Prelude 2018 Literary Magazine by Medaille University

PRELUDE 2018 Literary Magazine Medaille College

Prelude 2018 Executive Editor / Faculty Club Advisor

Editors Arria Copeland

Kyle James Shrader

Rodshaleek Pino

Club President

Brandie Jakubik

Rodshaleek Pino

Sarah Carpenter Morgan Walsh Amber Gray

Club Vice President

Rodney Rodriguez

Sarah Carpenter

Adam Kroll

Club Treasurer Arria Copeland

Cover design by Rodshaleek Pino Back cover image by Sarah Carpenter The Prelude is a literary arts magazine published by the Student Government Association of Medaille College. All rights revert to the authors upon publication. Copyright ÂŠ 2018 Medaille College

Poetry

Contents

Smudge

Kelsey Beres

Queer Celestial Lovesong

MJ Stoll

What is Your American Dream?

Krystal Albert

The Chase

Caitlyn Mundy

Do You?

Autumn Phillips

The Island

Ashley L Farrell

La Toilette

My Smartphone

MJ Stoll

Anonymous

Inner Demons

Brandie Jakubik

Party Girl

Sharon Trigilio

The Big Box Feud

Ndiaga Cisse

February

Autumn Phillips

Little House

Abigail Blankenship

Prose The Soul Song

Maria Tasca

The Annual Bash

Nikki Merrifield

Lucy

Rodshaleek Pino

The Windy City

Haley Ball

A Night at Lucky’s

Abigail Blankenship

Ambrosia

Caitlin Quinn

There’s Something About Airports

Stephanie Oswald

I Can Do This?

Jamila Richardson

Class of 2007

Anonymous

Clueless

Alyssa Carella

Photography Andrea Seeloff

Kyle James Shrader

Brandie Jakubik

Dr. Terri Borchers

28 3

Kelsey Beres

Smudge The aroma of fresh batter, sizzling amid the waffle iron’s hot metal, reminds me of all my years in the spearmint green booths, listening to music from the outdated jukebox. Pretending I’m in another place and time, my mother sits at the oak brown table, staring at her laptop screen, fingers typing feverously, ignoring my father’s every move. He pours the coffee into two blue paisley cups, steam rolling from the tops like fog on a cool fall morning. When he places the coffee next to her, mug smudge blurs atop the wooden table, she won’t touch the scorching clay as the seconds, then minutes, separate us all. And I don’t want to touch either of them now. Instead, I watch the teenage girls filling the restaurant with Adele’s “Our love ain’t water under the bridge,” while my broken phone case vibrates on the table, shattered pieces shaking against one another, so damn loud it would be quieter if a semi stumbled by. The aroma of bacon spitting in the blistering pan and waffles on the granite counter, my mom and I just sip our mugs of chestnut colored coffee, her wedding band clutching her left ring finger firmly, my so-called father, long gone.

Maria Tasca

The Soul Song At night in Toronto I hear the rain hitting the window pane on the patio of my apartment. I open the door to the patio and brace myself to feel the cold pellets hitting my arms in my short sleeve shirt. The CN tower is clearly visible, part of an outline of the city I love so dearly. I grew up here, started my career here, and Toronto will always be home. As I stare at the tower from my patio, I watch the lightning strike it’s very top, then the roaring thunder booms through the sky shortly after. As I marvel at it, the rain continues to pour down, making the railing edges glisten. Cars passing out in front of the apartment sound more like landing in a skyblue pool after going down a ginormous waterslide. If I close my eyes and try to concentrate, I can almost hear each specific raindrop hit the pavement. The sounds are so vividly drilled into my head; they drown out my favorite band playing inside my house. I don’t know why exactly, but the rain has always been so relaxing to me. It makes me feel as though I am not alone in this big world. As I step back inside my apartment, I become fully aware of every little movement my body makes. I hear my new black leather boots on the carpet and the way my jean jacket rubs against my dark grey pants. I’m so consciously aware of the sounds both inside and outside my head, so I decide to pick up my guitar. Music always seems to clear my head. As I wrap the guitar band around my shoulders, I picture a crowd of thousands waiting for me to begin my finger plucking and serenade them. The moment my fingertips touch the strings, the entirety of the universe is gone. The pounding in my head and the rain outside my window completely stops. Suddenly, all I’m aware of is the soft strumming of the instrument I hold so tenderly in my hands, and the lyrics spewing out of my mouth. In this moment, as the passion jets through me, I know this is what I need to be doing.

Mj Stoll

Queer Celestial Lovesong October winds cool, her lashes bat against my skin—another waking dream eskimo-kisses me to sleep. Autumn nights tear me apart, break down every inch to frigid stardust, shattered and shining. Queer as the year the daffodils bloomed in the snow, queer as the widow upstairs—an old bat, brash voice carrying through the vents like a washed-up country star, still faithfully following that impossible dream. She dances in the rain, unconcerned if the storm will break— her lover’s duet with Mother Nature sings me to sleep. Always enticing, I chase her—sleep never comes as easy as rain. My queer little heart just can’t catch a break— reminded of Nature and the upstairs bat. If only I could sing of her celestial body, I dream I’d shoot for the moon—but I don’t think I’ll ever land on her star. How many girls, I wonder, have wished on my star? Unknowing eyes fogged in the same sleepdeprived haze, only meeting in a dream. Sing me to sleep so I don’t forget that queer girls like me have to flock in our dreams to bat caves because in the event that we break in the dark, at the very least we break together. I bend like these daffodils toward the light of her star and taste summer on my tongue—a fruit bat sinking my teeth into a tangerine. Sleep flirtatiously caresses my cheek, her coy, queer lips—coaxing me down to dream 6

myself into her arms. When I can’t dream I step into the shallow bathtub, let the water break over my skin, freckles interconnecting into queer constellations. Harmonizing with departing storms, my starshined eyes sing the curves of her body. Washing the sleep away with a sun-shower, my feet flitting from tile to tile like bat wings. Perhaps some queer night I will come to bat and swing. Not to break down, but break out—singing myself to sleep. A distant voice meshes with the dream-like echoes of her love-sick star.

Morgan Wanser “Five Year Secret” (2017) Oil on Canvas

Nikki Merrifield

The Annual Bash I shift uncomfortably in my chair, realizing that maybe this sweater’s not the right choice, and feel like I’m drowning in a pool of my own sweat. I’m sure my makeup is running. I exchange uneasy looks with my brothers and I know we’re all wondering the same thing—will Nana make it through without exploding? The mashed potatoes and turkey look absolutely delectable. Mom’s done a great job again, and Dad walks over to take a look, making sure everything is perfect for his family. Food’s piled up at least three feet high on the dining room table, but the room smells overwhelmingly of Jack Daniel’s. The soft Christmas music playing on our old, beat up CD player is meant to disguise awkward silence, yet it somehow makes the atmosphere even worse. I breathe in a volcanic whiff, and the alcohol burns my nostrils. At least the food’s spectacular. I always try to tell mom she’s done a great job so Nana might crack a smile. I feel like I’m sitting in a courtroom, waiting to hear the verdict, as I shuffle my hands under the table, picking at a hangnail that’s been bothering me for days. Don’t get me wrong, I do like a couple of my relatives: the one who gives out lottery tickets like it’s his job, and Uncle Kevin, who gives out Ben Franklins on Christmas and birthdays. “So, Rach, how’s school?” Roger, the lottery ticket guy, finally asks the dreaded question that everyone eventually gets around to for lack of a better topic. “It’s great,” I reply, shrugging. My eyes wander around the room, frantically looking for the Hennessey. How could the bottle just disappear like this? “That’s awesome! How are your grades?” Roger asks, placing his wrinkled hand on my shoulder. “They’re great.” I fake a smile. It seems only the small talk saves us with most of these people. Of course we’re not supposed to complain in front of dad because he’ll just blame mom. He says that mom’s the reason that me and my brothers don’t get along with Nana. I try to stay neutral to avoid the possibility of a third world war. Finally it’s 7:00, which means Nana will have to leave soon. She’s been “social” for a couple hours longer than she’s comfortable. She shares an awkward smile with me, shifting her coffee mug to her other hand. “How’s your boyfriend?” Nana asks, trying to pretend she cares about what’s going on in my life. “What’s his name again?” “Ryan’s doing well,” I mutter, finding myself picking at the hangnail again. “That’s great! Tell him I said hi.” 8

I’d think after being with my guy for almost five years, Nana would at least know his name. I ask her how things are going as the coffee pot sizzles and I start to feel lightheaded. Why are all of these wine bottles empty when everyone is drinking coffee? “Who wants more coffee?” dad questions, folding his arms across his chest. “I’ll take some,” Nana announces with a smirk, making sure mom hears her. “To go, actually. That would be wonderful.” “Finally. I thought that bitch was never going to leave!” mom yells, stumbling over the presents that have been left on the floor. “Mom,” I growl. Mom’s holding two bottles, one in each hand, but still manages somehow to give Nana an ungainly hug goodbye. “Goodbye, sweetie,” Nana grumbles. “Maybe next year you’ll learn to control yourself a little better.” I stare at my phone, pretending to be really interested in an article on wrinkle control, as the sun vanishes behind the trees and I close my eyes, breathing in a grievous sigh.

Krystal Albert

What Is Your American Dream? For Diana Goetsch Listen, there’s no need to compromise, yelling with your veins popping out of your skull, “Make America great again!” yet, what makes us so un-great-full, huh? The children in our schools struggling, wondering why we push drugs and pills? The poor still on our street, begging, trying to yell “Please!” with throats parched. You want my face to look as ignorant as yours—want me to stand by your side? You want me to take an iron to your heart, to watch it burn and melt like hell? Knowing the ordeals of great pain seem worse in someone else’s head, you want me to applaud your what, your hair that “must remain fresh as a stinking corpse?”

Caitlyn Mundy

The Chase Why am I here? Why didn’t I take my chance and leave? Even my friend is right, he isn’t my type. You know he’s a player; he goes on a date almost every night, with a tall, skinny bimbo attached to his hip, his every move she watches. The clock hanging on the wall, catching my attention with its tick, tick, tick, mocking me, reminding me I’m stuck, his conversation not engaging. He flashes his Rolex watch and drones on, not engaging me as I text my friend under the table, longing to leave. Suddenly he’s astonished, brows furrowing, his forehead wrinkling; he’s ticked. “Did you hear a single word I said?” He thinks he’s every girl’s type. As I get up to head for the exit he just sits there and watches. By the time I get the courage to run outside it’s night, and he follows me while trying to say something about how he’s wasted his night, going out with someone who doesn’t even seem engaged. He’s really mad; I look at his face and now I’m the one watching him to make sure he’s really going to walk away and leave. Getting the queasies; he seems like the stalker type. I finally jump into my car and go to start it, but all I hear is it ticking. A smile spreads across his face; he starts his car while mine just continues to tick. I can breathe again once my car starts and I try to disappear into the night. I’m shaking, fumbling to find my phone and focus my thumbs to type my friend a message, telling her I need help, because I’m engaged in a car chase with a maniac who wants to run me off the lot instead of leaving. Waiters stand alongside the dumpster smoking and watching, and all I can see is the red light as I stare at his door behind me and watch. I pray for green as the moments tick, tick, tick, and I question my decision to leave my witnesses behind in the night. When the light finally changes, once again the hunt engages. Apparently he’s not the quitting type. Texting my friend, so nervous I can’t type, 11

his driver’s door opens as I watch him tap on my window, trying to engage me in conversation as seconds tick, tick, tick some more as I stare ahead into the night. He laughs as he turns to leave. Throwing something out his car window as he leaves, my black jacket lands in a puddle, blending in with the dark night. I walk over and snatch my pea coat while my blinker tick, tick, ticks.

Rodshaleek Pino

Lucy Lucy’s lucky to be at the Larkin’s party. The Larkins, a well-known family in this small town, their names hymn off the lips of almost every neighbor. This family full of riches from the lottery has forgotten their middle-class past. Lucy’s heard that they don’t like strangers and still she takes up lazy Robert’s invitation to the Larkin’s large house party where the red-stained curtains hang lower and more luxurious than anyone’s dress. Upon arriving, Lucy is overwhelmingly aware of the sound of her slow footsteps that seem to drown out the party’s loud tunes. Cautiously she wanders around the Larkin home, quietly humming along to Journey’s “Just a small town girl / living in a lonely world.” Once it’s time for dinner, Lucy chooses a seat right next to lazy, lippy Robert. The music fades into the background while the dinner table stares at the most anticipated stranger of the night, Lucy. Whispers fill the still air leavened with the aroma of warm bread. Lucy can feel their eyes as she stares down at her twiddling fingers. Lazy Robert has been talking about Lucy all week long and he’s been trying to warn everyone about her. She can hear their whispers. Yes, she knows what they’re saying. Did they forget? Yes, she’s got some problems; she’s as blind as a bat, yet she can hear without a problem. The tragic loss of her sight has heightened all her other senses. Lucy, from the slightest taste, can tell the difference between similar spaghetti sauces. She knows the temperature of her city from a gust of wind across her skin. When she slowly rises to her fullest height, her cheeks become red as Seadov Tulips. And right when a tear or two is expected, only redness fills her eyes and nose. 12

Firmly, like a concerned parent, she places her hands on the dinner table. Her eyes then seem to pierce the eyes of every single person sitting at that diner table. Silence sweeps over the room. Not even the quietest whisper leaves the mouths of any startled guest. Lucy makes a joke: “Bats are not really blind,” she says. “They just see in a different way. They also hear extremely well, much like myself.” A distant cough leaves the throat of a choked guest. “I can hear you,” she continues. “Let me tell you all, I cannot see with my eyes, but I can see way more than any of you.” As eyebrows rise, which she hears like a flock of feathered wings in retreat, Lucy can smell the sour and sweet sweat drip down lazy Robert’s forehead.

Autumn Phillips

Do You? I long to see how you wind down after a long day at work, unknotting your tie and crawling into bed, that sigh of content as you quickly slip into a dream. Do you smile in your sleep? I’m missing too many things when you’re behind closed doors. I want to be your midnight gas station run, dollar slices of cheesy pizza oozing out of the foil, otherwise so carefully swaddled like newborns. I’d grab two slices of mushroom because I know that’s what you like. She’d forget. I wouldn’t. I want to be lying next to you, toes buried in Florida beach sand, capturing the constant pendulum of ebbing and flowing waves. The dulcet sound of adulation eternal plays constantly in my head. She complains about the heat; I embrace it. I wish it was me instead of her emptying the dishwasher, setting the table for dinner. It’s Tuesday and that means you’ll slurp spaghetti off your spoon. I bet you don’t even like spaghetti. Do you remember the cookies I made for your charity bake sale? I’ve been watching for so long, do you recognize me? Did you ever?

Haley Ball

The Windy City The windy city, where my heart lay on the streets and secrets were blown in the wind. Within my first steps out of my apartment door I was greeted with the sweet scent of exhaust and Lake Michigan breeze. I took the stairs down to The River Walk and trailed my fingers against the railing. I stopped at the clearest part of the river where the light shone, and leaned over the railing. I stared at myself and thought, what beauty is missing? Then, I saw your shadow appearing over my right shoulder and you said, "Why are you leaning over the railing so far?" I stood straight up, swiped my bangs to the side and said, I am captivated by its mystery. The mystery of what lies within and the pushes and pulls of the riverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s currents have me wrapped around the thought of this crazy chemical reaction we call water. You stood there in awe, with your beautiful blue eyes and leather jacket collar popped, just enough to block the breeze. You said, "And I thought you were the most captivating thing." Within that moment I came to realize that you were the beauty I was missing. Then the river froze, and the air became crisp, the trees frosty. Fewer people were on the streets. The city became quiet and dim. All while the lights were dimming, I was being blinded by your beauty and the pushes and pulls of your tricks. I hadn't realized until it was too late. I needed to run just like the river unfreezing in the spring. The air lightening and my chest freeing. I realized what was right for me. I realized the beauty I was missing was truly within me.

Andrea Seeloff

Ashley L. Farrell

The Island Smooth dough, without the bubbles, rises as the sauce solidifies and the pepper jack cheese melts. Different herbs, like parsley and rosemary, add a little spice to the pizza crust, which lingers on my taste buds. Upon the desk lies, thick with parchment, the tome that rests heavily with knowledge still to be learned. The soft hum of the neighborsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; dishwasher can be heard as it shakes and rumbles throughout the apartment building. Memories of sand and sun are fresh and the satin beach towel, which clings loosely around my body, is still vivid. The dolphins at play and the blue and green scenery still haunt the back of my mind like a memory soon to be forgotten. The bedroom door shuts and the curtains close, yet the dulcet waves linger while underwater organisms and salty waves that once caressed me now tickle the bridge of my nose in remembrance. The summer that passed by is forgotten as I study for the new school year about to begin.

Mj Stoll

La Toilette Past the easel in the corner of the room where the painter stands, wiping a bristled brush on the smock that hangs low on his hips, there stands a woman. She glances in the mirror, held at breast level and angled as always when she sits for the painter. Firm and immovable, she ties back the wistful ginger strands that sway with each turn of her Grecian head. Egyptian in stance and nature, the other woman stands, black hair like brush strokes of ink no less herself than the model

who stands in front of herâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;Venus, the star shining only with the aid of her hand-maiden, the contrasting darkness of sky. The two women, Diametrically opposed, like spiced sandalwood mingling with an airy sea-salt; the duplicity of women in paint streaked down the side on a mirrorâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a flash of fleeting time or a contemplative momentâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; soft curves hidden by moral linens of fine blue. Pablo Picasso (Spanish, 1881-1973) La toilette, 1906 oil on canvas

Abigail Blankenship

A Night at Lucky’s It’s our four-year anniversary for Savannah. No one really knows whether she’s here or not, but all of us just assume she’s hanging out somewhere else to lessen our pain. Kind of a shitty way to think of things, but she would have done the same. All my girlfriends, at Lucky’s local bar tonight, will be celebrating her life. Lucky’s was her favorite place, and everyone thought she was the most eccentric woman in the entire town. I run up the stairs to my room to get changed. I know I’m already running late and Amber’s waiting outside. I slip my fuzzy grey sweater over my head, pull on my jeans, and stuff my feet into my brown leather boots. I jam my phone in between the denim and the leather. The doorbell echoes, and I hear the door open. “It’s almost eight o’clock, Jamie, we need to go. The girls are probably there already.” “Alright, alright. I’m coming, I just need to find my keys and my wallet. I’ll meet you in the car.” After sauntering down the stairs, I find them, sprawled on the counter; slamming the door behind me, I hope tonight won’t be too full of drama. As we stroll into Lucky’s, Amber and I hear squealing like pigs from the back corner of the bar. Brianna, Taylor, and Lindsay rush us with hugs, kisses, and how are yous. I can smell the stale beer on Taylor’s breath as she starts to sing “Sweet Home Alabama,” then wraps her arm around mine as we walk back to the table. A pile of empty glasses sits in the middle of them. Bri orders me an IPA and plops it down in front of me. “Drink, girl, you need to catch up,” she says. I nod and glide it toward me—the glass sliding on the table like spilled marbles—to take a big gulp. I look around the table as I listen in on the conversations. Amber and Taylor are talking about the last time they spent time with Sav, while Lindsay and Brianna are going over their plans for Sav’s memorial next week. I see a glistening gem around Taylor’s neck that makes me think back to when Sav went missing. Not thinking at all about the strength of my voice, I blurt out, “Does anyone remember Sav’s necklace that she would always wear? The one with the blue sapphire butterfly?” The other conversations stop at once. Lindsay glares at me, her face stiff as a concrete slab. “Yeah, I remember. It had the thick gold chain, like one that Italian mafia guys would wear. I wonder what happened to that thing. She was wearing it when she went—” “Don’t say it, Lindsay,” Bri commands. “You know we agreed to say that she’s dead. It hurts worse to know that she could be suffering right now.” 18

“I’m sorry, I know. I forgot. I didn’t mean to, honey,” Lindsay says, as she looks at Bri with a genuine apology wrinkled on her face, reaching out to embrace her. “So, how about another beer,” I say, as I skootch myself out of my chair. Walking up to the bar, I look at Helen, the bartender, as she bends over to pick up a napkin off the floor. As she stands back up I can see something fall out of her shirt before she tucks it back into its hiding place. “Another round?” she queries. “Yes ma’am, if you would be so kind,” I respond, as I twiddle my thumbs in circles waiting for her to hand me our drinks. “I saw something fall out of your shirt earlier, didn’t I?” “Oh, this thing,” she says as she holds it up. “My husband gave it to me four years ago for an anniversary present.” My mouth drops open as she simply grins, Sav’s sapphire butterfly necklace gleaming in the bar’s muted light.

Kyle James Shrader

Anonymous

My Smartphone Day to day with smartphones attached, inseparable as shadows under street lights, we wrap our expensive investments tightly in plastic, protective as first-time moms. Listening to Beyoncé’s “Beautiful Liar” and retweeting the leader of the free world, I just want to get through my day. Sitting in class, my phone starts vibrating violently as the word “Dad” lights up the screen. What does he want? I wonder and send him to voicemail, then a call from my sister immediately follows only to get the same response. After class I listen to the message that’s not my dad, but a Cheektowaga police officer, and press redial. “What did he do now?” I query, while listening to a story I’ve heard way too many times before. “I'm sorry, officer, he doesn't work his usual shift tonight and has drunk the whole day away.” After class I trudge home through a door wide open to the reek of alcohol. Cleaning up the Bud Lights, picking through the brown shattered glass, I clench my fist till it’s white as bone, listening to dad chuckle as he cracks open another bottle and consumes a selfish swig.

Caitlin Quinn

Ambrosia All I want is for my parents to hurry the hell back from the grocery store. How can it take two people almost three hours to go shopping? We’re going camping for the weekend and that’s all I can think about. Should I wear my ugly green boots or my gold sparkly sneakers? I debate this as I pace across the white Persian rug in my pink bedroom admiring my chihuahua in her new puppy tutu. I’m considering what happens if I get slushy muck all over my sneakers or, if I trip over a limb into a pile of mud like last time. I shudder at the thought of ruining another pair of shoes, but I shudder more thinking about slipping my freshly polished toes into those ugly green boots. I finally decide to go with the sneakers. It’s a risk I’m willing to take. After what feels like an eternity, I finally hear the grumbling, floovb, floovb, vomp of our 1998 Honda Prelude thumping down the street when it wakes me from my trance. Great, I can’t wait to go camping, I think sarcastically. My name’s Ambrosia. I know it’s probably the worst name you’ve ever heard. Trust me; I think so, too. I’m sure you can guess how I got it. When she was pregnant with little fetus me, my mother’s favorite craving was ambrosia. So, when the doctors asked her what my name would be, she thought they’d asked her if she wanted anything. Her answer was “Ambrosia.” Unfortunately, the name’s stuck ever since. You see, people named Ambrosia aren’t supposed to like camping. And, guess what? I despise it. I can’t live without my phone for two whole days. What am I supposed to do without my hourly Facebook updates from friends? Instantaneously, I hear my mom and dad fumble out of the car, each carrying three too-full bags of groceries for the trip. I would offer to help but, right now I’ve got to send off a text about this weekend. The worst thing is that my parents are beyond excited for this trip. They bought the whole nine yards: fishing hooks, backpacks larger than life, and enough mosquito spray to last forever. They believe it will be a great bonding experience. Bonding experience, my ass. That’s the last thing I need right now. Just give me a comfortable bed and a phone charger and I’m all set; not a folded-up tent in the middle of nowhere. You have got to be kidding me if you really think I’m going to pitch a tent and start a fire. As they enter the back door, I’m nearly blinded by the positivity and happiness radiating off them, like the sun on pavement. “Hey honey! Are you ready for tonight?” my mother passionately questions. 22

“Oh yeah, Mom. It’s going to be so much fun. I can hardly contain my apathetic self.” “C’mon kiddo, it’ll be great.” Two things are wrong with this conversation. First, I’m not a “kiddo” and, second, it’s not going to be great, so stop pretending like it will be. I attempt to dodge the rest of the conversation by interrupting my mom and explaining that I need to continue packing so we can leave for our grand adventure. “The earlier we leave, the earlier we can come back,” I repeatedly tell myself as I gently place my clothes into one of the backpacks. Once I’m finished, I lug the bag down the flight of stairs, making sure it pounds against every step with a big thud, and I drag it out to the driveway. My dad’s desperately trying to cram everything into the back of the car as I arrive. There’s so much weight in the old Honda’s trunk it’s making the tires look flat, but he’s convinced it all looks normal. My mom’s trying to find enough space to even sit down, and my dog is barking like a mad woman so she can run back inside the house. That’s one smart puppy we got here. Once everyone finally finds a millimeter of free space to squish in, the journey begins. Immediately I plug in my headphones and serenade myself to the calming voice of John Legend. I crank my iPod as loud as it can go to drown out all the shit my parents are yakking about. I’ve never been so uncomfortable in my life—jammed into the back of this car, barely able to feel my toes, with my face squished into the side of the window like a chicken ready to be slaughtered. I can feel the life being sucked out of me the closer we get to the wilderness, as my cell phone slowly loses connection. I need to rush to send off this last text to my three closest friends and, as I press send— BBBEEEEEEEPPPP! The last thing I hear is my name being screamed over and over as white hot headlights echo in my eyes.

Brandie Jakubik

Inner Demons I think there's another girl trapped inside me. She scares me but I feel bad for her too. She's full of things people don't want. Sadness, loneliness, depression. All the things people try to forget are the only things she thinks about. She craves to not exist and give into the despair that's the pit of her very existence. I try to forget and cheer her up but she comes for me in the night when I'm all alone. When I can hear her thoughts loud and clear like it's on a surround sound in my head, screaming "feel my pain!" She lets everything go, it flows straight through me and I'm afraid one day she will consume me and all that will be left is the despair wearing my face.

Stephanie Oswald

There’s Something About Airports I sit here, frantically trying to memorize every detail of what’s in my bag, even the smallest things I could have forgotten. Socks? Yes. Underwear? Yes. Contact solution? My glasses! I reach down to grab my carry on and rip open the zipper. Sure enough, I look down and my glasses taunt me from the side pocket. “What are you doing? What’s your flight number, again? Send me a text of your flight information, would you?” My mom’s voice interrupts my overthinking. “Okay,” is the only response I can come up with this early in the morning with a little under three hours of sleep. “Please text me when you get to your seat, and call me as soon as you land,” my mom demands as she jumps out of the car and rushes over to my side. I roll my eyes, although I appreciate her concern, and embrace her for a long hug. As we say our final goodbyes and walk away from each other, she starts repeating, “Text me your information! Be safe! Go get a coffee! Call me!” I smile and walk through the doors; all I can do is turn around to wave until I watch security ask her to move out of the way so someone else can take her spot. As I look around, the lack of early morning flyers makes the airport seem peaceful for once. Yet my short-lived, tranquil moment comes to a rapid halt once I approach security and am greeted with a massive and chaotic line. As the minutes pass like hours, I look at travelers and wonder where they’re traveling to and whom they’re going to see. I wonder who’s going to be waiting for them upon arrival. I am in a sleepy trance listening to the loud speaker on repeat, “Please remove your shoes and jackets. Remove your cell phones. Place laptops in a separate bin.” I approach the security guard in delirium and walk over to the wrong station. “Ma’am. Ma’am!” I then look over to realize it is me he’s speaking to. I nervously smile and mumble out an embarrassed “Sorry,” before rushing over to now tear my shoes and socks off. As I keep moving, I can’t help but get distracted by all the people around me, all of who are moving at a much faster pace than I am. To the right of me I see a young mother, rushing her four children under the age of eight through the chaos, her husband three feet behind her, organizing all of their carry-on items in the little grey tubs. I notice all six of them wear matching shirts, with a big Mickey Mouse face right in the middle. I can’t help but smile to myself when I begin to imagine the father, and the fraudulent grin he gave to his wife when she presented him his corny shirt. Again my thoughts are interrupted, this time by a TSA worker in a navy uniform. “Arms up, ma’am.” I raise my arms as I stand inside the cylindrical machine, 25

anxiously waiting to hear a response. “All set, ma’am,” the man says to me as I step out and rush to find the multiple grey tubs containing my belongings. As I scramble to grab my items, I look up and notice the young family again. Despite the fact that it’s 4:30 in the morning at the chaotic Buffalo Airport, they all seem delighted to be awake and together. As I walk to my gate in the stuffy airport, I begin to recite the lines I memorized for this job interview in California, across the country from my family and everything I have ever known. I tell myself that I need this. After my relationship of five years ended, the dragged out messy breakup caused me to fall into a trance. I’d wake up, brew myself a comfy cup of spiced French vanilla coffee, his favorite, and the rest of my day falls into the same pattern, until I was nuzzled in bed entering dreamland. All in all, my life isn’t too bad, but as every day passes, I’m still longing for a way out. This job as a high school English teacher in California sounded too good to be true. There were benefits, they would reimburse me for my tuition for my masters, and set me up with somewhere to stay. It was everything I ever dreamed for, especially now that I had so much to run away from. I sit on the cold blue chair and slide my metallic purple Beats onto my head over my ears. As I thumb through the music selection on my phone, I begin to wonder if I am just being dramatic, letting my heart take over all the decisions I make. I am starting to get a migraine. I wonder if the Anchor Bar in the next terminal is open, I need to calm my nerves. I can always count on tequila to comfort me. The stewardess appears at my gate, preventing me from further action. She is dressed in a stylish blue Pan Am uniform and says, “Now boarding Flight 1259 to Los Angeles, group A, you may begin to line up by number.” I grab my boarding pass I printed out last night from my carry on and walk over to line up with the hundreds of strange faces I have never seen before. I need this, I tell myself again. I need a new beginning, to get away from my familiar and to start over. The line seems to be moving quickly, which only makes my heart race faster. When I arrive at the podium, I look up and smile at a woman who is grabbing my boarding pass. She has long brown hair and warm green eyes, and I envy her genuine smile. I turn and make my way into the tunnel. I have every right to be happy; I just need to escape the demons standing in my way, I promise myself as soon as I step on that plane. I turn to my right and strategically look for a row with a lone passenger next to the window. I prefer an aisle seat because I get claustrophobic and I feel bad asking someone to get up for me in those crammed pleather seats. I see an older woman in a light blue wool sweater sitting calmly in the 12th row and in my mind I claim her as mine. I flash her a smile and slip into the open aisle seat, leaving the middle seat open in between us. Although this woman looks so sweet and genuine, I am not in the mood for conversation, so I grab my neck pillow, slip my Beats back over my ears, and scroll through my iTunes library. I decide to listen to 26

John Mayer, because I’m feeling high-strung and need to relax; let the Dramamine I took fifteen minutes earlier kick in. Plus, his lyrics sometimes remind me of my breakup, and I was in the mood to feel sorry for myself. The sun is blinding my eyes as I wake three hours later, and I look across the aisle to see a young boy playing with the window. I am annoyed at first, until I realize that him playing with the window is probably his parent’s sanity. I sit up straight and take off my headphones, giving my ears some fresh air. “I don’t know how you do it! I can never sleep on an airplane. I am so envious of you because now when I get to my sons house, I am going to need a good nap before I can even leave!” I look over to see the woman in my aisle smiling at me through the middle seat that separates us. Still feeling a little out of it, I let out a sigh and respond. “I wish it was that easy, I have to almost overdose on Dramamine in order to fall asleep.” The woman lets out a small giggle. We begin to chat about almost everything; I tell her about my job now, my ex-boyfriend, and the job I am interviewing for. She talks about her children, her son, and her pregnant daughter in law who lives in Los Angeles. She is due any day now, so she is going to stay with them for a few weeks. This woman is so easy to talk to and her warm presence feels so comforting. I almost regret sleeping and not chatting with her the first three hours of this flight. Before we know it, a flight attendant is over the loudspeaker telling us to prepare for landing. I turn to the older woman and begin to praise her with how lovely she is and how I am so fortunate to have spent this time with her. She flashes me a genuine smile and grabs both of my hands. “Sweetheart, I think you are looking for something out here in this strange new city, but you don’t know what it is yet. I think that’s maybe why you cling to certain people, to secure something in yourself that you doubt. Perhaps, in some sense, you doubt your own future, which is why you always find yourself in the hardest situations and begin to wonder why people leave you. The truth falls heavy, sweetheart. It’s not that they don’t love you, but maybe you, my dear, still haven’t learned to love yourself.” As she finishes, I notice the pool of tears involuntarily dripping from my eyes and I let go of her hands. I reach up and wrap my arms around her neck, repeating, “Thank you” as she holds me until the row in front of us begins to exit. She’s right; I have given so much of myself to ex-boyfriends, friends, and the students that I teach. I have lost the ability to love myself, and Los Angeles is the place for me to find it. I say goodbye to the beautiful woman after she writes down her phone number for when I move. I will forever be grateful for the seven and a half hours I spent with her, three which I spent sleeping. She has made me realize I need to believe only I can chase my dreams, that only I can light the fire in me and no one can break me. I am full of love, and if I live every moment believing that, the chaos in my heart will 27

become a beautiful thing, and whomever I come in contact with will never cease to forget my name. As I maneuver my way down to baggage claim, I begin to laugh at myself. I needed this day to come, to feel so empowered and ready for new beginnings. The irony is that it took a conversation with a stranger on an airplane for me to finally get here. I am thankful for the new friendship that blossomed from this journey across country. I just hope that I stay on the right path and do not become the shallow hole of a person I once was. This move is going to be expensive, and I do not have enough money to keep buying plane tickets when I am really looking for some advice.

Terri Borchers

Jamila Richardson

I Can Do This? Outside everything’s fine. The sun is shining too bright for the middle of November and families use this as an opportunity to barbeque and celebrate the beautiful day. So wrapped up in their joy, they’re oblivious to what’s happening in the small church that sits on the street corner. A private event, only for our family and close friends, is occurring when we walk in one by one, all in a happy but somber mood. The inside of the church is big, but you would never know from the outside. Lights blazing everywhere, crosses and scriptures hang all around the walls. We say hello to old friends and distant relatives, happy to see them despite the occasion. As more and more people arrive, I make my rounds throughout the church. Bobbing and weaving through the pews to say hi to family members and friends, asking how they’re doing, trying desperately to ignore the big incapacitated elephant lying at the front of the room. As we line up, one by one, everyone’s demeanor slowly dims. Our eyes fall onto the shiny, wooden box surrounded by tulips, anthurium, and daisies, holding something precious. I start to panic. I’ve never had these emotions before and do not know how to process them. I can’t do this. How is this happening? How could he let this happen? Why would he do this to us? How could he leave us? As the line continues to move through my panic, the African drums playing in the background seem to match the quickened beat of my heart. It’s my turn now. I stand frozen in front of him, my eyes moving over his face so I can memorize it one last time. I can’t do this. I know I’m holding up the line, so I walk forward slowly. I can’t do this. As I stand in front of the casket, I remember all of our memories together. I can do this. Finally, I build up my courage to stride forward. “See you around, Uncle Turk,” I say, walking away, feeling better than I have all day.

Sharon Trigilio

Party Girl Naïve and fresh. Learning how to keep her Jack Daniel’s down. Twirling around carelessly, like a 5-year-old showing off her new dress. Numb from the poison which crawls through her veins, sucking all of her innocence away. Barely livable, college apartment. It creaks as if the floors were about to break right from underneath us. Labatt Blue and tequila posters hang from the peeling, distressed green walls. Shots slither down her throat, burning like scales of sunburn on summer tanned skin. She stumbles from side to side like a Tilt-A-Whirl, grabbing doors, walls, people. Tugging desperately on the sides of their shirts. She drinks past the nausea induced sleepiness that weighs heavily on her tongue, keeping composure through slurred and disconnected words. The smell of stale chips and beer permeates the carpets. Stains fill the plaid of the couch, green and red like Christmas wrappings. Leaving only standing room near the bathroom door. Window cracked a touch, the high isn’t strong enough anymore. There needs to be greater than this. Lines of flour like residue sprinkle the glass table, 30

like dandruff filled hair. Falling to the ground like a vase, shattered, with no one to help. A disposable toy. “Remember to put her shoes on!” This fresh-eyed girl will never learn her lesson. Like a reused wedding dress, she doesn’t mean a damn thing to anyone.

Anonymous

Class of 2007 Brett holds open the glass door at Willoughby High School, while I step under a massive green and gold banner. He shares a smile big as Football Sunday while I pick at my thumbs with anxiety. A jock in high school, Brett was the type all the girls wanted, from what he’s told me. I've never met any of his high school friends, so I'm heading into this place knowing no one but Brett. As soon as we walk into what I assume is the gym or auditorium, Brett immediately attracts a group of what looks like frat boys, only older and with more grey hair. Not even thinking of introducing me to his friends, he wanders away, reminiscing about his past. After he’s been kidnapped from my side, I see the decorations, again all green and gold, almost like a Party City’s thrown up all over the walls and the tables. I get the feeling that I am, in fact, in high school again, a place that never was very friendly to me—the cliques, the (older) frat boys by the entrance, the stuck-up bitches over by the punch bowl, the underachievers who still live with their parents by the left bleachers, and the geeks on the right. I never fit into a group, so I’m not surprised to feel like I don’t belong. I find an empty spot up against the bare, beige wall with some of the other spouses who’ve been ditched by their attendees. “Makes Me Wonder” by Maroon 5 fills the room while the dance floor remains deserted. As I sip on my watered-down fruit punch, wondering if anyone has vodka, I see a tall blonde—in red stilettos and a tiny dress to match—who joins the other girls to brag about all the work she’s done to plan this. The girls praise her for her hard work, and I get bored way too quickly and stop listening. As I make my way over to 31

the cookies, green and gold, of course, I can hear Brett and the boys boast about their high school memories. “Brett, remember junior prom weekend?” Sean asks. “The best night ever?” “How could I forget?” “What really happened that night?” another half-drunk, half-bald guy asks. “I heard—” “We were drunk for the whole weekend at Brett’s dad’s cabin,” Sean interjects. “Brett had a different girl in his bedroom just about every hour.” He smirks, tipping his beer can in Brett’s direction. Trying to shed the thought of Brett with all these other women, I sit on the bleachers alone until a couple wanders over to sit down next to me. The man, obviously trying too hard to impress his peers, smothers me in the smell of cheap cologne and I can almost feel the grease from his hair on my hands. As the couple whispers about their grocery list and their late mortgage payment, I can’t help but want to go home when suddenly the DJ tries to bring the place back to life. “Hey!” he calls. “Everyone get your asses on the dance floor!” Brett and the boys, annoyed, merely roll their eyes and continue their banter. Eventually, when all the other wives have nagged their husbands to leave, or to dance, I start nudging toward Brett. As he walks over to the bleachers, the blonde in the matching red dress and heels stops him in his tracks. She touches his upper arm and gestures toward the dance floor, and then it’s over. Angrier than Brett when the Atlanta Falcons lost the Super Bowl, I interrupt her flirting and demand that Brett meet me at the car. “Excuse me, and who are you?” she questions in her perky voice, while she twirls her hair and licks her lips. “His wife,” I explain, right before I kiss her too perfect nose with my clenched fist.

Ndiaga Cisse

The Big Box Feud Flights of children roam the sand, avoiding blankets of flames that dome the blistering desert. Blood flows like an ancient mythical river, but water is quite scarce. My cup is full, glass so cold it numbs my hand to the touch. I’m uncomfortable as a cat at a dog pound. The children's hands are caked with blood. The big black box replies, “Donald Trump Breathes,” “Kanye and Jay Z Argue,” and it keeps on spewing lines. I google the feud, quickly eating up lines of info off the screen like noodles. The children are blinded by shrapnel and some haven't seen a 10th birthday party yet. The Samsung Galaxy might explode? Now I’m filled with rage. Do they not care!? About safety!? The comfortable world all of us want to live in!? The children, now beyond famished, look like a pack of scared, hungry wolves. It scares us. I feel threatened, but the commercial with the military general selling insurance plays. What was I just watching before that? “Breaking News” the Big Black Box flashes at my corn syrup stuffed face. There are wolves on the box, hungry, angry, young wolves. I am uncomfortable again, I remember now that “They're a religion of hate, it's just how they are.” That makes sense, that is exactly what I was thinking! I couldn't have tweeted it any better! I agree with the Big Black Box, when is it wrong? Never, that's when. “Broken Cell Phone Cases” headlines the next story. My red and blue blood boils.

Alyssa Carella

Clueless I slam on the brake pedal as the car screeches to a halt. Hands unsteady, vision blurring, red running into my eyes, legs mangled, I let out a whimper as the wet pours down my face. After the bang, I snap back to reality. A few hours prior, I had visited Flander’s Bar and Lounge for a drink. My feet throb. All day I deal with children screaming at me in a confined space. I need a drink or five, to say the least. I’m a regular at Flander’s, especially after my hard days at work. I enjoy the classic tune, “Bennie and The Jets,” that jams from the jukebox, and see the men in flannels and ripped Levi’s, women in skimpy black dresses with heels as tall as Michael Jordan. They mingle over shots of Jose Cuervo and sip Budweiser from brown bottles, blasting colored balls across the green, musty felt. The bartender and I—Julie, who knows me by name—have a close relationship because I am there almost as much as she is. She looks at my frizzy, black, curly hair, all out in five directions, and exclaims, “My God! Missy, you look terrible. Your job’s taking a toll on you. Jack and Coke? Maybe three?” I smirk and nod my head. One Jack and Coke becomes four, then turns into shots of Jack, no Coke. After three hours at Flander’s, and not grading papers, it’s time to stop wallowing in self-pity. I lunge off of the plush, red leather seat that comforts me while I visit with my very best friend, Jack Daniel. Legs wobbling, eyes wandering, the smell of alcohol from my breath, I begin to stumble. Julie notices my indiscretion and yells, “Missy, sit back down! I’ll call you a cab. I worry about you.” “No thank you. I’m fine,” I reply. “My car is here, and I live only three blocks away.” As I pry my car door open, I sit there before sticking the key into the ignition and glance in the mirror at my dark, beamy eyes. Why did I choose this job? With a red face, I turn the switch, shift the car in drive, and pull out, to coast down the street. After a minute into my drive, I swerve, clueless, into oncoming traffic.

Autumn Phillips

February February, the tide of valentines turned to cheap beer and one night stands. Instead of Romeo, I retain condoms and forgotten names. May, a month of awakening, twisted to a month of blacked-out bedrooms, dirty sheets, and unwashed hair. Last week’s takeout still clutters the floor. I count my bills, stacked high as Mt. Fuji. August, the season of tan lines and popsicles, spilling across hot sand, a beach towel spread, like butter, on some far off beach. Wrapping myself in cold misery, I hide away from the public eye. November, gathering of family and friends, charity, and tryptophan. I don’t answer their phone calls and don’t reply to their texts. I stay in my smelly hovel, the skunk of my decrepit, seedy condo building. The neighbors know. February, a month of fresh flames and supposed beginnings, I climb into his Silverado and let the embers ignite.

Abigail Blankenship

Little House For Mary Alice Munroe He looked and an attractive woman smiled seductively. Her hand closed as they thought, The secret little house she’d go to. In their bed against light pushed back. Gone. You asked again. She’s home, but gone. From Page 245 from Mary Alice Monroe’s Last Night over Carolina Pee Dee’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he ducked his head. Bud looked across the room, and catching their waitress’s eye. Indicated he wanted another round of beers. Bob Seger’s “Katmandu” blared over the speakers. The noise level in the restaurant rose as the alcohol flowed. An attractive woman at the bar, not more than forty, met his eye, and smiled seductively. Bud felt a flare of interest, then looked away. Their waitress came by with two long-necked beers in her hand and a basket of hush puppies. The day’s work had sharpened his appetite, and he popped a few in his mouth. Bud closed his eyes and savored the warm cornmeal as they practically melted in his mouth. They cooked them right, he thought. Carolina made the best hush puppies. She always said the secret was a little bacon grease. He thought of Carolina and wondered if she’d eaten dinner alone in that old house. After doing the dishes, she’d probably pay some bills, read, then go upstairs to their room to watch television. He pictured her in their bed, leaning limp against the pillows, the gray and white flashing light on her face. Bud pushed back the basket, his hunger gone. “What’s eating you?” Pee Dee asked, chewing. “I had a fight with Carolina.” “Again?” Bud took a long swallow from his beer. “She’s mad we’re not coming home.” “That don’t sound like her.” He shrugged. “But we been gone a long time.” 36

Contributors Krystal Albert Haley Ball Kelsey Beres Abigail Blankenship Dr. Terri Borchers Alyssa Carella Sarah Carpenter Ndiaga Cisse Ashley Farrell Brandie Jakubik Nikki Merrifield Caitlyn Mundy Stephanie Oswald Rodshaleek Pino Autumn Phillips Caitlin Quinn Jamila Richardson Andrea Seeloff Kyle James Shrader MJ Stoll Maria Tasca Sharon Trigilio