doors down. Two knocks away, one girl in love, holds a vase, and waits. She hopes for a flower, something pink. To remind her of your first date: a rosy sunset in the park, blushing cheeks, eating ice-cream in your cute pink fleece.
What are you waiting for?
Dodge the streetcar, brave the rain.
“Rainy day from a taxi cab”
by Grace Russowinter on 309
by Margaux Barrettsea of red lights out before me there’s barely a star in the sky honking, whizzing, swirling, stopping rain pours down in heaps and bounds potholes shake drops off windows electronic billboards on all sides buy this car! vote for me! the end is near! outside the winter trees whip past leafless silhouettes darker than the blue above not as desolate as the world around
“frozen blooms”by Natalie Zickel
weather the storm
by Lu Nogueiraat the moment the dark feels inescapable my stomach turns and my eyes burn i feel it creeping up my throat but yet i have nothing else to give to it
i had a dream that i was 10 years old and the thunderstorms were meant for fun i’d stand on the porch with my grandfather and count the seconds between lightning strikes
this year the damp couch cushions leave wet spots on my jeans from the rain the cold air stings my bloodshot eyes and still leaves my lungs feeling empty
i don’t want to feel like a kid anymore, holding onto mom and dad’s hands but i’ll keep chasing after those moments where the rain still feels like home
photo by Mary Fleming
by Owen Dorlac
“FTS”
The Oldest I’ve Ever Been
by Anastasia OrelToday I skip the song that yesterday birthed profound self-realization, or something resembling it. This symbolic internal shift feels infinitely significant, I think “You must be able to see it on my face. Such monumental change in my identity you must notice it!”. The clouds will part, the sun will split, and shards of light will illuminate me in my all-encompassing change!
But the clouds float undisturbed, the sun remains whole, and the only one who believes my metamorphosis is me. I try to tear sadness or grief out of my hollow bones, like peeling a barcode sticker and being left with a sticky residue and curled paper on my thumb. The self-pity never comes. When rotating the cogs and opening the floodgates, I often find no rivers are waiting to ravage the landscape.
Meanwhile, I have hammered and toiled away at a statue in my likeness. I thought myself a martyr, a victim to be owed.
“All of this is for something! A greater purpose, a point, a reward that will be perfectly cathartic and wash me PURE!”
But the statue collapses like sand when I go to touch it, and I understand that I — nor anyone else for that matter — will ever grasp themselves.
Exterior judgment will always swallow you whole. We often believe that our musings in confidence manage to rival the tidal wave of being perceived. Thus, we think ourselves misunderstood when the understanding is unfavorable, but the statues made of us are fashioned from marble. We are what others remember us to be if they remember us at all. But today, in my own right, I am the oldest I’ve ever been.
Art by Sryia Donepudi
photo by Mary Fleming
“Rumination”by Sofia Ong
Rain gliding down a car window
by Carlos AlvarezThere’s a stain on my glasses lens where a tear fell before I could catch it. Red stains the whites of my eyes rubbed raw.
The backs of my hands are dry, a land made barren by forlorn tears.
I carry a handkerchief from my father, creased by uniform folds, edges warped by decades of dryer tumbles. Like a throbbing bruise, becoming heavier with every blow. Off-white fabric contains until it can be washed clean again.
I do not know why I was crying, or when it became so hard to take a breath.
I do not know why it was so easy to stop crying, or how all my muscles feel tense.
I don’t like not knowing and being confused about myself. I will not cry without a reason.
Without a reason, I contain my tears, tuck away my father’s handkerchief, Wipe clear the lenses of my glasses, put my smile back on in the mirror, and return to my day.
art and poem by Erin Florio
On remembering my father and myself
by Sinead MastersonForgive me for not thinking of my father’s hardened hands and work boot shoe laces like wilted flowers after the 12 hour shift
Listen girl, don’t you remember who brought you into this world?
Forgive me for sleeping late to stay up with the chirping chirping and chest expanding and compressing
Forgive my open mouth quick to spit insults and bite into peaches, people, pursed lips
Forgive my ankles twisting and foot tapping socks with tiny red hearts peeking out the bottom of the bed first boy’s hand on my bouncing knee
Forgive my fear of too close scatter myself along paths, breadcrumb trail approach only with soft steps in the half-light through the trees
Forgive me for forgetting the dance
septic foreclosure
by Eric Katzensteindamp filthy drywall; this home is fermenting, parasites curl through the wounds in the paint. mycelium flooring; an echoing fungus whose sound makes the ceiling sag under its weight.
lymphatic fluid leaks down from the windows it pools where the paintings peel back from the wall. a putrefied table: did anyone eat here? rotten, forgotten, it melts in the hall.
upholster the lesions to clot up the bleeding; an abscess in address that begs to be drained. a hesitant hospice; please pull closed the curtains: one last futile favor to hide what is stained.
limp nails and tissues slough into the hardwood, a fetid foundation cementing the doors. these mortar meninges; the bones in the siding. we scrounge up more grout and we seal up the sores.
art by Maggie Parham
the age in eyes
by Margaux Barrettsome nights when i close my eyes i swear i’m five years old i see the checkered floor of our old house and the world before it got smaller and colder i hear my baby sister crying and the sound of an ice cream truck a mile away i taste my mother’s homemade cookies and the longing to grow up and grow older behind my eyes it’s all still there and i believe that i am too i’m twenty but i’m still five nine, fourteen, and seventeen too i’m every age i’ve ever been and i think i’ll always be because when i close my eyes memories are what i see
photo by Ava Goff
“through the oreo”by Natalie Zickel
It Always Ends
by Sophie StevensAnd suddenly, It’s March, The sky is blue, And the world finally sounds like the day is aglow. You think to yourself, I made it.
And you will continue to make it Time and time again.
Ellipsis Thanks...
whiteboards
spotify collaborative playlists
dog of wisdom
Frank the desktop goose
Ellipsis Does Not Thank...
the passage of time
dunkin, for running out of donuts
Adobe pricing
Nikki’s inability to remember dates
Ellipsis Is Indifferent To...
poetic fire
OneDrive access
Lu-colored walls
throwing the magazine around like a hot potato
see you again soon...