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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

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