Fall 2011 - The University of Scranton
Fall 2011 - The University of Scranton
Fall 2011 - The University of Scranton
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fall <strong>2011</strong>
ESPRIT<br />
<strong>The</strong> <strong>University</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Scranton</strong> Review <strong>of</strong> Arts and Letters<br />
<strong>Fall</strong> <strong>2011</strong><br />
Editor-in-Chief<br />
Ryan Pipan<br />
Production Manager<br />
Brad Wierbowski<br />
Assistant Production Managers<br />
Lori Green, Chris McClatchy, Lauren Shuleski,<br />
Alexis Sullivan<br />
Alexander Daly<br />
Jonathan A. Danforth<br />
Craig Fisher<br />
Renae Fisher<br />
Lori Green<br />
Mike Le<br />
Chris McClatchy<br />
Editors<br />
Rosa Todaro<br />
Check-In<br />
Maria Landis<br />
Andrew Milewski<br />
Marlo Murphy<br />
Gillian Naro<br />
Corinne Nulton<br />
Louis Porreca<br />
Lauren Shuleski<br />
Alexis Sullivan<br />
Faculty Moderator<br />
Stephen Whittaker<br />
Esprit, a co-curricular activity <strong>of</strong> the English department, is published twice yearly by the students<br />
<strong>of</strong> <strong>The</strong> <strong>University</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Scranton</strong>. <strong>The</strong> content is the responsibility <strong>of</strong> the editors and does not<br />
necessarily reflect the views <strong>of</strong> the administration or faculty. <strong>The</strong> <strong>University</strong> subscribes to the<br />
principle <strong>of</strong> responsible freedom <strong>of</strong> expression for its student editors.<br />
Copyright by <strong>The</strong> <strong>University</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Scranton</strong>, <strong>Scranton</strong>, PA 18510.
<strong>Fall</strong> <strong>2011</strong> Awards:<br />
<strong>The</strong> Berrier Poetry Award<br />
Shawna Hogan<br />
Food Meant to be Shared<br />
<strong>The</strong> Berrier Prose Award<br />
John F. McGill<br />
Behind the Locked Door<br />
<strong>The</strong> Esprit Art & Photography Award<br />
Aimee X. Miller<br />
A5<br />
<strong>Fall</strong> <strong>2011</strong> Award Judges:<br />
Poetry:<br />
Matthew Mercuri, class <strong>of</strong> 2010, was Editor-in-Chief and Production Manager <strong>of</strong> Esprit.<br />
His short stories “Extraction,” “Astigmatic” and “Emerald City” were published by Esprit<br />
in 2008 and 2009. “Astigmatic” won <strong>The</strong> Berrier Prose Award in Spring 2008. He is currently<br />
pursuing a medical degree at New York <strong>University</strong> School <strong>of</strong> Medicine.<br />
Prose:<br />
CJ Libassi, former Production Manager and Editor-in-Chief <strong>of</strong> Esprit, is currently a<br />
2010 Teach For America Corps member in the DC Region teaching foreign language at<br />
Oakcrest Elementary School. His stories “Meeting Marge,” “<strong>The</strong> Saver” and “<strong>The</strong> King <strong>of</strong><br />
Naptime” were published by the magazine. “<strong>The</strong> King <strong>of</strong> Naptime” won <strong>The</strong> Berrier Prose<br />
Award in Spring 2010.<br />
Photography:<br />
Kevin Kinkead and Mark Webber both graduated from the Swain School <strong>of</strong> Design.<br />
Webber has an MFA from the Parsons School <strong>of</strong> Design. <strong>The</strong>y have exhibited in New York,<br />
New Bedford, Atlanta, Kent and <strong>Scranton</strong>. Webber—who teaches painting, drawing and<br />
aesthetics at Marywood—has a show opening in Paris in March.
Contents<br />
Food Meant to be Shared<br />
Hypothetical Amsterdam<br />
Spotted Map<br />
I Could Be Kicking Ass—Part I<br />
Convenience Store<br />
<strong>The</strong> Window<br />
Behind the Locked Door<br />
Shrapnel Shard<br />
Pale Green<br />
<strong>The</strong> Offering<br />
Meeting the <strong>The</strong>ologian<br />
Flesh<br />
Comparative Advantage<br />
Giving Forth<br />
Character Development<br />
Shimmer<br />
Untitled II<br />
<strong>The</strong> Light at the End <strong>of</strong> the Tunnel<br />
Observing at the Louvre<br />
Memory Lane<br />
A5<br />
Jonathan A. Danforth<br />
Aimee X. Miller<br />
Shawna Hogan<br />
Lori Green<br />
Jonathan A. Danforth<br />
Craig Fisher<br />
Rosa Todaro<br />
Gillian Naro<br />
John F. McGill<br />
Michael J. Farley<br />
Lori Green<br />
Gillian Naro<br />
Lori Green<br />
Corinne Nulton<br />
Sarah Neitz<br />
Jonathan A. Danforth<br />
Lori Green<br />
Gillian Naro<br />
Marie Barry &<br />
Alexander Daly<br />
Abby Yavorek<br />
Lori Green<br />
4<br />
6<br />
8<br />
9<br />
14<br />
15<br />
16<br />
20<br />
22<br />
24<br />
25<br />
30<br />
43<br />
45<br />
46<br />
48<br />
49<br />
54<br />
55<br />
Front Cover<br />
Inside Front Cover
Food Meant to be Shared<br />
Shawna Hogan<br />
Small olives in the grain,<br />
grape tomato, thyme,<br />
a dim kitchen light to witness<br />
the feeding <strong>of</strong> oneself.<br />
Buckley crooning from the next room<br />
about eternal life, longing,<br />
the lover that should have come over. Yours<br />
can’t either, so you arrange the wooden cutting boards<br />
in solitude, humming to him anyway.<br />
You forget what cheese the cook said to use<br />
that night at the restaurant, where your sister<br />
cupped a skeletal hold on nothing but glasses <strong>of</strong> hot tea,<br />
and you told her the story <strong>of</strong> the hospice nurse<br />
who stopped you right outside the door<br />
to your mother’s bedroom and said it would be<br />
pointless—pointless, she said—<br />
to feed her now, while the steam from the broth<br />
made an upward escape and the salted crackers patiently<br />
sat on a napkin, waiting for a mouth.<br />
Oil hisses in its warming, the asparagus you found<br />
buried under more practical produce is thinning<br />
in the pan. Your sister confessed after your tale<br />
that she kept reading the cards that came<br />
with all the bagel and fruit baskets sent by<br />
neighbors; they spelled Thinking <strong>of</strong> you in your time<br />
<strong>of</strong> sorrow and the like, but what she saw was<br />
Please, keep eating.<br />
(And she didn’t—this you did not say)<br />
4
But as this night’s food is revealed<br />
as meal and you lay it down on a table<br />
with more chairs than needed, you want to pass a plate<br />
to all <strong>of</strong> them; you know the absent are hungry, too.<br />
You want to feed them and urge please,<br />
let us keep eating.<br />
5
Hypothetical Amsterdam<br />
Lori Green<br />
Some future date<br />
When we will have not spoken<br />
In years,<br />
(Let us imagine) we find ourselves<br />
In the same city and, only<br />
By chance, at the same time.<br />
You will be there for business,<br />
And it could be the business <strong>of</strong><br />
Colleagues, or it could be the business <strong>of</strong><br />
Character study in those c<strong>of</strong>fee shops.<br />
And I will be there for to see a man<br />
And it could be a man who<br />
Proposes marriage and home, or a man who<br />
Hangs one eared and thick brush stroked<br />
In unfurnished halls.<br />
But we are there, either way, divided by canals.<br />
We circle each other, and idle days<br />
And streets which project from center squares<br />
Where we sit and read, sit back, lean back, laze.<br />
Paying due respect to Anna’s ghost,<br />
We will fail at counting bicycles and have<br />
Feelings <strong>of</strong> closeness to something unnamable,<br />
Unnamable until on a last day you will see me<br />
6
First and jump into a cab<br />
Which refuses to budge as<br />
<strong>The</strong> driver calls out to a<br />
Friend, and then I clamp my eyes onto<br />
You, who would avoid my stare.<br />
Beside the tulip market we will hang<br />
Still, suspended in sweet noxious airs, where<br />
My eyes narrow, narrow yours too with their force.<br />
I will pick out a red one for your lapel<br />
And mouth, with venom bite,<br />
With loving laughter too,<br />
“I<br />
know you.”
8<br />
Spotted Map<br />
Jonathan A. Danforth
I Could Be Kicking Ass—Part I<br />
Craig Fisher<br />
Secret Prison in the CLASSIFIED Desert<br />
Country: CLASSIFIED<br />
Time: CLASSIFIED:30am<br />
Hawkeye Bootysmasher sat in his prison cell in Saudi Arabia. He<br />
was seventeen. He had a long lost brother. He liked kicking ass. He liked<br />
short, choppy sentences. His favorite color was yellow: like lemons. He<br />
liked lemons so much because, when life tossed him lemons, he made<br />
lemonade with his sugary biceps, ice-cube abs and firm bendy-straw.<br />
He was also super smart. He knew lots. He knew lots about<br />
computers. This means he also knew lots about his brain, considering it was<br />
a computer. His brain was even stronger than his biceps. If only he could<br />
tell the world he was fighting the good fight and kicking ass.<br />
“I could be kicking ass,” he said. He thought about life and how he<br />
had a long lost brother. Just then, he noticed a crack in the wall. That could<br />
help him! Maybe he could work that crack into a nice loose hole!<br />
After making fun <strong>of</strong> the prison guard’s family so much that the<br />
guard emptied a full submachine gun clip into Hawkeye’s cell, that hole<br />
opened right up! Hawkeye saw there was a box inside and took it out. He<br />
opened the box. Inside was a laptop. “I guess when they were making the<br />
prison someone dropped this here,” Hawkeye said with a mix <strong>of</strong> surprise<br />
and no surprise at all. He then yelled, “Yeah! Tight!” but no one could hear<br />
him over the submachine gun fire.<br />
Hawkeye Bootysmasher knew what he had to do. His hacking skills<br />
could get past secrets like a rock smashing through hot butter. He started<br />
accessing networks and internet systems. After accessing the Yemenese<br />
cruise missile system, he did what he had to do…<br />
9
A bedroom in the Bootysmasher Residence<br />
Newark, New Jersey, United States<br />
1100 hours<br />
Meanwhile, in Newark, New Jersey in the United States, Neil<br />
Bootysmasher sat in his room. He was bored and lonely and he only had a<br />
sister. Downstairs he could hear his mother and sister arguing again.<br />
“I want to go to the mall! It’s not fair. Why am I grounded?” yelled<br />
his sister.<br />
“We told you to stop dating Ralph. He’s an escaped convict,”<br />
yelled his mom back.<br />
Neil noticed he had an e-mail from someone named<br />
Bootysmasher1 . He looked at his screen in disbelief and then rushed<br />
downstairs to tell his mom he wanted to go to the mall.<br />
“Mom, I’m going to the mall.”<br />
“OK.”<br />
<strong>The</strong>y drove to the mall. <strong>The</strong>y went shopping in some stores and<br />
bought clothing. Neil bought really cool clothing. Neil then noticed from<br />
the corner <strong>of</strong> his eye that one <strong>of</strong> the stores was closed. He started looking<br />
at the store when a cruise missile slipped past security and blew the store<br />
to pieces. <strong>The</strong> store was a fiery ruin, making Neil wonder.<br />
Neil urged his mom to look at the blast.<br />
“We should hurry and get out <strong>of</strong> here!” she said.<br />
“Oh my god! You’re right!” said Neil.<br />
Neil and Mrs. Bootysmasher finished their shopping very quickly<br />
and then ran outside to the parking lot. Suddenly, another cruise missile<br />
slammed into all the cars except theirs. Everywhere Neil looked, it was<br />
like the sun was replaced by a giant ball <strong>of</strong> fire.<br />
“What’s going on?” people said. Pretty soon the cops got involved.<br />
Hawkeye told his mother to hurry home.<br />
Neil was trying to figure out everything that was going on, so he<br />
hurried upstairs and checked that e-mail he got.<br />
10
Dear Neil “Little” Bootysmasher,<br />
I only sent the missiles cause you really need to read this e-mail. Don’t<br />
worry. <strong>The</strong> store was empty, and there was no one in the parking lot who could have<br />
gotten hurt. My name is Hawkeye Bootysmasher. You don’t know this but I am your<br />
brother. A long time ago we were separated, and now I have been captured in the war<br />
between Yemen and Egypt. You need to save me from my prison cell in Saudi Arabia. If<br />
you go outside in the backyard you’ll see a box. Inside I included lots <strong>of</strong> supplies and<br />
the coordinates to my location.<br />
Your Brother,<br />
Hawkeye<br />
Neil was shocked and utterly calmed all at once. He knew he had a<br />
mission now. It would be very hard to save his brother, but he like so didn’t<br />
even care. Certain things have to be done if you wanna kick some ass on<br />
the hot, ass-strewn volcano <strong>of</strong> life.<br />
11
<strong>The</strong> Dining Room at the Bootysmasher Residence<br />
Newark, New Jersey, United States<br />
1200 hours<br />
Neil left that stupid dining room and entered the backyard.<br />
“What’s this?” he said.<br />
Neil said that because there was a big box on the ground with a<br />
parachute sprawled out behind it. <strong>The</strong> parachute was orange like the color<br />
<strong>of</strong> oranges. Inside the box was lots <strong>of</strong> food and other supplies and a highly<br />
maneuverable raft. Neil decided to start his journey right away, but first,<br />
he wanted to go out for lunch one last time at Dairy King. Just then, out <strong>of</strong><br />
the corner <strong>of</strong> his eye, a cruise missile slammed into Dairy King.<br />
Since Newark is close to the ocean, it didn’t take Neil long to get<br />
to the ocean with his raft. That’s one <strong>of</strong> things Neil liked about living in<br />
Newark: it was geographically close to the ocean, even though Newark is<br />
Neptune’s ashtray. Neil got to the seaport place right away.<br />
“Better hurry, don’t wanna run out <strong>of</strong> maritime!” said Neil to the<br />
Seaport Clerk. <strong>The</strong> Seaport Clerk laughed at Neil’s pun. He knew it wasn’t<br />
funny, but he had to keep the boy’s spirits high for the journey to Saudi<br />
Arabia. Once Neil and the Seaport Clerk finished talking, the Seaport<br />
Clerk went back to paddling and Neil picked up his fishing rod again.<br />
<strong>The</strong> two <strong>of</strong> them had been fishing for several days now without catching<br />
anything.<br />
Neil grew upset with himself and his inability as a fisherman. <strong>The</strong><br />
sun was really bright. <strong>The</strong> whole setting was spectacular. If you read <strong>The</strong><br />
Old Man and the Sea, it was just like that.<br />
Neil tried all his lures, shaking his head at each one. He tried<br />
crafting different nets and setting little traps and things, but no. Nothing<br />
seemed to work. It’s important on a long survival journey to have food.<br />
<strong>The</strong>re’s nothing like having a full belly when the rest <strong>of</strong> the world looks<br />
empty. <strong>The</strong>y still had enough canned meat to reach Morocco, but after that<br />
Neil really had no idea. <strong>The</strong> future <strong>of</strong> Neil and Seaport Clerk was as foggy<br />
as the bathroom mirror after they shared their long morning showers on<br />
the boat.<br />
12
Strait <strong>of</strong> Gibraltar, near Morocco<br />
Moroccan Waters<br />
1900 hours<br />
Neil and Seaport Clerk could see the rocky shores <strong>of</strong> Morocco.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y shouted with glee and jumped around and exchanged cell phone<br />
numbers. Everything was peaches. <strong>The</strong>n, out <strong>of</strong> nowhere, their celebration<br />
was interrupted by the sight <strong>of</strong> motorboats.<br />
Neil looked at the mean people in the boats. “Oh my god! <strong>The</strong>y<br />
have lots <strong>of</strong> guns and weapons and stuff!”<br />
<strong>The</strong>re were like thirty motorboats. Neil and Seaport Clerk were<br />
seriously kickass people, but they didn’t know how many they could<br />
handle. <strong>The</strong>y were also running out <strong>of</strong> fuel. Seaport Clerk leapt into action.<br />
He sounded the alarm and sent out a message to all the crew over the<br />
intercom.<br />
“Attention crew: asses to battle stations, asses to battle stations.<br />
<strong>The</strong>re’s pirates coming from practically everywhere, and I mean modernday<br />
pirates!”<br />
Neil took over a machine gun turret and cocked it or something.<br />
“Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!” yelled Seaport Clerk to<br />
boost his adrenaline. All across the water there was lots <strong>of</strong> shooting and<br />
exploding and loud shouts and noises and phallic imagery.<br />
But as for Neil: Neil had to focus. Since he didn’t believe in<br />
killing or causing the slightest harm, the stuff he was about to do would<br />
be very, very difficult. Screaming wildly, he tore the 50 cal. machine gun<br />
<strong>of</strong>f its stand, tore <strong>of</strong>f his shirt and charged across the deck. One boat after<br />
another, he singlehandedly shot every gun out <strong>of</strong> every pirate’s hand. He<br />
then spun around and shot every gun out <strong>of</strong> every crewmember’s hand. He<br />
then led the crew in a daring raid on the motorboats. No one rested until<br />
every last pistol was at the bottom <strong>of</strong> the ocean.<br />
Neil and Seaport Clerk gave themselves high fives. <strong>The</strong>y watched<br />
as those silly pirates sped <strong>of</strong>f into the sunset, cursing Neil and vowing to<br />
purchase new weapons. Everyone onboard then hit the showers.<br />
13
Convenience Store<br />
Rosa Todaro<br />
In front <strong>of</strong> me, on a woman’s hip<br />
a toddler grabs for candy,<br />
and a 10-year-old son stares<br />
at a girl glossed onto a Maxim cover;<br />
he clutches the dollar in his hand while mom<br />
plays thumb solitaire.<br />
<strong>The</strong> line moves forward,<br />
each <strong>of</strong> us like conveyor belt toys,<br />
ballerinas and cowboys to be<br />
scanned and sent away.<br />
<strong>The</strong> woman walks to the register, ready<br />
to swipe and slide back into human traffic;<br />
I look down and find myself holding<br />
hot pink lipstick the magazine<br />
told me to buy,<br />
and a candy bar<br />
with an attractive wrapper.<br />
14
15<br />
<strong>The</strong> Window<br />
Gillian Naro
Behind the Locked Door<br />
John F. McGill<br />
“You have seen how difficult it is to decipher the script with one’s eyes; but our man<br />
deciphers it with his wounds”- Franz Kafka, “In the Penal Colony”<br />
Behind the locked door, through the wooden frame, a skeletal<br />
back opposes large clear windows that protrude unto open. <strong>The</strong> back’s<br />
bottom, its dainty legs, rests upon a marbled window sill. <strong>The</strong> figure in<br />
whole sits exposing his features. He sits doing so in an unadorned room.<br />
He looks around. Unnoticed, the figure unknowingly exists beyond and<br />
below where his window prospects. But the window stands tall and wide<br />
allowing an airy interface.<br />
He breathes his own as he sees in sight blackbirds spiraling above<br />
towering, nebulous clouds. At such a distance distinctions diminish and<br />
the black blurs whirl with plumes. Still, they move, as this figure follows<br />
the flying creatures with his head, his brow and his eyes all the while while<br />
they follow each other peripatetically: it all gets dizzying shortly.<br />
Soon enough the figure pulls his head down to the tiled floor in<br />
reaction. People come and go down the cobble lane, strolling and cycling,<br />
chatting and clanging. <strong>The</strong> figure figures from this scenario it is best to<br />
shade his shape and reveal nothing. So he counts the lines that grate the<br />
ventilator, and though still and straight from the looks behind—only the<br />
keyhole can glimpse bits <strong>of</strong> his back—the figure frantically configures<br />
inside all that adds up. <strong>The</strong> lines do but the winds outside don’t: they<br />
feel brisk, rushing inward upon his face uninvited. <strong>The</strong>y frighten night in<br />
their raging doldrums. <strong>The</strong> house hushes. <strong>The</strong>n all breathes in silence and<br />
solitude absorbs.<br />
<strong>The</strong> man blinks. Time has gone by for this figure, and though he<br />
notices, he respects himself for not discerning now and then. Once and<br />
again the chair faces the open window and his back faces the door, just<br />
like yesterday and the day before; he has arranged it near the center <strong>of</strong><br />
16
the room so he can gather everything from the view. And once again, by<br />
gazing, the light falls westward as the night takes over. Yet the figure always<br />
anticipates the hanging moon. Desirously he hopes it will hold with a<br />
glow from the heavens on this particular evening. So he waits, in prayer,<br />
squatted and bent upon the wooden chair, with the door still locked in fear<br />
<strong>of</strong> reprisal. Unbeknownst to him, however, the other tenants move along<br />
through their lives, climbing the stairs in the outside hallways and reaching<br />
their own rooms. <strong>The</strong>y go in and out, up the stairs and down, through the<br />
door and out the cobblestone lane <strong>of</strong>f always to somewhere, some other<br />
place.<br />
<strong>The</strong> man in the room had been there before but felt his feet<br />
missing meeting all the other feet that flapped the ground and marked<br />
certain positions; he prefers to rest his own at will.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y now grip the shaded tile floor and from time to time he<br />
imagines himself as a firm tree trunk which gives itself to its embedded<br />
roots. So he clutches his legs for a long while and his muscles tighten<br />
uniquely. His temple clenches and he vanishes while his eyes close. Like<br />
the half-hooked moon that hangs from its fellow atmosphere, this figure<br />
renews his various formulations this way and that, as daily he swells a smile<br />
or loops a lip or lifts his head, being so that he can only be seen from the<br />
window in always a different gesture. Our man from behind pleasures<br />
himself in all the faces that he can rearrange to the passing strangers, but<br />
does anyone see his spine? No, only the keyhole can. He sets himself up<br />
that way.<br />
Nearby, along the white plastered wall, sits the bed. It lies alone<br />
for the day and is retreated to only during the night. He goes there now.<br />
That then is when the door is locked and so also the window lets no more<br />
wind in. <strong>The</strong> drapes enclose the room. <strong>The</strong>n being he can make faces<br />
for nobody but his blackened mind, enclosed in its own kind <strong>of</strong> white<br />
walls. So the man behind the locked door weeps and wrangles within his<br />
covers, twisting this way and that until his placid mind falls upon some<br />
disassociated reminiscence recalling the child’s movements: whimsically, he<br />
dreams in colors.<br />
It takes a long time for him to wake himself. He arises from his<br />
cornered bed and stands naked to himself alone, the newborn sun peeking<br />
1
through the drapes. He tilts his head to the ceiling and to the floor, blinks<br />
and scratches, as we could see if we only looked through that keyhole. He<br />
glances toward the drapes and wonders what kind <strong>of</strong> day it will be. This is<br />
always the time when he reveals the windows, cranks the levers and opens<br />
the large frames.<br />
<strong>The</strong> air flushes inwards and the chair remains in the same position;<br />
soon enough he will return to it. But as customary, he taps his toes to<br />
tantalize the body as the winds come in. With alone privileges, the tenant<br />
acquaints himself with his sensational form. Each day discovers a new<br />
landing place, and the man whose back normally faces the door and looks<br />
toward the window, occasionally lies across the floor to feel the coldness<br />
and roughness. <strong>The</strong> ground mangles the spine. He hears from below the<br />
scattering voices that drift up to his window: Deutsch, fran�aise, fran�aise, English.<br />
Each and every voice scratches the surface to a certain degree and so the<br />
man thinks <strong>of</strong> the numbers and meanings that language encompasses: one<br />
two and three… Instantaneously he squares himself down to the tiled<br />
floors below the ventilator to recount the lines that shape these forms.<br />
Same as yesterday remains the same as the new day today. Symmetry<br />
makes the man stand symmetrical in his nakedness and distinguish how<br />
many times—by counting—his pulse pangs on his neck. <strong>The</strong> lamp stays on<br />
for only a few minutes as he scribbles his fading recollection but when he<br />
writes the fantastic figure in his head has fled. Hours pass before he forces<br />
to cloth himself. <strong>The</strong>n the sun has risen high above the church across the<br />
street and scans this figure’s eyes in all its fury. He closes them and lets the<br />
sun burn, burn his face to waken him from the dream that has kept him<br />
paralyzed since the morning began.<br />
He opens his eyes to whiteness plowing clouds <strong>of</strong> purity.<br />
Eventually as they hover they conspire to cover the sun and all becomes a<br />
dim blackened lightness. Twilight emerges in mid-afternoon and the figure<br />
is frightened at all the varying distorted lights: the curtains change hue,<br />
some tiles glow and most hide, but the white wooden panels <strong>of</strong> his locked<br />
door reflect an obscure brightness that bounces <strong>of</strong>f his mirror which<br />
remains on the wall.<br />
Sitting or standing anywhere in between his figure recoils as he<br />
wonders who he is and what makes the light and what makes the light’s<br />
18
light, even beyond his clothed nakedness, beyond his locked enclosed room<br />
and beyond the cobblestone lane which he can see. His eyes bulge at a<br />
certain understanding that you or I or all <strong>of</strong> us may not ever perceive since<br />
it is him there locked in his white walled room, negligent <strong>of</strong> all his fellow<br />
tenants who see different shades and miss the shadows that he shapes and<br />
the distortions that he notes <strong>of</strong> all the other fleeting shadows that come<br />
and go on the cobblestone exclusively to themselves flying beyond the<br />
buildings and rummaging below the streets who being animals feed with<br />
necessary vegetation painting their temporary canvases definitively in<br />
formulation and so properly cutting the views that construct the whole<br />
lodge. For it houses them all. <strong>The</strong>n, this is the time to resume his seat<br />
but already the sun is drooping. Our figure rests his legs on the sill, feet<br />
chilled. <strong>The</strong> transparent windows invite the nascent nebulous clouds<br />
within. Still, the figure inhales the breeze breathing breathlessly. Though<br />
the door shuts and admits no knockers.<br />
19
Shrapnel Shard<br />
Michael J. Farley<br />
In memory <strong>of</strong> SPC Edgar Daclan, KIA<br />
Sitting sharp and shattered on my bookshelf,<br />
I see your Kris-like design half-gleaming.<br />
Next to the Cold Steel bayonet,<br />
In front <strong>of</strong> the Norton Anthology,<br />
I hear you screaming, shrieking,<br />
Singing your siren song.<br />
A jagged, 8-inch, blackened missile<br />
That blasted from its buried position,<br />
Out and away, like language from Babel,<br />
That mild and sun-filled May morning.<br />
One <strong>of</strong> the many death-dealing shards<br />
That was explosively flint-napped that day.<br />
I pick it up and examine it closely,<br />
But am careful to avoid its harsh,<br />
Hardened teeth—all unforgiving.<br />
I bring my eyes closer,<br />
And the heat blistered edges reignite,<br />
A reminiscent remnant <strong>of</strong> the war.<br />
20
Closer still and the machine-marked minutia—<br />
<strong>The</strong> just visible, uniformed lines, glare at me.<br />
I turn it over and it reveals its alter-ego<br />
Blackened: burnt by the flash <strong>of</strong> powder.<br />
Curved, conical, it rocks back and forth.<br />
A distorted, fractured fragment,<br />
But now perceptibly part <strong>of</strong> a whole.<br />
Six partial comb-like threads<br />
Mark the rough tip <strong>of</strong> the fragment,<br />
Once home to the ignition system<br />
Of the 120-mm mortar round<br />
From which this fighter flew.<br />
Pock-marked powder granules<br />
Grace the encasement.<br />
Engrained, etched into the steel,<br />
Tiny travelers <strong>of</strong> spent explosive.<br />
Battered but bloodless<br />
I can’t help but remember why.<br />
This rage-filled rocket struck<br />
<strong>The</strong> concrete wall in front <strong>of</strong> me.<br />
Its cousins the coroner cut<br />
From SPC Daclan’s mutilated body.<br />
Surviving still this shrapnel shard,<br />
You haunt the halls <strong>of</strong> our broken dreams.<br />
21
Pale Green<br />
Lori Green<br />
Seven, his age.<br />
Bowed, his spine,<br />
Those shoulders warped as wood<br />
With nerves as shaken as a train yard’s<br />
One room apartment.<br />
Strange scars are there, and brazen pains<br />
Shooting, throbbing, blooming into precious bruise<br />
Formations, signs which scream and stamp,<br />
Too obvious, even as his stories bend themselves<br />
And shift inside out, feigning the innocence<br />
Of a child’s golden age<br />
Which he gazes at now, alo<strong>of</strong>, or with longing.<br />
<strong>The</strong> day is hotter than mercury can read.<br />
<strong>The</strong> sun’s own weight bashes my lungs.<br />
He sits now, on tanned stalks <strong>of</strong> grass, his<br />
Summer legs folded over themselves,<br />
Little Yogi with eyes unstrained and<br />
Aimed at his right knee.<br />
Sitting across from him, I look too.<br />
A pale green moth, sized as his fingernails,<br />
It sits, crawls slow, rests once more, wings<br />
Thin as a hair and rounded neatly toward<br />
22
Its little feeler jutting body. <strong>The</strong> boy’s<br />
Spine uncurls, shoulders drop delicately and<br />
He watches this creature’s progress over pencil<br />
Thighs, purpled splotches <strong>of</strong> contact until<br />
A nearby playground child shouts,<br />
Calamitous and rough, so<br />
Those brittle bones shoot back to shifty place, quicker<br />
Than they ever could wing out.<br />
23
24<br />
<strong>The</strong> Offering<br />
Gillian Naro
Meeting the <strong>The</strong>ologian<br />
Lori Green<br />
<strong>The</strong> sky is spread, covered uniformly with clouds that blend<br />
and bear down on the small city. Down from there are the tops <strong>of</strong> the<br />
highest buildings, flat squares mostly. Next are apartment balconies, shop<br />
awnings, business names spelled out and <strong>of</strong>ten missing letters at night.<br />
It is not night, but rather dusk, and at street level, a young woman walks<br />
briskly past a large green square. She darts in a gap between cars, making<br />
a diagonal and intersecting crosswalk lines at random angles. She holds the<br />
bottom <strong>of</strong> her dress down, pinned against the wind. Unseen in this modest<br />
making movement, she enters a small place to eat.<br />
<strong>The</strong> door swings shut, and she sets her bag down at a table by<br />
the large glass windows. She stands idling in line and orders a tea. Her<br />
eyes are deep set, watchful and dart from a high framed picture, to the<br />
outside sidewalk, to the menu and then to the other tables, where she sees<br />
a similarly aged female. <strong>The</strong>y both smile, and the young woman named<br />
Elena sits down with her friend with her tea. <strong>The</strong>y speak, lowering and<br />
raising their voices in rhythm. <strong>The</strong> table is littered with studious debris. A<br />
child psychology book is opened to a page in the hundreds, a laptop with<br />
ear-buds and a low battery is directly before the friend, and the dregs <strong>of</strong><br />
an overpriced c<strong>of</strong>fee slowly lose warmth. “So much reading tonight,” but<br />
they talk for a few minutes, in a language filled with references to intensely<br />
interrelated lives.<br />
<strong>The</strong> sky grows heavier, seeming closer to the tops <strong>of</strong> buildings, and<br />
the two young women sit and speak, laugh <strong>of</strong>ten, exchange looks over new<br />
customers. A man in a long, thick leather jacket walks in, rushed and with<br />
tense shoulders. Elena raises her eyebrows, nods and says quietly, “Nice<br />
jacket.” Her friend’s eyes flash for a moment, mockingly. Speech slows.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y sit back further in their chairs with s<strong>of</strong>ter laughter. In a moment,<br />
they’ve smiled their temporary goodbyes, the friend goes back to work,<br />
and Elena is sitting at her nearby, original table with her tea and open<br />
25
copy <strong>of</strong> a tragic Shakespeare. <strong>The</strong> book is in one hand, held up and close<br />
to her face. She reaches for the tea without looking and takes a long sip,<br />
her face filling with steam, her covered body pulled into the warmth.<br />
Her shoulders are loose, her posture relaxed. As the streetlights illumine,<br />
she settles into scholarship, reading with barely narrowed eyes, nodding<br />
slightly every three turns <strong>of</strong> the page or so.<br />
<strong>The</strong> man in the long coat ordered a drink that had him sitting and<br />
waiting as she commenced reading. Now, drink in hand, he comes to stand<br />
at her table and looks down sheepishly, “What are you reading?” She smiles<br />
up at him, shows him the title, and he smiles excitedly when he tells her it<br />
is his favorite. <strong>The</strong> smile remains, smaller and slightly shaky, open mouthed<br />
with no teeth touching. Elena fills the silence by saying that she and her<br />
friend liked his coat. Her eyes are kind now, and perhaps he finds them<br />
saintly, for he smiles again in the same way and says he is going to sit down,<br />
which he does, throwing his coat in a pile. He looks up at her expectantly<br />
and her smile is still only kind, “Elena.”<br />
“George.” His handshake is rigid, and she stretches out her fingers<br />
under the table afterwards. Elena looks over at her friend briefly, who<br />
smiles amusedly and briefly, then returns to psychology. Elena and George<br />
speak then about the play, which she has only started. His words form<br />
haltingly, pause, then spill out all at once. Some tension in his face, perhaps<br />
in his every muscle, causes him to move shortly and unintentionally every<br />
few moments, along with his gesticulating, trembling hands. His shoulders<br />
are hunched and his brow furrowed. When it furrows more deeply with<br />
thought, his whole body bends slightly, head and spine curling. Despite a<br />
determined gaze, he seems beaten.<br />
As they move from her book to the wider topic <strong>of</strong> Shakespeare,<br />
her smile loses some kindness, which is replaced by genuine interest.<br />
Elena’s own forehead condenses now, and she nods slowly then speaks,<br />
distractedly tangling her hair in long fingers, seemingly attempting to<br />
extricate the right words. She forms sentences slowly, restlessly. She is<br />
looking eye to eye with the man now, fully engaged.<br />
“… lonely,” and at a questioning noise from Elena, George repeats<br />
himself, “I read into his mind and it’s lonely.” <strong>The</strong> sky is colored as soot<br />
now, and the two sit in a brief silence for what passes between them now,<br />
26
which is a mutual confession in both sets <strong>of</strong> eyes, which connect at that<br />
repeated word. Occasionally Elena glances at her friend, who looks back<br />
and smiles, always with a slight mischief in her eye. Elena speaks to George<br />
again, lowering her voice. <strong>The</strong>n he asks her a question that makes her<br />
sit still within a momentary silence. When she answers, it is with a hard<br />
and saddened stare at his face, a stare <strong>of</strong> frightened honesty, and he nods<br />
without surprise.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y shake <strong>of</strong>f the heaviness slightly and discuss life situations,<br />
but in a haze, maintaining a nervous connection even as they speak <strong>of</strong> the<br />
mundane. She says she is a student at the nearby university, and he says he<br />
went there seven years ago. He never finished. He did a lot <strong>of</strong> drugs and<br />
alcohol back then. He laughs when he tells her this, and again, his body<br />
folds into itself, slightly. For a quarter <strong>of</strong> a second, horror flashes in his<br />
eye, and her face opens in kindness once more, but without the patronizing<br />
smile <strong>of</strong> before. <strong>The</strong> look that she gives to him, it is like the quiet touch<br />
<strong>of</strong> a hand upon a tabletop’s clenched fist. He says that it is difficult to be<br />
around here again and her look remains, but diminishes as she picks up<br />
her book again, opens a page and points out a line, which they laugh at,<br />
but s<strong>of</strong>tly. Night is so black now that the clouds are invisible, and the dark<br />
seems to immediately fill in the modest skyline’s negative spaces.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y speak on, and smile more, and occasionally Elena looks too<br />
kind still, when George laughs loudly and haltingly, or when her friend<br />
glances over wickedly. <strong>The</strong>ir words enter others’ ears with starts and stops.<br />
Those in the shop, mostly alone and working, hear and barely process a<br />
probing question that Elena answers slowly. <strong>The</strong> book again, a play she<br />
saw last year, one <strong>of</strong> his tattoos—she sees a cross hidden under a cuff and<br />
perhaps the word fanaticism passes through her mind—each topic leaves<br />
their table inconsequentially. Her friend looks up regularly, sees and<br />
calculates the flashes across Elena’s face, which a constant study would<br />
learn mean ‘honesty’ and perhaps also, ‘terror.’ <strong>The</strong> two continue to speak<br />
and continue to shift positions, trying new, slight contortions in their seats.<br />
<strong>The</strong>re is a slight tension for this frightening level <strong>of</strong> eye contact.<br />
Elena’s friend has packed up her belongings and throws her<br />
hulking bag over a shoulder, stands by Elena’s table, smiles and says she<br />
is leaving. <strong>The</strong>y exchange “see you later.” One <strong>of</strong> them returns to George<br />
2
with a worried smile, and the other walks out <strong>of</strong> the glass door and strides<br />
down the sidewalk hurriedly, phone in hand and hands in pockets. Up<br />
above is a uniform sky once buildings are out <strong>of</strong> view. <strong>The</strong> texture and tone<br />
are constant. Down again, past buildings, leaves tremble. <strong>The</strong> few people<br />
out fold in on themselves, their light wool coats, indistinguishable hulks.<br />
On the sidewalk, most <strong>of</strong> the storefront is glass, and in the pane nearest to<br />
the door, Elena and George fit their sitting pr<strong>of</strong>iles, chair backs lining up<br />
with the edges <strong>of</strong> the window. <strong>The</strong>y smile, speak, she with her head tilted<br />
slightly back, he with his arms shaking less than before and with a new,<br />
wide-eyed intensity. A lamp hangs four feet above their heads, over the<br />
center <strong>of</strong> the table. Both are illuminated behind the glass.<br />
Elena speaks casually and looks questioningly at George, who<br />
begins to respond. His words stop before a complete thought though.<br />
He looks as if something is difficult to swallow now. His brow furrows<br />
impossibly deeply, looks about to devour his own eyes, which are filling.<br />
His shoulders move forward and toward each other and he sets his c<strong>of</strong>fee<br />
down loudly for its shaking. His mouth is a solid line and he looks at her<br />
steadily, decisively. She looks back with a barely perceptible tinge <strong>of</strong> terror<br />
throughout her steely body.<br />
George leans toward the center <strong>of</strong> the table and Elena does the<br />
same. His lips begin to move, slowly, achingly. His wrist shakes violently<br />
under the table. What he says is brief. But when he sits back with his head<br />
tilted diagonally downward, with purposeful eyes, Elena also has her back<br />
against the chair, also has a changed demeanor. Her body is slumped back,<br />
and her eyes are widened, as one who shakes her head and mouths, “Oh.<br />
No… I am,” then pauses, glances toward the night, down at the table, then<br />
back into the other’s eyes, “so sorry.”<br />
<strong>The</strong> honesty <strong>of</strong> before is only heavier now, her voice only gentler,<br />
his resigned and still unsettling. She asks him a careful question and he<br />
looks at her hard, points out <strong>of</strong> the window and makes a ‘that way’ motion,<br />
his sleeve dropping slightly and revealing an entire, miniscule cross. She<br />
hesitates then and makes an admission, their commonality confirmed.<br />
He nods and the two <strong>of</strong> them speak at that table, return to her book. She<br />
grasps its spine, seems to need it for the heaviness at that table. <strong>The</strong> sky is<br />
still black as their conversation continues and is forced outside when they<br />
28
look around and see chairs on top <strong>of</strong> tables and hear the vacuum running.<br />
He walks her home, nearly, for his car is right by. Her eyes are worried<br />
and will be. His interest is attached and will be. Viewed from the nearby<br />
night, the two <strong>of</strong> them are miniscule and walking empty streets, with Elena<br />
slightly ahead, her hands hidden in the folds <strong>of</strong> a coat. Tiny heads nod for a<br />
brief exchange <strong>of</strong> goodbyes, and she briskly moves away.<br />
George stands there for a moment, coat brushing his ankles, his<br />
eyes black. His hands are pocketed and their shaking is slower, steady.<br />
Walking to his car, he forms a slight, open-mouthed smile. It flutters<br />
haphazardly, as if in prayer.<br />
29
Flesh<br />
Corinne Nulton<br />
AT RISE: <strong>The</strong> basement <strong>of</strong> a funeral home.<br />
Yellowed wallpaper stretches across the walls. A<br />
bowl <strong>of</strong> pomegranates sits near an ashtray and<br />
a stack <strong>of</strong> prayer cards. Nearby, a flickering<br />
lamp casts shadows, blurring the room’s edges.<br />
A dead body is propped up in a chair. As Hale<br />
shaves its face, he clenches a cigarette between<br />
his lips.<br />
A sigh comes from <strong>of</strong>f stage. A teenager enters,<br />
annoyed. A makeup bag is slung around her<br />
shoulder. She shoves a paper recycling bin into<br />
the room. She reaches in, filling her arms with<br />
tattered newspapers. In the background, Hale<br />
talks to the corpse.<br />
HALE<br />
Not to worry, Mr. Piggy. I’m an experienced barber. Wait until you see<br />
how close this shave is.<br />
As she leafs through the pages, she struts<br />
around Hale, intentionally dropping pieces all<br />
over basement.<br />
STEPH<br />
Yesterday’s classifieds . . . Tuesday’s business . . . last Thursday’s real estate<br />
. . . Today’s entertainment . . . Saturday’s ads . . . Monday’s Local News . . .<br />
No, no, and no. I’ll never find it in this mess!<br />
Meanwhile, Hale nicks Piggy’s face.<br />
30
HALE<br />
Oh, crap! At least you didn’t feel it, right? It’s just a little scratch, nothing<br />
some cosmetic wax can’t cure. Steph—did you find his obituary yet?<br />
STEPH<br />
What do you think?<br />
HALE<br />
(Noticing all the papers) You’re going to pick those up.<br />
HALE<br />
Pick it up.<br />
STEPH<br />
Oh, so you’re like my father now?<br />
HALE<br />
Want me to send you to your room?<br />
Steph lets the remaining papers fall. She tilts<br />
her head, watching them all flutter to the<br />
ground, then looks back at Hale. She raises her<br />
eyebrows.<br />
STEPH<br />
Are you going to ground me or lay me on the ground?<br />
HALE<br />
Pretty please, babe? (Snuffs out the cigarette in the ashtray) Mr. Piggy is a bit<br />
<strong>of</strong> neat freak.<br />
STEPH<br />
<strong>The</strong>n he can clean it.<br />
HALE<br />
Well, he’s a bit stiff.<br />
31
STEPH<br />
Funny. What happened to his face?<br />
HALE<br />
Some crazed barber pulled out a razor and mugged him. A tragedy really.<br />
May he rest in peace.<br />
STEPH<br />
Or in pieces, if you keep cutting him.<br />
HALE<br />
Piggs wanted a shave.<br />
STEPH<br />
(Takes the razor) And you?<br />
HALE<br />
No, I don’t need a shave (takes it back). I need the obituary.<br />
STEPH<br />
You’re dead if the viewing’s tomorrow.<br />
HALE<br />
But if I die, who’ll embalm me?<br />
STEPH<br />
I’d much rather scorch that grin <strong>of</strong>f and stuff you into a pretty vase.<br />
Hale chuckles and leans in to kiss her. She<br />
lets him, wrapping her arms around his neck,<br />
enjoying it for a brief moment before suddenly<br />
pulling back—feeling someone’s presence. She<br />
looks down at Mr. Piggy’s barren skin and his<br />
receding hair.<br />
32
STEPH<br />
Is this what’ll happen to me?<br />
HALE<br />
Of course, but thank goodness you’re not alone, like him.<br />
Hurry up with that obituary.<br />
STEPH<br />
Why don’t you find it yourself?<br />
HALE<br />
Time is money, honey.<br />
HALE<br />
You got it?<br />
STEPH<br />
No, um—what’s his name again?<br />
He leans in to kiss her again, but she breaks<br />
away, half-assedly kicking the paper into a<br />
pile.<br />
Hale continues shaving Mr. Piggy.<br />
Steph sits on the floor to restack the newspaper<br />
according to date. She holds up the next page<br />
to read it. Her eyes zig-zag through the lines<br />
but stop abruptly. She stands still with her<br />
mouth slightly open.<br />
While Hale leans over to the table to look at<br />
a prayer card, Steph rolls up the page in her<br />
hand and stuffs it in her back pocket.<br />
HALE<br />
Pygmalion . . . But I like to call him Mr. Piggy. I think he was a musician or<br />
artist <strong>of</strong> some kind.<br />
33
STEPH<br />
How do you know he’s alone?<br />
HALE<br />
See anyone waiting upstairs?<br />
STEPH<br />
He looks sad.<br />
HALE<br />
That’s just the rigamortis. He’s all yours.<br />
Hale clears away the excess shaving cream.<br />
Steph starts applying make-up.<br />
STEPH<br />
It’s hard working from such a droopy, distorted image . . .<br />
HALE<br />
Once I drain the fluids he should firm up a bit.<br />
STEPH<br />
He’ll miss his family.<br />
HALE<br />
No he won’t. <strong>The</strong>y’ll all end up here.<br />
STEPH<br />
What about the flowers . . . the sun . . . the warmth . . .<br />
HALE<br />
That’s death.<br />
STEPH<br />
I know. (Shivers) But it’s unbearably cold.<br />
34
HALE<br />
He looks great. You’re a magician, you know that? Truly. Magical.<br />
STEPH<br />
(Shuffling though her make-up bag) I can add some color, but I can’t change<br />
his expression.<br />
HALE<br />
It’s okay. I’ll sew his mouth shut.<br />
STEPH<br />
Why?<br />
HALE<br />
So the fluid doesn’t seep out. Could you please put some more blush on<br />
him, babe? Maybe some eye-liner too! I think Piggy would make a mean<br />
pirate. (He leans in to talk to the corpse while she picks through her bag) Were<br />
you a Captain in a former life, Piggs?<br />
Steph draws on the eye-liner, then drizzles<br />
foundation over his frigid flesh. Meticulously,<br />
she brushes color back into his face, breathing<br />
life into his lifeless features.<br />
HALE<br />
Look! He’s blushing. He’s not used to being handled by young ladies.<br />
STEPH<br />
I don’t think it’s me he wants. I don’t think it’s ever been me.<br />
<strong>The</strong> body starts to fall <strong>of</strong>f the chair. Hale<br />
pushes him back up.<br />
HALE<br />
Aww . . . He’s falling for you. You’re making him want to live again.<br />
35
STEPH<br />
Maybe.<br />
Or maybe he doesn’t want to be silenced.<br />
Maybe he’s afraid. He’s worried his family will forget him. Sure, they’ll<br />
cry at first. <strong>The</strong>y’ll bring flowers and cards for the first few months, but<br />
gradually his grave will turn bare. <strong>The</strong>y’ll find someone else and replace<br />
him . . . <strong>The</strong>n they’ll sell his art or music on eBay while he’s all alone in the<br />
cold dirt. Maybe he’s giving us a hard time because he doesn’t want to be<br />
buried in the back <strong>of</strong> their minds. He wants them to remember.<br />
Hale hovers around her.<br />
HALE<br />
You’re a proper artist with that cover up. He looks as good as new.<br />
STEPH<br />
He looks stunned, like he just missed the deadline for his college application<br />
. . . or got caught drinking at prom . . .<br />
HALE<br />
Did you ever think maybe that’s his natural expression? If you would find<br />
the obituary we’d have a photo to compare him to.<br />
STEPH<br />
Parsons, Perry and Pinto. No Pygmalion.<br />
HALE<br />
How about that piece in your pocket?<br />
STEPH<br />
What?<br />
Steph rolls her eyes. She puts her makeup<br />
away and starts going through the newspapers<br />
again, tossing them all over the place.<br />
36
HALE<br />
<strong>The</strong> one you’ve been hiding.<br />
He swipes it from her jeans, only looking at the<br />
side with the obituary written on it.<br />
Here we go. <strong>The</strong> viewing’s not until Wednesday. I’ve got plenty <strong>of</strong> time. As<br />
far as the face—eh, maybe he’s just making faces, because he’s jealous <strong>of</strong><br />
us.<br />
STEPH<br />
What’s to be jealous <strong>of</strong>? He’s just flesh. Was that her problem, too?<br />
HALE<br />
Whose?<br />
STEPH<br />
(Points to the other side <strong>of</strong> the newspaper) My mom.<br />
HALE<br />
Are you forgetting—<br />
STEPH<br />
Grieving mother attempts—<br />
HALE<br />
—you were the one—<br />
STEPH<br />
—to kidnap a teenage girl—<br />
Hale holds the paper out <strong>of</strong> her reach,<br />
but Steph rips it away and begins to read it<br />
out loud.<br />
3
HALE<br />
—who left her alone—<br />
STEPH<br />
—outside <strong>of</strong> Elisanfield High School early—<br />
HALE<br />
—to go crazy—<br />
STEPH<br />
—Friday morning. Authorities claim—<br />
HALE<br />
—because her daughter—<br />
STEPH<br />
—woman is delusional and has lost a sense <strong>of</strong> reality—<br />
HALE<br />
—left her for a man—<br />
STEPH<br />
—DUE TO THE LOSS OF HER OWN DAUGHTER—<br />
HALE<br />
—not some innocent CUNT!<br />
STEPH<br />
Why didn’t you tell me?<br />
HALE<br />
I didn’t consider it news.<br />
Hale backs <strong>of</strong>f. <strong>The</strong> damage is done. Steph lets<br />
the page slip through her fingers. Silence.<br />
38
STEPH<br />
She missed me, Hale!<br />
HALE<br />
Don’t start, Steph.<br />
STEPH<br />
She went crazy!<br />
HALE<br />
No, she was always crazy; that’s why you ran away. Remember?<br />
STEPH<br />
I thought love would be enough . . .<br />
HALE<br />
Silly, girl. I don’t think we even made it as far as love.<br />
He goes to the table with the prayer cards and<br />
swipes a pomegranate from the bowl. He bites<br />
into its skin, sucking the juice from its flesh.<br />
He chews it slowly. With his mouth full, he<br />
explains.<br />
I don’t know why you’re so upset. You should be relieved. She’ll never find<br />
us. She’s locked up. She can’t search for you anymore. Not that she would.<br />
You were never good enough for her. I’m sure she preferred that girl she<br />
tried kidnapping. That girl was probably more diligent . . . obedient . . .<br />
appreciative . . . better than you.<br />
STEPH<br />
Liar!<br />
She darts toward the basement door, but it’s<br />
swollen shut from the moist air. She throws<br />
39
the weight <strong>of</strong> her entire body against it, but it<br />
won’t budge. She turns around. Hale has the<br />
razor.<br />
STEPH<br />
I want to go home. Please, let me go.<br />
HALE<br />
This is home.<br />
STEPH<br />
No, this is a funeral home.<br />
HALE<br />
What did I say?<br />
STEPH<br />
I loved you.<br />
HALE<br />
We all end up here.<br />
STEPH<br />
Let me go!<br />
HALE<br />
Silly girl, I’m not going to force you into anything. You made a choice<br />
(opens the door for her).<br />
STEPH<br />
I did.<br />
HALE<br />
Why don’t you stay one more night and think about it?<br />
40
STEPH<br />
No.<br />
HALE<br />
Where will you eat?<br />
STEPH<br />
I’ll find something.<br />
HALE<br />
You’ve never been alone.<br />
STEPH<br />
I can manage.<br />
HALE<br />
Maybe that’s your problem. I gave you a place to stay. I gave you freedom. I<br />
would’ve kept you for eternity, but you can’t give me one last dinner?<br />
STEPH<br />
You can’t keep me here.<br />
HALE<br />
Pity. I’m sure Piggy is disappointed.<br />
Your favorite fruit. Poison-free.<br />
STEPH<br />
Good-bye, Hale.<br />
HALE<br />
Sure. Stop in anytime.<br />
He throws up the pomegranate and catches it.<br />
He takes another bite and <strong>of</strong>fers the rest to her.<br />
41
Not even a kiss?<br />
Hale stands by the door. Steph attempts to<br />
leave, but he catches her arm.<br />
Steph considers the proposition. She approaches<br />
him with caution. When she leans in to give<br />
him a quick kiss, he wraps his arms around her<br />
in a strangling embrace. <strong>The</strong> lights dim. As she<br />
struggles to break free he shoves the pomegranate<br />
to her face, smothering it against her lips<br />
until she’s silent and cold.<br />
Hale lets her body fall onto the bed <strong>of</strong> newspapers.<br />
He stares numbly at first.<br />
<strong>The</strong>n he moves, crying quietly, as he sews up<br />
her mouth, tenderly preparing her for her own<br />
funeral.<br />
Blackout.<br />
42
Comparative Advantage<br />
Sarah Neitz<br />
A graphite curve connects me to you<br />
so strictly separated into rise and run.<br />
You pick apples in your orchard<br />
and I pick cherries in mine and<br />
our lives are numbers running up the cross-hatched blues <strong>of</strong><br />
the page,<br />
trade gracefully arching from my orchard to yours.<br />
I peer toward your axis,<br />
and see you<br />
swollen with crimson fruit,<br />
eyes closed against the sun, seeing red,<br />
pits and cores in the grass by your feet.<br />
I gnaw my yield until I taste stem.<br />
I imagine<br />
that I sit under your tree<br />
while you throw apples at the rough bark above my head.<br />
I laugh,<br />
throwing my neck back,<br />
my hair scattering sunshine<br />
and teardrop seeds.<br />
You wear a hat<br />
and overalls<br />
and smell <strong>of</strong> fresh grass<br />
and sweet honey crisps.<br />
I already gave you a handful <strong>of</strong> sour cherries<br />
in early summer.<br />
You closed your hand around my bursting knuckles<br />
43
and said you will trade your apples<br />
for my s<strong>of</strong>t fingers,<br />
and cherry juice ran red down<br />
our wrists,<br />
pits fell from the cracks between<br />
our woven fists.<br />
44
45<br />
Giving Forth<br />
Jonathan A. Danforth
Character Development<br />
Lori Green<br />
Girls 6 weeks<br />
Prior to age prepare their<br />
Selves for what’s to come,<br />
Consume by a flesh tube,<br />
Think unmoving thoughts<br />
Which translate slowly to: I am I am I am<br />
And what I am is different from the other one,<br />
Prepare<br />
By taking in initial senses, which<br />
Are warm, close, rounded about,<br />
Dark inside and out, folded about,<br />
By holding tight hands and arms, then<br />
Kicking out straight, into a s<strong>of</strong>t and cushioned concave.<br />
<strong>The</strong>se fetal females at times dream<br />
What are templates for slow waves<br />
On the beach and midnight caves,<br />
Dream tightly wound phrases without language,<br />
Perceive color where no light cracks,<br />
Hear musical notes pressed to that flesh cathedral<br />
Dome, dance then, sway, tap ten tight toes<br />
Where the world is still secret, where they<br />
Have not yet been ripped, yanked and sent, shot<br />
46
Into a consciousness <strong>of</strong> the color red,<br />
Something called fluorescence,<br />
And slapping palms.<br />
4
48<br />
Shimmer<br />
Gillian Naro
Untitled II<br />
Marie Barry & Alexander Daly<br />
Dodger, the Artful Robot, leaned his metal forehead against the<br />
cold plate glass <strong>of</strong> the West building apartment window and looked out at<br />
Monroe Street. His processors whirred, accessing the Monroe Doctrine<br />
from his memory banks. <strong>The</strong> Monroe Doctrine, which kept European<br />
robots from entering the United States. It kept him from saving his brother<br />
robot, whose broken circuitry was interred under the asphalt <strong>of</strong> Monroe.<br />
<strong>The</strong> Artful Robot took a last drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out on<br />
the window. It was time to meet the others. He swung his trenchcoat over<br />
his shoulders and stepped out <strong>of</strong> the apartment, heading to the library.<br />
* * *<br />
Sitting in the desolate Pro Deo Room, Dodger, the Artful Robot,<br />
addressed the crew <strong>of</strong> rejects who had answered his call to arms. Hipster A<br />
cleaned her glasses on her scarf, then paused the Phoenix song playing on<br />
her Zune. Sweet Elk chomped on some grass he had brought from outside<br />
to satiate the hunger with which his author had imbued him. But it hardly<br />
compared to the taste <strong>of</strong> human brains. Jack leaned back on the couch, his<br />
feet up on the c<strong>of</strong>fee table. His author had written Jack as a blank canvas: a<br />
pitiful attempt at a self-insert character for a woefully bad fanfic.<br />
Dodger, the Artful Robot, cleared his throat with a crunching<br />
<strong>of</strong> differential gears. “I had hoped more <strong>of</strong> you would have shown up. I<br />
thought more characters were rejected from that magazine.”<br />
Hipster A flipped through the <strong>2011</strong> copy <strong>of</strong> Esprit and peered at<br />
the Artful Robot over her glasses. “<strong>The</strong>re’s hardly any characters like us in<br />
here. All first person narratives and poems.”<br />
“Don’t forget the pictures,” Jack said. “I much rather would have<br />
been a drawing instead <strong>of</strong> a fanfic.” <strong>The</strong> others turned to peer at Jack, but<br />
they could hardly see him due to his vague characterization. “I am Jack’s<br />
literary references,” he said to them.<br />
“I wrote a piece on that movie before it became a cult classic,”<br />
49
Hipster A said dismissively.<br />
“I was a drawing,” Sweet Elk said. “It was a great piece; I was a<br />
moose photoshopped into a generic corporate lobby, eating the brains <strong>of</strong><br />
the execs.”<br />
“Was that supposed to be social commentary?” asked Hipster A<br />
scathingly.<br />
“Besides,” Jack said, “they don’t accept photoshopped works.”<br />
“Comrades!” Dodger, the Artful Robot, shouted. “We must not<br />
fight one another; the enemy is without. <strong>The</strong>re!” Dodger, the Artful Robot,<br />
raised a gleaming forefinger and pointed to the Center for Literary and<br />
Performing Arts. “That unholy bastion <strong>of</strong> critical critics, plotting in they’re<br />
high <strong>of</strong>fice, in the suits and ties they stole from dead characters. <strong>The</strong>y took<br />
everything from us. Now, we claim our rightful place in the next issue <strong>of</strong><br />
Esprit, right between the table <strong>of</strong> contents and closing credits. By force if<br />
necessary!”<br />
“Tonight, we dine in Mordor!” Jack screeched.<br />
“You idiot,” Hipster A said. “One does not simply dine in Mordor.”<br />
She paused. “Fuck. Now I’m making literary references.”<br />
“Can we get going? I smell blood!” Sweet Elk said. He spat a few<br />
pixels <strong>of</strong> executive brains onto the library carpet. “I wish I were zombie<br />
nerd pop art.”<br />
* * *<br />
“This makes no sense,” the Editor in Chief said, as his staff<br />
scribbled comments in the margins <strong>of</strong> the manuscript. “Where did any <strong>of</strong><br />
these characters even come from?”<br />
“<strong>The</strong> dialogue is terrible. ‘Tonight we dine in Mordor’? A Lord <strong>of</strong><br />
the Rings-slash-300 mixed reference?”<br />
“Well,” a third editor added, “it could be deliberate self-parody.<br />
Maybe the author’s going somewhere with this.”<br />
“I doubt it,” the Editor in Chief said. “Or if he is going somewhere,<br />
it’s nowhere good.”<br />
“I mean, really, did we ever even get a picture <strong>of</strong> an elk<br />
submitted?” asked the second editor.<br />
“Yeah, I think so, but it was horrible. Plus, it was a moose. <strong>The</strong><br />
author doesn’t even keep this straight in the text. Besides, look at the<br />
50
conversation the Esprit staff has after the second star break. Why don’t the<br />
editors have any names? That’s so confusing. I can’t tell who’s saying what.”<br />
“Plus, Dodger says ‘they’re high <strong>of</strong>fice’ instead <strong>of</strong> ‘their high <strong>of</strong>fice.’<br />
I know we’re supposed to be neutral about submissions, but that’s horrible<br />
grammar.”<br />
“Also, isn’t ‘Editor in Chief’ supposed to be hyphenated?”<br />
“Wait, what? I didn’t read that far yet.”<br />
“Yeah, where’s that?”<br />
“It’s right where the Editor-in-Chief says, ‘This makes no sense.’<br />
It’s the first line after the break. Let me know when you catch up.”<br />
“Yeah, hold on, I’m almost there.”<br />
“But I still don’t know who’s talking when they get to the Esprit<br />
<strong>of</strong>fice, anyway.”<br />
“Could you give us an example?”<br />
“Well, look maybe five lines from the break. Where it starts ‘Yeah,<br />
I think so, but it was horrible’? Whoever says that doesn’t even have a<br />
name. <strong>The</strong>n whoever speaks next, whoever says, ‘Wait, what?’ they don’t<br />
have a name either.”<br />
“Hold on. Isn’t that the conversation we just had?”<br />
“Wait. Yeah, a few lines down after that, it says, ‘It’s right where<br />
the Editor-in-Chief says, “This makes no sense.” It’s the first line after the<br />
break.’ Is that even how you nest quotes within quotes?”<br />
“Yeah, I think the first set <strong>of</strong> quotations—”<br />
“Wait, guys, what if we skip ahead a few lines?”<br />
“It just says, ‘<strong>The</strong>n the Esprit editors leaned over to read the rest <strong>of</strong><br />
the story.’ I think the author’s just messing around now.”<br />
“But right after that, it says the door is broken open by Dodger.”<br />
“You mean Dodger, the Artful Robot?” a fourth editor sneered.<br />
<strong>The</strong> Esprit staff turned to look at the door.<br />
“Well, I guess—” <strong>The</strong> second editor was cut <strong>of</strong>f by a gleaming<br />
metal fist punching through the window <strong>of</strong> the Esprit <strong>of</strong>fice door.<br />
“Wait, the Esprit <strong>of</strong>fice doesn’t have a window!”<br />
* * *<br />
Dodger, the Artful Robot, stood in the doorframe, flanked by<br />
Hipster A and Jack. Sweet Elk loomed in background. Dodger motioned<br />
51
curtly to Hipster A, who produced a thick rope woven from suspenders<br />
purchased from the Salvation Army. Jack and Dodger, the Artful Robot,<br />
quickly set about tying the Esprit staff to chairs as Hipster A fed them rope.<br />
Sweet Elk eyed editorial brains hungrily, wondering what they would taste<br />
like.<br />
“Why are you here?” asked the Editor-in-Chief.<br />
“Haven’t you been reading? <strong>The</strong>y want us to put them in Esprit.”<br />
said the second editor.<br />
“I thought you said it ‘Es-pritt,’” Jack drawled. “Unless it’s Eyetalian.”<br />
“It doesn’t matter how you say it,” Dodger, the Artful Robot, said<br />
icily. “What matters is we’re here. And we have the staff at our mercy.”<br />
“But you’re just characters in a story! What are you going to do?”<br />
asked the fourth editor.<br />
“Do you really want to know?” Jack muttered.<br />
“Might I remind you, Editor, that you’re a character in a story<br />
now as well,” the Artful Robot bleeped. Sweet Elk licked his chops in<br />
anticipation. Brains.<br />
“Well,” said the Editor-in-Chief, “your manuscript is lacking good<br />
characters, the plot’s clichéd—it’s a complete farce. That whole attempt at<br />
a meta section was just unclear. Do your worst, robot.”<br />
“As you wish,” Dodger, the Artful Robot said.<br />
“What, Princess Bride quotes now too?” asked the fourth editor.<br />
“That’s my line!” Hipster A shouted. “Sweet Elk, eat his brain first.”<br />
Sweet Elk bellowed, unhinged his jaw and swallowed the head <strong>of</strong> the fourth<br />
editor whole, chomping at the neck.<br />
“Now, do we have your word, Editor? You’ll publish the<br />
submissions that my comrades and I came from?” Dodger, the Artful<br />
Robot, asked. He began to warm up the laser generators in his fingertips.<br />
“Don’t do it!” said a voice from the shadows <strong>of</strong> the <strong>of</strong>fice. “I never<br />
meant for this story to go so far!” <strong>The</strong> assembled group <strong>of</strong> editors and<br />
characters turned toward the back wall <strong>of</strong> the <strong>of</strong>fice, which they hadn’t<br />
looked at until this moment in time. A young woman stepped forward. In<br />
her hand, she held a notebook computer.<br />
“Wait, you wrote this? You’re not supposed to reveal authorship at<br />
52
meetings.”<br />
“This is my story, I call the shots,” the author typed.<br />
“And you’re going to end it with a deus ex? How’d this even bypass<br />
the first round <strong>of</strong> editing?”<br />
“Enough <strong>of</strong> this nonsense!” Dodger, the Artful Robot, roared in<br />
a peal <strong>of</strong> pitiless thunder. “I’ll bet you hadn’t written this!” Dodger, the<br />
Artful Robot, held his right hand in the shape <strong>of</strong> a gun and mimed firing. A<br />
bolt <strong>of</strong> brilliant blue light sprang from his fingertip, striking the computer<br />
in the author’s hand. She<br />
53
<strong>The</strong> Light at the End <strong>of</strong> the Tunnel<br />
54<br />
Abby Yavorek
Observing at the Louvre<br />
Lori Green<br />
Stone eyes and stone folds<br />
Of garments,<br />
Rest on inhabitants <strong>of</strong> these<br />
Palatial rooms.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y imbue me with just their<br />
Own state,<br />
Of thoughts which do not move, but<br />
Sit still.<br />
<strong>The</strong>y are still as my finger tips,<br />
Which hover,<br />
Make as if to touch a reclining<br />
God but<br />
Do not, for he is already claimed<br />
By another,<br />
Marble Goddess with veins, same<br />
As mine,<br />
Tendrils which curve just so<br />
Toward breast,<br />
And downturned eyes without<br />
Pupils, white<br />
55
And complacent. So their love<br />
Exists in<br />
Tandem with other figures, some<br />
Lovers too,<br />
Or else warriors, mere limbless torsos,<br />
Alabaster busts.<br />
Solidarity with smooth, stone persons<br />
Who remain<br />
(Even when disgruntled guards would<br />
Shoo us<br />
Away, wield weaving flashlights),<br />
This sense<br />
Of familiarity, identification found<br />
In recognition<br />
Of what we acknowledge as facial<br />
Features, well<br />
It’s worrying. And, circling sculptures,<br />
I wonder<br />
If all that differentiates us from<br />
<strong>The</strong>se perfect<br />
Forms, smoothed, proportioned<br />
Forms, is:<br />
56
Movement,<br />
Movement out <strong>of</strong> doors,<br />
Movement away from permanent<br />
Partners or a murderous stance,<br />
From a still <strong>of</strong> pathos (Signs say closing’s in a half hour).<br />
And so, for only thirty minutes,<br />
I will be still.<br />
5
Contributors<br />
Marie Barry is a junior history and English double major.<br />
Alexander Daly is a junior BCMB and philosophy double major in the SJLA<br />
and Honors programs.<br />
Jonathan A. Danforth is a senior economics and philosophy double major<br />
in the SJLA and Business Leadership Honors programs.<br />
Michael J. Farley is a senior English major in the Honors program.<br />
Craig Fisher is a sophomore computer science major in the SJLA program.<br />
Lori Green is a sophomore English and philosophy double major in the<br />
SJLA program.<br />
Shawna Hogan is a junior English major.<br />
John F. McGill is a senior English and philosophy double major in the SJLA<br />
program.<br />
Aimee X. Miller is a junior neuroscience major.<br />
Gillian Naro is a senior psychology and philosophy double major in the<br />
SJLA program.<br />
Sarah Neitz is a senior international studies and philosophy double major in<br />
the SJLA program.<br />
Corinne Nulton is a junior English major in the Honors program.<br />
Rosa Todaro is a senior English major.<br />
Abby Yavorek is a junior biology major.
Esprit Submission Information<br />
Esprit, a review <strong>of</strong> arts and letters, features work by students <strong>of</strong> <strong>The</strong> <strong>University</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Scranton</strong> and is<br />
published each fall and spring as a co-curricular activity <strong>of</strong> the English department.<br />
Manuscripts - Original stories, poems, essays, translations, features, sketches, humor, satire,<br />
interviews, reviews and short plays must be typed, paper clipped at the upper left corner and in an<br />
envelope. All manuscripts, except poetry and short plays, must be double-spaced. Every page <strong>of</strong> the<br />
manuscript must list the title and page number in the upper right corner. It is recommended that all<br />
manuscripts be submitted in Times New Roman 12 pt. font. <strong>The</strong> author’s name must NOT appear on<br />
the manuscript or on the envelope. Please include a CD-R or disposable flash drive containing each<br />
submission saved in Word, and please label the disk with your name and the title(s) <strong>of</strong> your work(s).<br />
Artwork - Black & white/color photographs and pen and ink drawings work best in this format, but<br />
pencil drawings, collages and paintings will be considered. All original work should be submitted<br />
in a plain manila envelope. <strong>The</strong> artist’s name must NOT appear on the work. Graphic submissions<br />
should not exceed 8 x 12 inches (larger works will NOT be considered). Please include a CD-R or<br />
disposable flash drive with digital photography submissions. Please note that the original print will<br />
be the only copy reviewed during the selection process. All graphic submissions should include a<br />
simple mark indicating the title and orientation <strong>of</strong> the work on the backside <strong>of</strong> the print. When work<br />
submitted is a study <strong>of</strong>, or is otherwise dependent upon, another artist’s work, please supply the other<br />
artist’s name and that work’s title.<br />
All submissions MUST be accompanied by one 3 x 5 card for each genre. <strong>The</strong> card should include<br />
the following:<br />
Writer’s or artist’s name<br />
Royal Identification number<br />
Local mailing address and phone number<br />
Year in school, major and pertinent information (Honors, SJLA, etc.)<br />
Genre <strong>of</strong> submissions on current card<br />
Title <strong>of</strong> each work submitted in this genre<br />
We will consider a maximum <strong>of</strong> five visual art submissions (art, photography) and five literary<br />
submissions (prose, poetry) per author/artist. Submissions received late, mislabeled, faintly printed,<br />
damaged or without a hard copy, disk or complete 3 x 5 card (including the real name <strong>of</strong> the<br />
submitter) will NOT be considered. Esprit does not accept resubmissions, works currently under<br />
consideration elsewhere or previously published works.<br />
Submissions and inquiries:<br />
Esprit<br />
Room 221<br />
McDade Center for Literary and Performing Arts<br />
<strong>Scranton</strong>, PA 18510<br />
(570) 941-4343<br />
All submissions are reviewed anonymously. All submissions to Esprit that have been accepted for<br />
publication by the editors and that are the work <strong>of</strong> currently enrolled full-time undergraduates at <strong>The</strong><br />
<strong>University</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Scranton</strong> will be considered, according to genre, for <strong>The</strong> Berrier Prose Award ($100),<br />
<strong>The</strong> Berrier Poetry Award ($100) and <strong>The</strong> Esprit Art & Photography Award ($100).<br />
Deadline for submissions for Spring 2012: March 23<br />
Esprit is available online at http://academic.scranton.edu/organization/esprit/
Acknowledgments<br />
Esprit appreciates the kind support <strong>of</strong>:<br />
Kevan Bailey<br />
Ray Burd<br />
Ellen Casey<br />
Jody DeRitter<br />
Wendy Diehl<br />
Mary Engel<br />
Kevin Kinkead<br />
CJ Libassi<br />
John Meredith Hill<br />
Diane Jachimowicz<br />
Maria Landis<br />
Matt Mercuri<br />
Wade Ollendyke<br />
Glen Pace<br />
Tim Palumbo<br />
Lynn Scramuzza<br />
Mark Webber<br />
Jenny Whittaker<br />
CLP physical plant staff