Green Blotter 2021 by Lebanon Valley College

Green Blotter 2021

Green Blotter is produced by the Green Blotter Literary Society of Lebanon Valley College, Annville, Pennsylvania. Submissions are accepted year round. Green Blotter is published yearly in a print magazine and is archived on the following website. For more information and submission guidelines, please visit: www.lvc.edu/greenblotter

GREEN BLOTTER EDITORS

ASSISTANT EDITORS

Managing

Megan Finlan ‘21

Art

Lauren Swisher ’22

Poetry

Marah Hoffman ’22

Bethany Zatto ’22

Leila May ’22 Prose

Lauren Walters ’22

Design

Kayleigh Johnson ’22

Website

Brody Johnston ’22

READER BOARD

Media

Brianna Eberly ’22

Emily Bainbridge ’21

Joshua Hildebrand ’22

Isaac Fox ’24 Kelly Fraine ’23 Alexandra Gonzalez ’23 FACULTY ADVISOR

Shelby Guinard ’23

Sally Clark

Lindsay Keiser ’23 Cassandra Martin ’22 Annie Steinfelt ’24 Erin Ziegler ’22 ii

CONTENTS Cassandra Griffing Lauren Gomez Marah Hoffman Caitlyn Kline Katherine Gan Allison Maschhoff Isaac Fox Alena Maiolo Isaac Fox Mickaela Maehren Ann Abramczuk Cassandra (Cassie) Martin Ann Abramczuk Caitlyn Kline Cassie Martin Eva Hain Azlyn Hain Gregg T. Holliday Cassie Martin Isaac Fox Cassandra Griffing Ann Abramczuk Rachel Sweningson Ann Abramczuk Azlyn Hain Albana Ismaili Albana Ismaili Azlyn Hain Gregg T. Holliday Katherine Gan Marah Hoffman Cassandra Griffing Slater Smith Makayla Arnold

Transcendence of Joy After Remedios Varo Banana Blossom The First Night I Was Loved Nature in Color (cover art) Chrysalis Life Sciences 101: Liars & Fires Untitled Slipping Untitled Less Savory Side Winter Specter The Dragon Broken Bottle Öllfarbe Stilleben A Chicken comfort inside a broken brain Untitled Leaving Portrait of My Self as My Lover with Dyslexia For R.D. Untitled Like a Pheonix I will burst Moon Dancer Koi Fish Cardinal Untitled My Mother Speaks The Lives of Olives Untitled The Amerigo Vespucci Advertisement Reading Audre Lord To a Brother Dying in Childhood Golden Hour Evening Gaze Untitled iii

1 2 3 4 5 8 11 12 20 21 22 24 26 28 29 30 34 35 38 41 42 43 44 50 51 52 54 56 57 61 65 66 67 69

Dear Reader,

While we are reluctant to start this note with yet another hollow sentiment lamenting

these trying times, we would be remiss to ignore the circumstances under which this edition was wrought. Last year, we completed the layout of our edition as the world came to a staggering halt, spending our last day on campus arranging pages on a classroom floor before packing up dorm rooms and saying uncertain goodbyes. A year later, though in-person activities have slowly started to resume, we found ourselves again putting together this literary magazine in a manner different from our usual evening discussions, marked by closeness, filled with laughter, and always complete with baked goods and pink lemonade brought by our beloved advisor. In the fashion of so many other important events, this year’s edition was conceived over a series of discussion boards and Zoom calls. Even still, the finished product entertains a vast assemblage of topics, and the organization postures the selected pieces with an ultimately optimistic resonance.

The included pieces ponder our place in the ever-shifting tides of life, the duality of love, or

the beauty of the natural world just outside the window. Our time in isolation has allowed not only creativity to flourish, but a fresh outlook on the terrifyingly remarkable experience of being human to blossom. Amid the pervasive uncertainty of life during the Covid-19 crisis, we have found our footing in the beauty of creative writing and visual art. These pieces have reminded us of the universalities—death, fear, identity, love, hope, transformation—that keep us turning pages. Our 2021 issue possesses a spark despite its genesis in discussion boards and Zoom. It is, above all, a testament to the enduring power of art. We invite you to delve into its contents and hope that it electrifies your spirit as it has ours.

As you read this collection, we hope you notice the underpinning progression from sorrow,

affliction, and anguish to brightness, resolution, and hope but, even more, that the sense of hope emerging in this edition transcends the pages into everyday life. Sincerely, The Editors v

Transcendence of Joy After Remedios Varo Cassandra Griffing

When I first saw it my soul rose out of my rigid body It is finally capturing an unnamable feeling like a lightening bug in a jar It is not possible to tickle yourself… tell that to four-year-old me Joy is golden warm, like the death of a summer day My ancestors, versions of me, kindly glimpse my golden orange figure, glowing sunset Butterflies can taste with their feet Aspen leaves flapping like sequins on an evening dress Joy is reminiscing on the last day of summer, while ecstasy is that one warm day in winter My biggest fear was once death, now it’s not living fully She pointed her amber eyes toward me, seeing the protection of my ancestors, basking in her bronzed beauty was the scariest part Hair entangled with Jupiter, gracing Saturn’s ring

Banana Blossom Lauren Gomez

Banana Blossom snap off the fibrous layers seize the florets in hiding expose the heart of blossoms flesh soft yellow and white sweet and tender in your hands eat the heart that was mine

The First Night I Was Loved Marah Hoffman

He twirled my bonfire-scented hair around his index finger. Shifted his sharp chin to sit above my frontal lobe which had lost the ability to cognate. Whispered softer than the birth of the gnat swirling above our sandwiched bodies, “I love you.” Prayed I was in the deaf-mute clutch of sleep so I wouldn’t hear. And did not try to fuck me although he realized he wanted to. His chest was an oven, nourishing me as if I were yeast. I rose. Ripened. In the morning light, I paused by the hallway mirror. Face still flushing, I willed my color to stain— knowing when the red drained, it would ferment to memory.

Nature in Color Caitlyn Kline

Chrysalis Katherine Gan

Friendship is like a cocoon

spun tighter and tighter

even if just for an hour

I’m watching our physical bodies from above

transcending time and space and matter and linearity

emotive, caring, loving, tenderness

feeling without words, intimacy between spirits

side by side I can finally breathe

improvisational, random, being

unmasked, unveiled, naked, exposed

embarrassed, reassured, soothed

silk is spun and spun

safe, protective encasement 5

translucent outside in, opaque inside out

stripped bare of insecurities, shame, guilt, ego

talking about nothing and talking about everything

souls kissing, touching,

connecting,

moving

embracing warmth

silk wraps closely around us now

tighter and tighter/ stronger/ impenetrable/ secure

inside our haven

i can’t see beyond you

the crinkle in your smile, your eyes light up

voice shedding darkness

absorbing your radiance, reading your octaves

higher and higher and higher

touching your soul from six feet away

laughter rippling inside our cocoon 6

spinning, skipping, twirling, dancing,

cartwheeling spinning spinning spinning

breaking through, shattering, bursting, finally emerging

we began as caterpillars we leave butterflies

Life Sciences 101: Liars & Fires Allison Maschhoff

What you have been told is a lie. The natural state of the tree is not found when the leaves are green or when autumn’s flames burn bright, but in the depths of winter when the leaves are gone and the branches are exposed, when truth is placed under the microscope of a winter sun and the human eye is opened to the beautiful, tragic sight of the intensity with which the trees reach out to one another with their upside-down arms that fight against gravity every long moment of their long lives. They fight and fight, they 8

reach and reach, their muscles ache and burn, all for the sake of the dying hope that one day soon the tip of the tip of their longest, weakest fingertip will brush against the tip of the tip of the longest, weakest fingertip of the one they love. The one they can never see because their head is buried deep beneath the surface of the earth where the darkness blocks out even the kind light of their lover’s eyes.

What you have been told is a lie. No one wants to know what the birds are really saying any more than they want you to disagree with them. The moon isn’t pulling the ocean to itself, 9

the moon just happens to be at the bottom of the funnel the oceans are slowly emptying themselves into because they’re so tired of being stretched so thin.

What you have been told is a lie. The trees are upside down. The earth is inside out. Their heads are out in space and ours are pressing closer and closer to the center of the earth, that thing you call the sun— watch out! It burns.

Untitled Isaac Fox

Slipping Alena Maiolo

I awoke to the sound of banging. It wasn’t ear-drum-bursting heavy metal or the thudding of my aspiring neuroscientist neighbor’s head hitting the wall, though – that was last week. The banging that interrupted my slumber was a rapping at my dorm room door. I, hair unkempt and glasses askew, opened it to find my boyfriend of three months, stumbling into my closet-like single, reeking of sweat, alcohol, and bird shit. Liam was large – unequivocally Herculean – but watching him stagger into my room at four o’clock in the morning reminded me that even demigods have weaknesses. Liam’s was a dangerous combination of raging parties, clubs, hard liquor, and drugs. I wish I could tell you I was surprised, or at least claim that these intrusions were infrequent, but his visits were almost always disruptive. His reckless lifestyle and boisterousness seeped into the lives of those around me. I would walk to the bathroom in the morning to find my neighbor, Beth –a fellow New Yorker I used to do trivia with on Wednesday nights– glaring at me. Words weren’t our currency anymore. Just a halfhearted apologetic smile exchanged for silent but aggressive teeth-brushing. 12

Beyond Beth’s demonstrated annoyance and ostensible lack of concern, there came a point in the semester where my Residential Advisor knocked on my door. It was a Tuesday afternoon. Liam had class. I welcomed her into my shoebox of a room and offered her some Swedish Fish. She gracefully sat down at my desk, legs crossed and gummy fish in hand. Sadie was your typical New England girl. Her hair was darker than black licorice and always pin straight – never a strand out of place. She often dressed in the latest Lily Pulitzer patters. She was wearing Dancing Maine Lobster that evening. Sadie spoke slowly, choosing her words with care. “Anna, I’ve been getting some noise complaints from some of the other students on the floor.” I felt my mouth getting dry. “A few of them have woken up to the sound of banging at around four in the morning. Does that sound familiar to you?” I responded with, “My boyfriend just can’t sleep sometimes,” and threw in a shoulder shrug. She nodded. I offered her some more of my Swedish Fish, but she politely declined and headed for the door. “Wow your doorknob is about to fall off, has it always been like this?” I tossed her another patented Anna shrug. Once she left, I took to Amazon to order a 13

screwdriver. The next time I saw Sadie, she was coming back from a late night at the library, laptop in hand accompanied by rose gold noise cancelling headphones. “Glad to see Buildings and Grounds finally came to fix that doorknob!” I returned her spriteliness with a sheepish smile. On most weekdays and weekends, I relinquished three-fourths of my Twin XL to stop Liam from drunkenly tormenting his shrimp of a roommate, Ben. Ben was a track team walk-on and had the second slowest mile time of both the men’s and women’s teams, which is an impressively bad feat. He wasn’t the greatest guy, but he wasn’t deserving of Liam’s torment – no one was. Liam was a soccer star and made Ben aware of it by shoving him around the room and whipping his sweaty jersey at his face after games. That was just what I had seen, and that was when Liam was sober. The banging started again. “Anna,” Liam shouted. His voice boomed, almost as if he were trying to compete with the bass from Rumba, his favorite European club. “Let me in silly.” He banged on the door. “Why do you bother locking it? Anyone you’d need to be afraid of would have to get through me before they got to you.” He was rattling the freshly fixed doorknob up and down, thinking somehow that brute force and persistence would unlock it. 14

I finally committed to missing my morning class for the fourth time this semester and opened the door. Liam was wearing his royal blue puffy coat that hit at his knees. He picked me up and threw me over his shoulder, shoving my mouth into the coyote fur on the hood of his coat. He spun me around the room and tossed me down on the bed. He sat down at my desk, feet propped up inches from my beloved pen collection, snow still caked into the soles of his boots. The words flowed from his mouth like molasses, sticky and slow. “Anna, you’re never going to believe what just happened.” I highly doubted this and wanted it to be obvious. “Is this like the time you caught a baby shark with your bare hands off the coast of Mallorca? Or the time your private jet passed Taylor Swift’s? Or the time you tried to pin a barrette on a bunny rabbit?” He laughed in the way only drunk people can, without noise or awareness. “No, no, no. This tops any, every, all of that.” He burped. I rolled my eyes. This was going to be a long night. “There I was, in the honorable establishment of Phi Psi – a night with the boys. Mill wanted a girl, and as the dame-catching expert, I was obligated to share my talent with him. I saw this hot blonde chick from my micro class and went right up behind her and shoved her. She fell right into Mill’s arms. I bolted, and he got the girl for the night.” 15

He stood up straight like a proud toddler who had just finished his first puzzle and tried to take off his coat. “Liam sit down for a minute. Untie your boots first.” He sat back down with a thud, the snow from his boots now in muddy puddles across my floor. “That sounds like a pretty average night to me,” I yawned and started to lie down. “Wait, wait, wait, wait,” the tone in his voice was familiar, angry. “Let me finish.” I sat back up. “Vic and I started walking back, and we realized the lake was completely frozen over, so we walked across it to get back to campus.” He stood up again, this time successful in shedding his coat. “There was this baby goose slipping and sliding at the other end of the lake.” He started laughing, making his hands into little wings and waddling around the room. “It looked so dumb and lost. Vic and I started chasing it.” “You chased after a lost baby goose?” “Well I wasn’t going to shoot at it. You know I don’t bring my gun with me on nights out. And Vic wanted a picture with it.” 16

I didn’t want to keep listening to this story – I needed to go to bed – but the questions kept falling from my mouth. “Did you catch the goose? What did you do with it? Did anyone see you?” “Anna come on; you’re making it sound like we killed the thing! We took some pictures with it, no big deal.” He shoved his steady hand in my face to show me photos of him and Vic squeezing the life from the baby goose. “Sounds like a fun night.” I started pulling up my comforter. “It was until the Campus Safety car showed up and yelled at us through a megaphone to put the goose down. I slid it across the lake, and we ran.” He couldn’t stop laughing. I looked over at my alarm clock. “Can we go to bed? It’s 5:44. You know I have class in three hours.” Liam climbed onto my bed the way a young monkey would climb into a tree, with a chaotic grace. He wedged himself between me and the wall, his broad shoulders pushing me to the edge of my bed. I turned away from him to face my open room, eyes shut tight, my luxurious six inches of space never felt so claustrophobic. “I forgot to ask. Did you ever call the gynecologist about getting you birth control? If it’s a money thing, you know that’s not an issue for me, right?” I closed my eyes tighter and tried to sleep, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t. The 17

feeling of Liam’s sticky hands and the smell of watered-down beer on his breath nauseated me. # “Anna!” I saw a lanky man waving at me from across the dining hall. It was Ben. I waved back, and he assumed that was an invitation to sit with me. I had come alone and wanted it to stay that way, but he set his plate down with a loud clank. “Liam never came home last night, was he with you?” I nodded and pushed around my tortellini. “Phew, ok good. I thought he fell into the lake.” I set down my fork. “How did you know he was on the lake last night?” “Anna, are you telling me you haven’t seen this video? It’s all over the Facebook group.” I stared at him. “What video?” Ben whipped out his phone to show me a blurry video of two large men on a frozen lake shaking a baby goose and repeatedly falling down on the ice. In the bottom corner of the video, a mother goose emerged from the bushes, squawking at the boys. The baby goose kept slipping and sliding, trying to make its way back to its mom, its webbed feet not equipped to handle the ice yet. The mother goose charged at the boys with all her might. The larger of the two got up and in one 18

foul swoop grabbed it and snapped its neck. The red lights from the campus safety car glared, and the boys ran. I could barely hear Ben’s chortle over my stomach churning. He put his phone back in his pocket and shrugged. “I mean it’s the goose’s fault after all. It should have known better than to get in Liam’s way.” I picked up my plate and left the dining hall in a rush, still hungry, slipping and sliding all the way back to my dorm, my new white sneakers no match for the icy pavement.

Untitled Isaac Fox

Less Savory Side Mickaela Maehren

Eat my limbs, Greed. You make me so desperate for her limbs to wrap around mine. Erysichthon too devoured his flesh for you. My appetite

Takes chokehold. Greed, you’ve given me a taste for passion; a hungry type love, loving her would feed my craving

Quench my thirst. My mouth dries in desire. Greed, you’ve stranded me in this lonely desert I’d cross for her

A cross I’d bear for her. Despite my prayer, this is not selfless, It’s self-indulgence, my Greed likes to play

Dress up to catch attention, hunger pained Eyes ravage her body senseless. Erysichthon

sold his daughter into slavery to feed His own Greed, then devoured himself. Greed, you eat both him and I.

Winter Specter Ann Abramczuk

It was a windy morning, A frigid, frosty day When Winter blew upon his pipes And blew snow in my way. For I had so made up my mind, Ignoring Winter’s wrath, To take my daily morning stroll Upon the frozen path When suddenly, there did appear, A strange and ghostly sight. It came in but a moment’s time— A specter, soft and white. It rose in its uncanny way, An eerie, furtive mist, And there upon the pathway, 22

It twisted, snaked, and hissed. Then just as fast, it disappeared, And all was once more still. And all it left, to tell its tale Was Winter’s morning chill.

The Dragon Cassandra Martin

What are you looking at me for? He took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke mixing with the night air, soft, tendrils drifting to the fog beyond the porch swing and the muddied grass. I saw the shadows reach the corners of his eyes, harshen his nose. I replied. Why do you smoke? He chuckled, and my eyebrows narrowed. Another sigh, another puff, like white clouds. He seemed to me a great beast, that by sitting on this porch, away from the rest of the party, I was entering his den uninvited. He never answered me but looked far away into the deep blue of the evening light, the trees swaying with an indiscernible breeze, and I heard the shouts and screams of the youth, and the music, singing, singing, singing. Be free child, I am a free child of God. I mulled over what I was supposed to say and felt the words turn to putty in my mouth as I watched his chin, the fingers that brought the cigarette to his lips, full and puckered to meet the end. I wanted to know how to properly hold one, to smoke one. I imagined running my fingers along the edges of his nose, and mouth, chest, and crotch. He turned to me then, smiling like he knew I’d stumbled upon a place I didn’t understand, his eyes lit by the yellow porch light burning away the dusk. I stood up quickly like someone had jerked the collar of my shirt, and felt my way into the living room where Mr. and 24

Mrs. Weaver were leading worship. They looked at me as I entered, mouthing in unison, and my faith will be made stronger in the presence of my Savior. I swallowed thickly and watched him from the window as he walked away from the porch, entering the treeline until he was enveloped by the thickness of the white and yellow fog.

Broken Bottle Ann Abramczuk

It lies fractured on the sidewalk Scattered into Fragments Of the darkest green, like the murky Depths of a pond covered in algae Where the life was silently smothered within See the jagged teeth glint in the lamplight Where the glass shattered on impact To reveal points of knives Lying in the alley squalor, 26

Where the discarded come to rest And sooty vermin scrabble Among the shards And things left forgotten Come to rest and Rot

Öllfarbe Stilleben Caitlyn Kline

A Chicken Cassandra Martin

She washed the blood from her hands in the bathroom sink. The water rushing over her palms, where the red has sunk into her skin. Scrubbing away with the soap and underneath her fingernails, around the grooves of the silver ring. He’d only been trying to teach her what a chicken looked like with its head cut off, he said as he passed by the doorway. And wasn’t it funny? The body convulsing long after its head was gone, feet still moving as if running towards its upper half. He lightly reached out and touched her neck, pointer finger slipping down to her clavicle. His wrist was wired with veins. So strong. She watched the deep black of his pupils, looking for worth in the reflection of his eyes. She had seen him that moment, when he had kneeled in the pen, grinning, a bit of sunlight trickling through the coop toward his hair. Then squirming as he grasped the chicken by its delicate neck and swung his ax, thrusting the warm chicken head into her fingers after it was done. She turned to him from the bathroom sink, blinking as he held her hands and praised her wrists. Oh, how delicate, he said. Oh, how sweet.

Comfort Inside a Broken Brain Eva Hain

It won’t help. That’s what my brain keeps telling me. I mean, how could it? I know the breathing techniques, coping exercises, counting patterns, all of that shit, and none of it has ever helped. But I’ve felt so low for so long that I guess, if nothing else, it couldn’t make anything worse. And going to counseling will at least make me feel like I’m actively combatting the issues with my brain instead of just ignoring them. I start walking towards the offices. This whole building is so sterile; the piercing smell of disinfectant wafts out of every room and attacks my nose. I can feel the receptionist’s gaze following me after I check in. She knows what I’m here for. She knows I’m heading towards the bright green wall with rows of heavy, closed doors, behind them broken people, desperate for an outlet to alleviate their pain. I’m suddenly self-conscious, and wonder if maybe I should just about-face, waltz through the revolving door, and continue living my life as I have been. Then I remember that that would mean living a life full of pent up rage, confusion, and sporadic anxiety attacks that I have no way of 30

foreseeing. Breathe. Keep walking forward. I’m inching down the hallway now. One foot in front of the other. Right in front of the other. The arrangement of the square tiles on the floor is like a pre-programmed pathway for my movement. If only the pattern was more regular. I have to step to the left to reach the next square. Then to the far right. Then to one immediately in front of the last. Left. Right. Forwards. I’m nearly tripping over myself when I look up and see a woman staring at me with raised eyebrows. To her it must look like I’m stepping through a very poorly choreographed dance routine. I flush red and pick up the pace a bit. Slap. Slap. Slap. What is that? Oh... how long have I been smacking my water bottle into my palm? It kind of hurts. Maybe I should stop. I don’t think I can. My body is doing it, my brain has little to no control. One hit per second. I count, one and two and three and four, and one and two and three and four, the bottle hitting my hand on every first and third beat. Subdividing. Like in orchestra. I should practice my oboe when I get home. Holy crap the lights in here are really bright. I decide to close my eyes. That’s better. Wait—now I can’t see. Thump. That was a wall. Okay, I’ll open my eyes. Briefly. I’ll flash them open once every three 31

seconds. That should be enough to detect any walls before another collision. How far away is the office? Whatever. Just keep walking; it has to be close. My head hurts. Maybe if I move it around, it’ll feel better. I start swaying my head down, to the side, and back up again. Anyone witnessing my movement would just see a kid with their head bobbing around. But it’s actually a very calculated movement. Set of movements. It’s a pattern. Everything is a pattern. Beep. Beep. Beep. I’m passing the doctors’ offices now, and there are a lot of distracting noises pouring out of them. What is that beeping coming from? A computer? A scale? I don’t know. Why do I even care? It’s not important. Keep walking. Wait. Where am I going again? Was I supposed turn right? Green walls. Oh yeah. That’s what I’m looking for. Next time my eyes flicker open, I’ll check what color the walls are. Bang. Shit, I dropped my water bottle. It missed my hand and fell to the floor. Now the sequence is broken. I start tapping my hand to my side, trying to compensate for my error. The bottle starts to roll away. Every time I flash open my eyes, it’s further down the hallway. Stepping towards it would force me to abandon my programmed stepping pattern on the floor tiles. My head starts spinning faster and faster. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. I’m tapping my side aggressively now. 32

Lights. My eyes flicker open and closed, open and closed. SloshSloshSlosh. My water bottle. I hear it, still rolling across the floor. Beep-Beep-Beep. Now I’m panicking. What do I do? I open my eyes. Black. That’s all I see. The world is gone. I turn around and run.

Untitled Azlyn Hain

Leaving Gregg T. Holliday

a stillborn morning with a chorus of headlights rushing stinging up and down the dark damp road heard from beneath cold panes of blinded glass and hollow red brick walls that can only hide so much... eventually the nagging alarm clock of light illuminates the geometric shapes of some hand-me-down quilt, moving through each fold of valley and mountain, dissolving into their colors as it passes into my cotton cavern 35

providing a pallid palette that coats my thought’s habit

all too soon afternoon arrives and what’s already been too drably bright is just now glaring as neighboring strangers’ shouts unwelcomely invite my company again and again the mailman’s hand crams junk into a slot 6 by 6 all of it cramped and stamped with a great big bold and red “ATTENTION:” ... but there’s only so much the memory is willing to retain

it’s why I forgot to call in coughing and sneezing cherry cough drop rosettes into the ear of my God

why I’ll forget until there’s no need to remember.

Portrait of My Self as My Lover with Dyslexia For R.D. Cassandra Martin

If my mind meant open possibilities when I tried to stitch this patchwork quilt together into something that felt as comprehensible as running water through open fingers, then it was grievously mistaken.

Four pages with two-sided columns in black-lettered 11-point font, detailing a solution to the opioid epidemic or the psychology of syntax, do not make up for the unboxed puzzle pieces that don’t fit together in the end, as if they were all the corners of a picture, of something mildly important. 38

I am my lover. Sinking upon grains of sand meant to build castles.

I am my lover. Finding solace in the parts of me that I know link together.

I am my lover. Mind a running river to a forest unexplainable.

When I am my lover I find that he is the hero among the poor who call him the prince, whose best attributes include rejecting his own crown.

If I was my lover I would accept the honors, Place the crown upon my head And grin. King of the forest where The trees bend backwards, Embrace that river – Let the water envelop My face and fill my nose

Becoming lost in The way that water Makes you whole.

Untitled Isaac Fox

Like a Phoenix, I will burst Cassandra Griffing

Like a Phoenix, I will burst on some unnamed day they say this life will leave me, but where will it settle? I wish for worms and beetles among my molten folded feathers feasting dispersing my melted brain: what I am. I plead for a seed to settle in my heart, where a spruce may sprout. And my toes, bulbs. I wish for lavender Lilies to pullulate from prisons of ash frozen snow in its center lies a lone speck of dust.

Moon Dancer Ann Abramczuk

Koi Fish Rachel Sweningson

In the small hours of the morning, I go to the beach with my grandmother, Marmee. On a worn towel, we eat soggy fast-food sandwiches: the kind where grease slips down the wrappings and drips onto my five-dollar sundress. The ocean, capped with white, laps at the shore and pulls the sand into its embrace. Blustering winds toss my hair in my face and tug at my dress, asking me to join them. I point down the shoreline with a pleading expression. Marmee nods her head in response, so I take off down the shore. Pushing against the current of the wind, my flip flops toss up water and gloppy sand. Though Biloxi Beach is artificial—a manufactured tourist trap to pair alongside the city’s smoky casinos—this sand is not an export from the silty coasts of Hawaii. I stop running and wipe the water from my legs. My hands are slick, dripping black. Oil freshly delivered off the coast. Marmee takes pictures with her disposable camera as she makes her way to me. Together, we meander down the shoreline. I avoid her leading questions about my life in Arkansas, and she dodges my direct ones about her life in Louisiana. The further we walk, the more debris we sidestep: a dead fish, its decaying body separated from its head. Beside it, a broken jellyfish stretches out. I look ahead. Rot peppers the shore. Marmee takes my hand and leads us away. 44

“Not appropriate for a little girl.” *

Twenty or thirty bright little heads poke out of the pond, opening their mouths for bits of

food. I take a handful of pellets and cast them out into the pond. The golden koi are in a frenzy, though they are not yet big enough to swallow a pellet whole. Two beautiful adult koi—one the color of a full moon and the other a rich, sunny glow— push through their newborn to the center of the food. Grandma walks up behind me and hugs my shoulders in that special way grandparents know. I lean my head on her shoulder, watching the gentle spring breeze cast the acres of trees and fields in an undulating motion. Amidst this green ocean, calves frolic with each other, and their disgruntled mothers chew the waves. *

Mom tries telling my dad how strong the public-school system is in Biloxi. She is wrong,

of course. I am merely in the district’s best elementary school, and judging by my teacher’s daily ravings about our generational hopelessness, that is not saying much. The best part of school here is the library. I love sitting in front of the Animorphs shelf, reading about kids transforming into animals to save humanity. One of the characters shares my name. She allows nothing to get in her way, and if something does, she just turns into an eagle to escape the world. Unfortunately, Ms. Davis never lets me visit the library on my own, and I never grab enough books to last me the week. When I leave in February, the series remains unfinished. Long after I move up to Arkansas, my half-sister will remain in Mississippi and attend a 45

private school on scholarship. I ask her if Animorphs is in her library. It is not. Figures. *

According to Chinese myth, a golden koi fish once became a dragon. The koi was swimming

in its school against the current of the Yellow River. When the school reached a waterfall, each fish turned away until the single koi remained. Determined to conquer the waterfall, the koi tried jumping up the current without much success, which caught the attention of local demons. The demons raised the waterfall’s height and taunted the koi, but the koi would not give up. After one hundred years of jumping, the koi reached the waterfall’s top in triumph. The gods recognized this perseverance, and as a reward, transformed the koi into a golden dragon. * My whole family is present in honor of Grandma’s eightieth birthday. Aunts, uncles, and cousins—everyone is reminiscing about the good ol’ days and trying to slip in how great life is going. Big oil employees, a polymer researcher, a pharmacist, and a geologist—among other things. I answer the standard questions about scholarship applications, test scores, and career goals, but here, my family nods to show legitimate interest in my answers. Grandpa hugs my shoulders when I sink into the couch cushion next to him. The fire keeps the room warm, and laughter reminds everyone how nice it is to be together again. * Eyes wide. Mouth agape. Dead fish. I cannot attend my uncle’s funeral. “We can’t find a reasonable plane ticket on such short notice, and I won’t be able to pick you 46

up halfway. I don’t think Marmee can handle being alone right now,” Mom whispers the last part into the receiver. In the distance, I can hear my cousins—his young daughters—playing house with my sister. Their laughter, broken over the phone, brings a smile to my face. No matter the tears and kicking Mom told me about before. They can still smile, and for now, that is enough. I tell Mom I understand. There is so much happening where I am anyways. My boyfriend planned a date for Valentine’s Day, my teacher assigned a massive project, and—well, it’s all for the best. * In Devil’s Den, Lee Creek trickles down the valley—the water stopped up by a tall stone dam. While my friend and I build cairns out of the flat rocks, silver fish and tadpoles flit through the shallow water and between our toes, glistening in the sunlight that beats down on my back. I sit on a dry rock when our work is done and take a picture. The cairn is crooked, and that is the point. With spindly spires supporting the weight of rocks I had struggled to hold, a beauty is captured and will remain long after the construction has fallen. The pieces, cast aside by wind or water or the human hand, sit in places they never would have reached.

Towering to our side, a rock dam withholds emerald water from the lake above. Built

almost a century ago by the Civilian Conservation Corps, natural flat rocks are stacked on top of one another and conjoined by some form of mortar. In the center of the dam, the rocks lower slightly, allowing for a steady, manmade waterfall to flow. I watch the water spilling over and the 47

daring people crossing the dam’s uneven platforming. One man casts his rod into the lakeside edge. Do fish ever spill into the basin below? When we get service back on the road, I send my pictures to Dad. He sends a thumbs up and asks about my plans for coming back down this weekend. I call Mom back like I promised. She talks about finally tiling the kitchen floor and replacing the broken refrigerator. My sister rambles about the upcoming weekend with her cousins. *

My toes hug the wooden floors of my grandparents’ house, trying to leech some warmth

from the clammy surface. With this year’s big freeze, their house kept power, but the farm took a toll. Foliage dead and crisp, the cows in a stagnant huddle, and the koi pond frozen over. With the weather warming up, a shallow layer of condensation now covers the pond’s ice, and puffy robins frolic in the natural bath.

“Are the koi going to be okay?” I ask, hugging my arms.

Grandma throws a blanket over her legs. “Oh, I’m sure they will. Fish are resilient.”

But with the stubborn blue sheet shielding the koi from onlookers, I cannot be sure. “I wish

I had taken a few for my dorm. The ones you kept in the bowl were so sweet.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I frown. Down the driveway and past the pond, my grandpa and dad work in the barn.

Grandpa has an appointment on Monday to check out recent heart palpitations, so Dad is helping 48

with some heavy lifting on the farm. Grandpa needs to ask for help more often. “I was worried about having a big enough bowl for them, but I’d rather be able to care for them than let them die.”

“Well, you could always take some once the pond melts,” Grandma says, “Now have you

seen this video of your cousin?” We divert to more pertinent conversation where I gush about the goings-on of university and she fills me in on the engagements, babies, and moves I have missed. When Grandpa comes in from the farm work, he sinks into his old recliner, making good fun at Dad’s attempts to help and complaining about his heart. Soon, I quietly sit on the arm of Grandpa’s recliner and put my arm around him in that special way family knows. At eight years old, we comfortably sandwiched together in the seat, but now I try not to crush him. As I unconsciously slide into the chair over time however, Grandpa merely plays with my hands while I twist his wedding ring around his finger. I do not know how his heart appointment will go within the week, but it does not much matter. For now, I am resting my head on his, and it feels eternal. Marmee is caring for my cousins, and her compassion grows for little girls who see death too early. The koi fish are floating under the ice, and their lives remain in question. With my eyes closed and the voices around the room blurring, the cascade of my experiences wash over me, each as valuable as the last.

Cardinal Ann Abramczuk

Starched woolen snow, Fresh as new linen, Blankets the dark earth, static and slumbering. All around, the noiseless still of a white morn Reaches as far as the eye, burning in the searing frost, can see. A cardinal, scarlet as the holly berry, Fresh and bright in the swaying boughs, Stirs the air on swift wing Like hands applauding A virtuoso imparting the gift of music. He asks little of you But your seeds and your silence. Winter’s clergy loves a winter’s prayer. A splash of red paint Hit the canvas when The artist’s brush glided over it there.

Untitled Azlyn Hain

My Mother Speaks Albana Ismaili

My mother is a warrior in the face of prejudice. I speak hard work here she says as she works tirelessly trying to provide for five American babies. A lallet is where her minimum wage is kept and the carr takes her to work everyday. She cannot tame her tongue to sit in her mouth while forming a “W” but it naturally rolls the “R”s effortlessly. Alfabet has little letters as she speaks about the quantity, of 36 letters of comfort she cherishes, as opposed to the 26 foreign scribbles of unusual sounds, with too many rules and restrictions. America very big like blanket she says, as it reminds her of the therapy of crocheting, weaving each strand together to make a beautiful united piece. Trump no good she says to show her intelligence hidden behind the English barrier of an American wall. 52

I no need instructions she says as she builds patio sets just with pictures, never having to read a single word of the society that treats her like a second-class citizen. Mother, Nëna ime, Make them listen to you. Make them cherish the complexity of speaking more than one tongue. Make it known that you have no intention of stopping. You are the foundation of America, even if they do not see that. Mama, you are my Rosie the Riveter, even if you may not know who that is.

The Lives of Olives Albana Ismaili

I have to fly 5,000 miles for liberated olives of superior taste with pits, validation of authenticity like the M.D. after a doctor’s name

Here, the olive has a short journey It grows from the ground Into a huge tree sprouting branches of Beautiful numerous olives Each hand-picked one by one with such fragility one would think it was a diamond and then it is set in a bowl. Now, joined with its family; same roots, same heritage, same culture. They huddle together enjoying each others company 54

as once separated by branches they are finally reunited

In America, they’re stripped of identity, dead souls extracted As pits are thrown out to make more room For hundreds of different olives From different parts of the world To be diminished, drowned, faded in a concoction of toxins To preserve their flawlessness

Yet, they are dead, false taste diminished color artificial as their foreign counterparts live the good life able to grow freely on trees of strength and reverence.

No wonder people travel across the world for a taste of the holy grail in its purest form.

Untitled Azlyn Hain

The Amerigo Vespucci Advertisement Gregg T. Holliday

I’ve heard about the light The light of one’s life Its essence

I’ve seen that light That light of one’s life Anew in neon vision Pouring forth from a television As an apparition, A hospital gown of Translucent illumination Fitting over The dank contours Of old furniture And familiar surroundings To provide the same old night 57

That every night here has been With a new skin.

I’ve witnessed that light That light of one’s life In its magnificence As the fabric of my worn Cushioned seat Began to breathe while Strawberry pinks Cryogenic blues And uranium yellows Combed over the dust Ridden walls And all that was ever black Was pushed back And behind Where it is I sat In front of the T.V.

And I watched as that Ebbing and flowing light The light of a man’s life Looked back at me From across The tray table And over its Plastic Microwavable Now cold Dish dinner, To smile A sun-bathed Sunday beach On an American shoreline For one glorious second Before It left me To again remember In the moment It blinked black Back into everything 59

That such a light Is just a dream Just a story Just a passing in time Of particles and waves Pressing Adams positive, Nudging Adams negative, But never ever A day of rest on Warm golden grains Of American sand.

Reading Audre Lorde Katherine Gan

I am less alone seen, heard, touched, felt, loved, cared verses jumping across the page, the Erotic is power: echoing in my thoughts, channeled in my body sentences, fragments that heal nourish fill

feeding my soul

hugging me through the pages, squeezing tight, I am never letting go

Reading you is knowing, feeling, absorbing, thinking, laughing shocked, awe : how do you see me without even knowing me? without ever knowing me

how do you think in poetry? and prose? I don’t but i want to i want to i want to

im walking down 142nd street too as you beg for a little red coat as you’re sandwiched between your sisters, asking for more bedtime stories 61

i know almost everything about you, but you know nothing about me physically we haven’t ever met / but spiritually im drawn to you, connected, tethered and 40 years later your words still move me, shake me, alter my very core

white women, can’t you see?

we are not the same.

“sisterhood”, “womanhood” but for who?

not for both of us.

who makes your ‘feminist theory’ possible? who is tokenized at your conference? whose labor is extracted to:

decenter your whiteness/ your wealth / your straightness/ your everything /you

who is willing to call you out? you rake them across coals, expose them for who they are it’s refreshing affirming inspiring honesty resonates, strikes a chord, moves me to courage and bravery to scrutinize whiteness is to recognize its unnatural, isolating construction but not only whiteness

to be lesbian and Black: to love a community that calls you a threat to their very existence 62

to say unapologetically: i am valid, i am loved, and i can be free there is nothing wrong with me, there is something wrong with this world I have more than one dog in this fight - why are you making me choose? We are not free until WE ARE ALL FREE your liberation is contingent upon dismantling all oppressive structures organizing by acknowledging difference, not in spite of it woman means white woman, race means Black man, lesbian means white lesbian, poor means white working class man: what does it mean to occupy more than just one? why are you winnowing me down down down down until im nothing you want me to disappear, to erase myself you wanted her to die from cancer and perish away to nothingness but she journaled through the chemo and the treatment and the isolation

she passed but she is still here in everyone who reads her work 63

who speaks her truth their truth

our truth

who finds liberation in words criss crossing,

break

dancing

tip toeing

across the page beauty in my mind being soul spirit and body

thank you Audre Lorde

To a Brother Dying in Childhood Marah Hoffman

I’ll say remember how the trees looked when you sat atop my handlebars, sloping your neck on the cul-de-sac’s curves, the wind blushing your round cheeks. Remember what it was to feel winter nestled under your coat, on your skin, between your ribs. It made you alive. Remember how we pretended things were lost, so we could call their names. Can you hear me calling yours, already? And, finally, remember us washed in the colors of a closing world.

Golden Hour Cassandra Griffing

On a picnic, not far from home we are drawn to an illuminated pathway glimmering in the woods. Above, rounded cottonwood leaves bend golden light streams they too, capturing the grace of the moment.

Through the path rests a shy clearing embracing us into its moss-covered arms, ringing with brass bells in all its grandeur. We painted our cheeks golden with dandelion pollen, and planted our toes till our shins began to green. We were frolicking gazelles, guarded by this sanctuary from any lurking eyes of the predator that is time.

We later returned to this same sacred spot to find no trace of a glimpse of heaven, perhaps.

Evening Gaze Slater Smith

It was then we found ourselves in the middle of the glassy lake, the water resettling around us, the sun setting slowly, its rays refracted by the swiveling lenses of her eyes scanning the pine trees which, dipped in the golden wash of the evening, watch over the lake like tall, gnarled-faced gods, who, having seen many boats embark from the same shore, remain indifferent to our soft conversation or today’s date, another anniversary spent together in this wooden hull, 67

two bagged dinners stuffed under the seats like pillows, two oars breaking the water’s calm like diving petrels, their entrance splitting phrases of our chatter as we paddle on. The boat, like each oar’s wake, will soon reach the shore where we will disembark together and walk away from the glossy lake and eventually, the gaze of the gnarled-faced gods.

Untitled Makayla Arnold

CONTRIBUTERS Ann Abramczuk is currently a senior majoring in English and Creative Writing at Lebanon Valley College. Though she spent her childhood in Maryland, she now resides in Lebanon County, PA, where she formerly commuted to LVC before transitioning to remote learning in wake of the COVID-19 pandemic. Ann’s hobbies include baking, watching movies and animated shows, exploring 80s and 90s pop culture, improving her digital art skills, and listening to music from a variety of genres. Makayla Arnold is a junior at Lebanon Valley College, pursuing a bachelor’s degree in Neuroscience with a minor in Psychology. She enjoys exploring different art forms in her free time and is excited to have one of her first paintings featured in Green Blotter. Isaac Fox is a freshman at Lebanon Valley College where he is majoring in English and Creative Writing. If he’s not outdoors, he’s probably reading something. Katherine Gan is a junior at Duke University, majoring in Global Gender Studies. She is new to writing poetry and loves how the form embraces emotion and feeling, allowing both writers and readers to stand in the fullness of their dignity. She enjoys hiking, cooking Chinese food, and spending time with her friends. Lauren Gomez is a senior Accounting major at DePaul University with a minor in Creative Writing. When she’s not crunching numbers or putting pen to paper, she enjoys reading and concocting new creations in the kitchen. Cassandra Griffing recently graduated from Kansas State University in December 2020. There, she was an undergraduate in English Creative Writing and minored in Anthropology. She has previously been published in Elementia and Rogue Agent. 71

Azlyn Hain is a Sociology major at Lebanon Valley College. She serves as co-historian in her sorority, Alpha Sigma Tau, and is secretary of Photography Club. She rediscovered her interest for photography through Photography Club and has started working on her own business. Eva Hain is a freshman Neuroscience major at Lebanon Valley College. She is interested in studying how physcial health can affect mental health and was inspired by her own journey with OCD and anxiety growing up. Marah Hoffman is from Exeter, PA. She is currently a junior English, Creative Writing, and Secondary Education major at Lebanon Valley College. Besides being a student, Marah is a cross country and track athlete, a tour guide, and a writing tutor. After college, she hopes to secure a job in the field of education or publishing. But no matter where she ends up, she is determined to continue pursuing her passion for creative writing. Gregg T. Holliday is an undergraduate Chemistry student at SUNY Oswego. Before settling into the scientific study, he had spent his time wandering, in thought and physically, throughout the absurdity of life with a mind that has been prone to aestheticizing his experience—creating a personal allegory from which a wisdom, or at least something beautiful, could be reflected upon. He now lives with the consequences of that gift and is ready to share. Albana Ismaili is a Biology major and a Philosophy of Religion minor at Truman State University. She sees poetry as a language of the heart that transcends barriers. She just wishes she had more time to sit down and create in this beautiful language to express herself more. Caitlyn V. Kline is a 20-year-old student at Lebanon Valley College and artist with a passion for painting and experimenting with different mediums. Kline has also had her artwork hung in the Capitol in Washington D.C. and has won multiple awards while in school.

Mickaela Maehren is a junior Bachelor of Arts student at the College of Saint Benedict and Saint John’s University in central Minnesota. She is currently purusing a degree in Community Action & Advocacy with a concentration in English. Beyond her studies, she spends her time serving as the Web Editor of the College’s student-run newspaper and the Women’s Empowerment chair of the service sorority, AKS. But mostly, she invests her free time into creating the perfect coffee shop playlist for her job as a barista. Alena Maiolo studies international relations and English at Colgate Universiety. While at school, she edits for her collegiate newspaper, The Colgate Maroon-News, and sings with her a cappella group, The Colgate Swinging Gates. During the summers, she likes to volunteer at her local public library. Her previous publications include “Little Red Dots,” which is featured in Forbes & Fifth, a publication of undergraduate work sponsored by the University of Pittsburgh. Cassandra (Cassie) Martin is a junior English and Creative Writing double major at Lebanon Valley College. She has written many pieces of fiction and poetry, and also enjoys her involvement in Wig and Buckle Theater Company. She is currently the Producer for Wig and Buckle, as well as a Resident Assistant for the College. She has recently procured a job as a content writer for the website Bolde. Cassie hopes to be a freelance editor/content writer and a novelist after graduation. Allison Maschhoff is a senior at Truman State University studying Creative Writing, History, and Spanish. Her poem “Blooming/Wilting” was published in Better than Starbucks, Jan. 2020 issue. Rachel Sweningson is a first-year student attending the University of Arkansas where she majors in English Education and minors in Spanish. In between her studies, she enjoys reading, watching video essays, and participating in her university’s ballroom dance club. Slater Smith is a poet and student at Principia College in Elsah, IL where he is editor-in-chief of the college’s literary magazine, Mistake House. 73

This edition is dedicated to our beloved advisor and mentor, Sally Clark. We wish you the best in your retirement and will miss you dearly.

Thank you, Sally.