Fall 2011 - The University of Scranton

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fall 2011

ESPRIT
The University of Scranton Review of Arts and Letters
Fall 2011
Editor-in-Chief
Ryan Pipan
Production Manager
Brad Wierbowski
Assistant Production Managers
Lori Green, Chris McClatchy, Lauren Shuleski,
Alexis Sullivan
Alexander Daly
Jonathan A. Danforth
Craig Fisher
Renae Fisher
Lori Green
Mike Le
Chris McClatchy
Editors
Rosa Todaro
Check-In
Maria Landis
Andrew Milewski
Marlo Murphy
Gillian Naro
Corinne Nulton
Louis Porreca
Lauren Shuleski
Alexis Sullivan
Faculty Moderator
Stephen Whittaker
Esprit, a co-curricular activity of the English department, is published twice yearly by the students
of The University of Scranton. The content is the responsibility of the editors and does not
necessarily reflect the views of the administration or faculty. The University subscribes to the
principle of responsible freedom of expression for its student editors.
Copyright by The University of Scranton, Scranton, PA 18510.

Fall 2011 Awards:
The Berrier Poetry Award
Shawna Hogan
Food Meant to be Shared
The Berrier Prose Award
John F. McGill
Behind the Locked Door
The Esprit Art & Photography Award
Aimee X. Miller
A5
Fall 2011 Award Judges:
Poetry:
Matthew Mercuri, class of 2010, was Editor-in-Chief and Production Manager of Esprit.
His short stories “Extraction,” “Astigmatic” and “Emerald City” were published by Esprit
in 2008 and 2009. “Astigmatic” won The Berrier Prose Award in Spring 2008. He is currently
pursuing a medical degree at New York University School of Medicine.
Prose:
CJ Libassi, former Production Manager and Editor-in-Chief of Esprit, is currently a
2010 Teach For America Corps member in the DC Region teaching foreign language at
Oakcrest Elementary School. His stories “Meeting Marge,” “The Saver” and “The King of
Naptime” were published by the magazine. “The King of Naptime” won The Berrier Prose
Award in Spring 2010.
Photography:
Kevin Kinkead and Mark Webber both graduated from the Swain School of Design.
Webber has an MFA from the Parsons School of Design. They have exhibited in New York,
New Bedford, Atlanta, Kent and Scranton. Webber—who teaches painting, drawing and
aesthetics at Marywood—has a show opening in Paris in March.

Contents
Food Meant to be Shared
Hypothetical Amsterdam
Spotted Map
I Could Be Kicking Ass—Part I
Convenience Store
The Window
Behind the Locked Door
Shrapnel Shard
Pale Green
The Offering
Meeting the Theologian
Flesh
Comparative Advantage
Giving Forth
Character Development
Shimmer
Untitled II
The Light at the End of the Tunnel
Observing at the Louvre
Memory Lane
A5
Jonathan A. Danforth
Aimee X. Miller
Shawna Hogan
Lori Green
Jonathan A. Danforth
Craig Fisher
Rosa Todaro
Gillian Naro
John F. McGill
Michael J. Farley
Lori Green
Gillian Naro
Lori Green
Corinne Nulton
Sarah Neitz
Jonathan A. Danforth
Lori Green
Gillian Naro
Marie Barry &
Alexander Daly
Abby Yavorek
Lori Green
4
6
8
9
14
15
16
20
22
24
25
30
43
45
46
48
49
54
55
Front Cover
Inside Front Cover

Food Meant to be Shared
Shawna Hogan
Small olives in the grain,
grape tomato, thyme,
a dim kitchen light to witness
the feeding of oneself.
Buckley crooning from the next room
about eternal life, longing,
the lover that should have come over. Yours
can’t either, so you arrange the wooden cutting boards
in solitude, humming to him anyway.
You forget what cheese the cook said to use
that night at the restaurant, where your sister
cupped a skeletal hold on nothing but glasses of hot tea,
and you told her the story of the hospice nurse
who stopped you right outside the door
to your mother’s bedroom and said it would be
pointless—pointless, she said—
to feed her now, while the steam from the broth
made an upward escape and the salted crackers patiently
sat on a napkin, waiting for a mouth.
Oil hisses in its warming, the asparagus you found
buried under more practical produce is thinning
in the pan. Your sister confessed after your tale
that she kept reading the cards that came
with all the bagel and fruit baskets sent by
neighbors; they spelled Thinking of you in your time
of sorrow and the like, but what she saw was
Please, keep eating.
(And she didn’t—this you did not say)
4

But as this night’s food is revealed
as meal and you lay it down on a table
with more chairs than needed, you want to pass a plate
to all of them; you know the absent are hungry, too.
You want to feed them and urge please,
let us keep eating.
5

Hypothetical Amsterdam
Lori Green
Some future date
When we will have not spoken
In years,
(Let us imagine) we find ourselves
In the same city and, only
By chance, at the same time.
You will be there for business,
And it could be the business of
Colleagues, or it could be the business of
Character study in those coffee shops.
And I will be there for to see a man
And it could be a man who
Proposes marriage and home, or a man who
Hangs one eared and thick brush stroked
In unfurnished halls.
But we are there, either way, divided by canals.
We circle each other, and idle days
And streets which project from center squares
Where we sit and read, sit back, lean back, laze.
Paying due respect to Anna’s ghost,
We will fail at counting bicycles and have
Feelings of closeness to something unnamable,
Unnamable until on a last day you will see me
6

First and jump into a cab
Which refuses to budge as
The driver calls out to a
Friend, and then I clamp my eyes onto
You, who would avoid my stare.
Beside the tulip market we will hang
Still, suspended in sweet noxious airs, where
My eyes narrow, narrow yours too with their force.
I will pick out a red one for your lapel
And mouth, with venom bite,
With loving laughter too,
“I
know you.”

8
Spotted Map
Jonathan A. Danforth

I Could Be Kicking Ass—Part I
Craig Fisher
Secret Prison in the CLASSIFIED Desert
Country: CLASSIFIED
Time: CLASSIFIED:30am
Hawkeye Bootysmasher sat in his prison cell in Saudi Arabia. He
was seventeen. He had a long lost brother. He liked kicking ass. He liked
short, choppy sentences. His favorite color was yellow: like lemons. He
liked lemons so much because, when life tossed him lemons, he made
lemonade with his sugary biceps, ice-cube abs and firm bendy-straw.
He was also super smart. He knew lots. He knew lots about
computers. This means he also knew lots about his brain, considering it was
a computer. His brain was even stronger than his biceps. If only he could
tell the world he was fighting the good fight and kicking ass.
“I could be kicking ass,” he said. He thought about life and how he
had a long lost brother. Just then, he noticed a crack in the wall. That could
help him! Maybe he could work that crack into a nice loose hole!
After making fun of the prison guard’s family so much that the
guard emptied a full submachine gun clip into Hawkeye’s cell, that hole
opened right up! Hawkeye saw there was a box inside and took it out. He
opened the box. Inside was a laptop. “I guess when they were making the
prison someone dropped this here,” Hawkeye said with a mix of surprise
and no surprise at all. He then yelled, “Yeah! Tight!” but no one could hear
him over the submachine gun fire.
Hawkeye Bootysmasher knew what he had to do. His hacking skills
could get past secrets like a rock smashing through hot butter. He started
accessing networks and internet systems. After accessing the Yemenese
cruise missile system, he did what he had to do…
9

A bedroom in the Bootysmasher Residence
Newark, New Jersey, United States
1100 hours
Meanwhile, in Newark, New Jersey in the United States, Neil
Bootysmasher sat in his room. He was bored and lonely and he only had a
sister. Downstairs he could hear his mother and sister arguing again.
“I want to go to the mall! It’s not fair. Why am I grounded?” yelled
his sister.
“We told you to stop dating Ralph. He’s an escaped convict,”
yelled his mom back.
Neil noticed he had an e-mail from someone named
Bootysmasher1 . He looked at his screen in disbelief and then rushed
downstairs to tell his mom he wanted to go to the mall.
“Mom, I’m going to the mall.”
“OK.”
They drove to the mall. They went shopping in some stores and
bought clothing. Neil bought really cool clothing. Neil then noticed from
the corner of his eye that one of the stores was closed. He started looking
at the store when a cruise missile slipped past security and blew the store
to pieces. The store was a fiery ruin, making Neil wonder.
Neil urged his mom to look at the blast.
“We should hurry and get out of here!” she said.
“Oh my god! You’re right!” said Neil.
Neil and Mrs. Bootysmasher finished their shopping very quickly
and then ran outside to the parking lot. Suddenly, another cruise missile
slammed into all the cars except theirs. Everywhere Neil looked, it was
like the sun was replaced by a giant ball of fire.
“What’s going on?” people said. Pretty soon the cops got involved.
Hawkeye told his mother to hurry home.
Neil was trying to figure out everything that was going on, so he
hurried upstairs and checked that e-mail he got.
10

Dear Neil “Little” Bootysmasher,
I only sent the missiles cause you really need to read this e-mail. Don’t
worry. The store was empty, and there was no one in the parking lot who could have
gotten hurt. My name is Hawkeye Bootysmasher. You don’t know this but I am your
brother. A long time ago we were separated, and now I have been captured in the war
between Yemen and Egypt. You need to save me from my prison cell in Saudi Arabia. If
you go outside in the backyard you’ll see a box. Inside I included lots of supplies and
the coordinates to my location.
Your Brother,
Hawkeye
Neil was shocked and utterly calmed all at once. He knew he had a
mission now. It would be very hard to save his brother, but he like so didn’t
even care. Certain things have to be done if you wanna kick some ass on
the hot, ass-strewn volcano of life.
11

The Dining Room at the Bootysmasher Residence
Newark, New Jersey, United States
1200 hours
Neil left that stupid dining room and entered the backyard.
“What’s this?” he said.
Neil said that because there was a big box on the ground with a
parachute sprawled out behind it. The parachute was orange like the color
of oranges. Inside the box was lots of food and other supplies and a highly
maneuverable raft. Neil decided to start his journey right away, but first,
he wanted to go out for lunch one last time at Dairy King. Just then, out of
the corner of his eye, a cruise missile slammed into Dairy King.
Since Newark is close to the ocean, it didn’t take Neil long to get
to the ocean with his raft. That’s one of things Neil liked about living in
Newark: it was geographically close to the ocean, even though Newark is
Neptune’s ashtray. Neil got to the seaport place right away.
“Better hurry, don’t wanna run out of maritime!” said Neil to the
Seaport Clerk. The Seaport Clerk laughed at Neil’s pun. He knew it wasn’t
funny, but he had to keep the boy’s spirits high for the journey to Saudi
Arabia. Once Neil and the Seaport Clerk finished talking, the Seaport
Clerk went back to paddling and Neil picked up his fishing rod again.
The two of them had been fishing for several days now without catching
anything.
Neil grew upset with himself and his inability as a fisherman. The
sun was really bright. The whole setting was spectacular. If you read The
Old Man and the Sea, it was just like that.
Neil tried all his lures, shaking his head at each one. He tried
crafting different nets and setting little traps and things, but no. Nothing
seemed to work. It’s important on a long survival journey to have food.
There’s nothing like having a full belly when the rest of the world looks
empty. They still had enough canned meat to reach Morocco, but after that
Neil really had no idea. The future of Neil and Seaport Clerk was as foggy
as the bathroom mirror after they shared their long morning showers on
the boat.
12

Strait of Gibraltar, near Morocco
Moroccan Waters
1900 hours
Neil and Seaport Clerk could see the rocky shores of Morocco.
They shouted with glee and jumped around and exchanged cell phone
numbers. Everything was peaches. Then, out of nowhere, their celebration
was interrupted by the sight of motorboats.
Neil looked at the mean people in the boats. “Oh my god! They
have lots of guns and weapons and stuff!”
There were like thirty motorboats. Neil and Seaport Clerk were
seriously kickass people, but they didn’t know how many they could
handle. They were also running out of fuel. Seaport Clerk leapt into action.
He sounded the alarm and sent out a message to all the crew over the
intercom.
“Attention crew: asses to battle stations, asses to battle stations.
There’s pirates coming from practically everywhere, and I mean modernday
pirates!”
Neil took over a machine gun turret and cocked it or something.
“Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!” yelled Seaport Clerk to
boost his adrenaline. All across the water there was lots of shooting and
exploding and loud shouts and noises and phallic imagery.
But as for Neil: Neil had to focus. Since he didn’t believe in
killing or causing the slightest harm, the stuff he was about to do would
be very, very difficult. Screaming wildly, he tore the 50 cal. machine gun
off its stand, tore off his shirt and charged across the deck. One boat after
another, he singlehandedly shot every gun out of every pirate’s hand. He
then spun around and shot every gun out of every crewmember’s hand. He
then led the crew in a daring raid on the motorboats. No one rested until
every last pistol was at the bottom of the ocean.
Neil and Seaport Clerk gave themselves high fives. They watched
as those silly pirates sped off into the sunset, cursing Neil and vowing to
purchase new weapons. Everyone onboard then hit the showers.
13

Convenience Store
Rosa Todaro
In front of me, on a woman’s hip
a toddler grabs for candy,
and a 10-year-old son stares
at a girl glossed onto a Maxim cover;
he clutches the dollar in his hand while mom
plays thumb solitaire.
The line moves forward,
each of us like conveyor belt toys,
ballerinas and cowboys to be
scanned and sent away.
The woman walks to the register, ready
to swipe and slide back into human traffic;
I look down and find myself holding
hot pink lipstick the magazine
told me to buy,
and a candy bar
with an attractive wrapper.
14

15
The Window
Gillian Naro

Behind the Locked Door
John F. McGill
“You have seen how difficult it is to decipher the script with one’s eyes; but our man
deciphers it with his wounds”- Franz Kafka, “In the Penal Colony”
Behind the locked door, through the wooden frame, a skeletal
back opposes large clear windows that protrude unto open. The back’s
bottom, its dainty legs, rests upon a marbled window sill. The figure in
whole sits exposing his features. He sits doing so in an unadorned room.
He looks around. Unnoticed, the figure unknowingly exists beyond and
below where his window prospects. But the window stands tall and wide
allowing an airy interface.
He breathes his own as he sees in sight blackbirds spiraling above
towering, nebulous clouds. At such a distance distinctions diminish and
the black blurs whirl with plumes. Still, they move, as this figure follows
the flying creatures with his head, his brow and his eyes all the while while
they follow each other peripatetically: it all gets dizzying shortly.
Soon enough the figure pulls his head down to the tiled floor in
reaction. People come and go down the cobble lane, strolling and cycling,
chatting and clanging. The figure figures from this scenario it is best to
shade his shape and reveal nothing. So he counts the lines that grate the
ventilator, and though still and straight from the looks behind—only the
keyhole can glimpse bits of his back—the figure frantically configures
inside all that adds up. The lines do but the winds outside don’t: they
feel brisk, rushing inward upon his face uninvited. They frighten night in
their raging doldrums. The house hushes. Then all breathes in silence and
solitude absorbs.
The man blinks. Time has gone by for this figure, and though he
notices, he respects himself for not discerning now and then. Once and
again the chair faces the open window and his back faces the door, just
like yesterday and the day before; he has arranged it near the center of
16

the room so he can gather everything from the view. And once again, by
gazing, the light falls westward as the night takes over. Yet the figure always
anticipates the hanging moon. Desirously he hopes it will hold with a
glow from the heavens on this particular evening. So he waits, in prayer,
squatted and bent upon the wooden chair, with the door still locked in fear
of reprisal. Unbeknownst to him, however, the other tenants move along
through their lives, climbing the stairs in the outside hallways and reaching
their own rooms. They go in and out, up the stairs and down, through the
door and out the cobblestone lane off always to somewhere, some other
place.
The man in the room had been there before but felt his feet
missing meeting all the other feet that flapped the ground and marked
certain positions; he prefers to rest his own at will.
They now grip the shaded tile floor and from time to time he
imagines himself as a firm tree trunk which gives itself to its embedded
roots. So he clutches his legs for a long while and his muscles tighten
uniquely. His temple clenches and he vanishes while his eyes close. Like
the half-hooked moon that hangs from its fellow atmosphere, this figure
renews his various formulations this way and that, as daily he swells a smile
or loops a lip or lifts his head, being so that he can only be seen from the
window in always a different gesture. Our man from behind pleasures
himself in all the faces that he can rearrange to the passing strangers, but
does anyone see his spine? No, only the keyhole can. He sets himself up
that way.
Nearby, along the white plastered wall, sits the bed. It lies alone
for the day and is retreated to only during the night. He goes there now.
That then is when the door is locked and so also the window lets no more
wind in. The drapes enclose the room. Then being he can make faces
for nobody but his blackened mind, enclosed in its own kind of white
walls. So the man behind the locked door weeps and wrangles within his
covers, twisting this way and that until his placid mind falls upon some
disassociated reminiscence recalling the child’s movements: whimsically, he
dreams in colors.
It takes a long time for him to wake himself. He arises from his
cornered bed and stands naked to himself alone, the newborn sun peeking
1

through the drapes. He tilts his head to the ceiling and to the floor, blinks
and scratches, as we could see if we only looked through that keyhole. He
glances toward the drapes and wonders what kind of day it will be. This is
always the time when he reveals the windows, cranks the levers and opens
the large frames.
The air flushes inwards and the chair remains in the same position;
soon enough he will return to it. But as customary, he taps his toes to
tantalize the body as the winds come in. With alone privileges, the tenant
acquaints himself with his sensational form. Each day discovers a new
landing place, and the man whose back normally faces the door and looks
toward the window, occasionally lies across the floor to feel the coldness
and roughness. The ground mangles the spine. He hears from below the
scattering voices that drift up to his window: Deutsch, fran�aise, fran�aise, English.
Each and every voice scratches the surface to a certain degree and so the
man thinks of the numbers and meanings that language encompasses: one
two and three… Instantaneously he squares himself down to the tiled
floors below the ventilator to recount the lines that shape these forms.
Same as yesterday remains the same as the new day today. Symmetry
makes the man stand symmetrical in his nakedness and distinguish how
many times—by counting—his pulse pangs on his neck. The lamp stays on
for only a few minutes as he scribbles his fading recollection but when he
writes the fantastic figure in his head has fled. Hours pass before he forces
to cloth himself. Then the sun has risen high above the church across the
street and scans this figure’s eyes in all its fury. He closes them and lets the
sun burn, burn his face to waken him from the dream that has kept him
paralyzed since the morning began.
He opens his eyes to whiteness plowing clouds of purity.
Eventually as they hover they conspire to cover the sun and all becomes a
dim blackened lightness. Twilight emerges in mid-afternoon and the figure
is frightened at all the varying distorted lights: the curtains change hue,
some tiles glow and most hide, but the white wooden panels of his locked
door reflect an obscure brightness that bounces off his mirror which
remains on the wall.
Sitting or standing anywhere in between his figure recoils as he
wonders who he is and what makes the light and what makes the light’s
18

light, even beyond his clothed nakedness, beyond his locked enclosed room
and beyond the cobblestone lane which he can see. His eyes bulge at a
certain understanding that you or I or all of us may not ever perceive since
it is him there locked in his white walled room, negligent of all his fellow
tenants who see different shades and miss the shadows that he shapes and
the distortions that he notes of all the other fleeting shadows that come
and go on the cobblestone exclusively to themselves flying beyond the
buildings and rummaging below the streets who being animals feed with
necessary vegetation painting their temporary canvases definitively in
formulation and so properly cutting the views that construct the whole
lodge. For it houses them all. Then, this is the time to resume his seat
but already the sun is drooping. Our figure rests his legs on the sill, feet
chilled. The transparent windows invite the nascent nebulous clouds
within. Still, the figure inhales the breeze breathing breathlessly. Though
the door shuts and admits no knockers.
19

Shrapnel Shard
Michael J. Farley
In memory of SPC Edgar Daclan, KIA
Sitting sharp and shattered on my bookshelf,
I see your Kris-like design half-gleaming.
Next to the Cold Steel bayonet,
In front of the Norton Anthology,
I hear you screaming, shrieking,
Singing your siren song.
A jagged, 8-inch, blackened missile
That blasted from its buried position,
Out and away, like language from Babel,
That mild and sun-filled May morning.
One of the many death-dealing shards
That was explosively flint-napped that day.
I pick it up and examine it closely,
But am careful to avoid its harsh,
Hardened teeth—all unforgiving.
I bring my eyes closer,
And the heat blistered edges reignite,
A reminiscent remnant of the war.
20

Closer still and the machine-marked minutia—
The just visible, uniformed lines, glare at me.
I turn it over and it reveals its alter-ego
Blackened: burnt by the flash of powder.
Curved, conical, it rocks back and forth.
A distorted, fractured fragment,
But now perceptibly part of a whole.
Six partial comb-like threads
Mark the rough tip of the fragment,
Once home to the ignition system
Of the 120-mm mortar round
From which this fighter flew.
Pock-marked powder granules
Grace the encasement.
Engrained, etched into the steel,
Tiny travelers of spent explosive.
Battered but bloodless
I can’t help but remember why.
This rage-filled rocket struck
The concrete wall in front of me.
Its cousins the coroner cut
From SPC Daclan’s mutilated body.
Surviving still this shrapnel shard,
You haunt the halls of our broken dreams.
21

Pale Green
Lori Green
Seven, his age.
Bowed, his spine,
Those shoulders warped as wood
With nerves as shaken as a train yard’s
One room apartment.
Strange scars are there, and brazen pains
Shooting, throbbing, blooming into precious bruise
Formations, signs which scream and stamp,
Too obvious, even as his stories bend themselves
And shift inside out, feigning the innocence
Of a child’s golden age
Which he gazes at now, aloof, or with longing.
The day is hotter than mercury can read.
The sun’s own weight bashes my lungs.
He sits now, on tanned stalks of grass, his
Summer legs folded over themselves,
Little Yogi with eyes unstrained and
Aimed at his right knee.
Sitting across from him, I look too.
A pale green moth, sized as his fingernails,
It sits, crawls slow, rests once more, wings
Thin as a hair and rounded neatly toward
22

Its little feeler jutting body. The boy’s
Spine uncurls, shoulders drop delicately and
He watches this creature’s progress over pencil
Thighs, purpled splotches of contact until
A nearby playground child shouts,
Calamitous and rough, so
Those brittle bones shoot back to shifty place, quicker
Than they ever could wing out.
23

24
The Offering
Gillian Naro

Meeting the Theologian
Lori Green
The sky is spread, covered uniformly with clouds that blend
and bear down on the small city. Down from there are the tops of the
highest buildings, flat squares mostly. Next are apartment balconies, shop
awnings, business names spelled out and often missing letters at night.
It is not night, but rather dusk, and at street level, a young woman walks
briskly past a large green square. She darts in a gap between cars, making
a diagonal and intersecting crosswalk lines at random angles. She holds the
bottom of her dress down, pinned against the wind. Unseen in this modest
making movement, she enters a small place to eat.
The door swings shut, and she sets her bag down at a table by
the large glass windows. She stands idling in line and orders a tea. Her
eyes are deep set, watchful and dart from a high framed picture, to the
outside sidewalk, to the menu and then to the other tables, where she sees
a similarly aged female. They both smile, and the young woman named
Elena sits down with her friend with her tea. They speak, lowering and
raising their voices in rhythm. The table is littered with studious debris. A
child psychology book is opened to a page in the hundreds, a laptop with
ear-buds and a low battery is directly before the friend, and the dregs of
an overpriced coffee slowly lose warmth. “So much reading tonight,” but
they talk for a few minutes, in a language filled with references to intensely
interrelated lives.
The sky grows heavier, seeming closer to the tops of buildings, and
the two young women sit and speak, laugh often, exchange looks over new
customers. A man in a long, thick leather jacket walks in, rushed and with
tense shoulders. Elena raises her eyebrows, nods and says quietly, “Nice
jacket.” Her friend’s eyes flash for a moment, mockingly. Speech slows.
They sit back further in their chairs with softer laughter. In a moment,
they’ve smiled their temporary goodbyes, the friend goes back to work,
and Elena is sitting at her nearby, original table with her tea and open
25

copy of a tragic Shakespeare. The book is in one hand, held up and close
to her face. She reaches for the tea without looking and takes a long sip,
her face filling with steam, her covered body pulled into the warmth.
Her shoulders are loose, her posture relaxed. As the streetlights illumine,
she settles into scholarship, reading with barely narrowed eyes, nodding
slightly every three turns of the page or so.
The man in the long coat ordered a drink that had him sitting and
waiting as she commenced reading. Now, drink in hand, he comes to stand
at her table and looks down sheepishly, “What are you reading?” She smiles
up at him, shows him the title, and he smiles excitedly when he tells her it
is his favorite. The smile remains, smaller and slightly shaky, open mouthed
with no teeth touching. Elena fills the silence by saying that she and her
friend liked his coat. Her eyes are kind now, and perhaps he finds them
saintly, for he smiles again in the same way and says he is going to sit down,
which he does, throwing his coat in a pile. He looks up at her expectantly
and her smile is still only kind, “Elena.”
“George.” His handshake is rigid, and she stretches out her fingers
under the table afterwards. Elena looks over at her friend briefly, who
smiles amusedly and briefly, then returns to psychology. Elena and George
speak then about the play, which she has only started. His words form
haltingly, pause, then spill out all at once. Some tension in his face, perhaps
in his every muscle, causes him to move shortly and unintentionally every
few moments, along with his gesticulating, trembling hands. His shoulders
are hunched and his brow furrowed. When it furrows more deeply with
thought, his whole body bends slightly, head and spine curling. Despite a
determined gaze, he seems beaten.
As they move from her book to the wider topic of Shakespeare,
her smile loses some kindness, which is replaced by genuine interest.
Elena’s own forehead condenses now, and she nods slowly then speaks,
distractedly tangling her hair in long fingers, seemingly attempting to
extricate the right words. She forms sentences slowly, restlessly. She is
looking eye to eye with the man now, fully engaged.
“… lonely,” and at a questioning noise from Elena, George repeats
himself, “I read into his mind and it’s lonely.” The sky is colored as soot
now, and the two sit in a brief silence for what passes between them now,
26

which is a mutual confession in both sets of eyes, which connect at that
repeated word. Occasionally Elena glances at her friend, who looks back
and smiles, always with a slight mischief in her eye. Elena speaks to George
again, lowering her voice. Then he asks her a question that makes her
sit still within a momentary silence. When she answers, it is with a hard
and saddened stare at his face, a stare of frightened honesty, and he nods
without surprise.
They shake off the heaviness slightly and discuss life situations,
but in a haze, maintaining a nervous connection even as they speak of the
mundane. She says she is a student at the nearby university, and he says he
went there seven years ago. He never finished. He did a lot of drugs and
alcohol back then. He laughs when he tells her this, and again, his body
folds into itself, slightly. For a quarter of a second, horror flashes in his
eye, and her face opens in kindness once more, but without the patronizing
smile of before. The look that she gives to him, it is like the quiet touch
of a hand upon a tabletop’s clenched fist. He says that it is difficult to be
around here again and her look remains, but diminishes as she picks up
her book again, opens a page and points out a line, which they laugh at,
but softly. Night is so black now that the clouds are invisible, and the dark
seems to immediately fill in the modest skyline’s negative spaces.
They speak on, and smile more, and occasionally Elena looks too
kind still, when George laughs loudly and haltingly, or when her friend
glances over wickedly. Their words enter others’ ears with starts and stops.
Those in the shop, mostly alone and working, hear and barely process a
probing question that Elena answers slowly. The book again, a play she
saw last year, one of his tattoos—she sees a cross hidden under a cuff and
perhaps the word fanaticism passes through her mind—each topic leaves
their table inconsequentially. Her friend looks up regularly, sees and
calculates the flashes across Elena’s face, which a constant study would
learn mean ‘honesty’ and perhaps also, ‘terror.’ The two continue to speak
and continue to shift positions, trying new, slight contortions in their seats.
There is a slight tension for this frightening level of eye contact.
Elena’s friend has packed up her belongings and throws her
hulking bag over a shoulder, stands by Elena’s table, smiles and says she
is leaving. They exchange “see you later.” One of them returns to George
2

with a worried smile, and the other walks out of the glass door and strides
down the sidewalk hurriedly, phone in hand and hands in pockets. Up
above is a uniform sky once buildings are out of view. The texture and tone
are constant. Down again, past buildings, leaves tremble. The few people
out fold in on themselves, their light wool coats, indistinguishable hulks.
On the sidewalk, most of the storefront is glass, and in the pane nearest to
the door, Elena and George fit their sitting profiles, chair backs lining up
with the edges of the window. They smile, speak, she with her head tilted
slightly back, he with his arms shaking less than before and with a new,
wide-eyed intensity. A lamp hangs four feet above their heads, over the
center of the table. Both are illuminated behind the glass.
Elena speaks casually and looks questioningly at George, who
begins to respond. His words stop before a complete thought though.
He looks as if something is difficult to swallow now. His brow furrows
impossibly deeply, looks about to devour his own eyes, which are filling.
His shoulders move forward and toward each other and he sets his coffee
down loudly for its shaking. His mouth is a solid line and he looks at her
steadily, decisively. She looks back with a barely perceptible tinge of terror
throughout her steely body.
George leans toward the center of the table and Elena does the
same. His lips begin to move, slowly, achingly. His wrist shakes violently
under the table. What he says is brief. But when he sits back with his head
tilted diagonally downward, with purposeful eyes, Elena also has her back
against the chair, also has a changed demeanor. Her body is slumped back,
and her eyes are widened, as one who shakes her head and mouths, “Oh.
No… I am,” then pauses, glances toward the night, down at the table, then
back into the other’s eyes, “so sorry.”
The honesty of before is only heavier now, her voice only gentler,
his resigned and still unsettling. She asks him a careful question and he
looks at her hard, points out of the window and makes a ‘that way’ motion,
his sleeve dropping slightly and revealing an entire, miniscule cross. She
hesitates then and makes an admission, their commonality confirmed.
He nods and the two of them speak at that table, return to her book. She
grasps its spine, seems to need it for the heaviness at that table. The sky is
still black as their conversation continues and is forced outside when they
28

look around and see chairs on top of tables and hear the vacuum running.
He walks her home, nearly, for his car is right by. Her eyes are worried
and will be. His interest is attached and will be. Viewed from the nearby
night, the two of them are miniscule and walking empty streets, with Elena
slightly ahead, her hands hidden in the folds of a coat. Tiny heads nod for a
brief exchange of goodbyes, and she briskly moves away.
George stands there for a moment, coat brushing his ankles, his
eyes black. His hands are pocketed and their shaking is slower, steady.
Walking to his car, he forms a slight, open-mouthed smile. It flutters
haphazardly, as if in prayer.
29

Flesh
Corinne Nulton
AT RISE: The basement of a funeral home.
Yellowed wallpaper stretches across the walls. A
bowl of pomegranates sits near an ashtray and
a stack of prayer cards. Nearby, a flickering
lamp casts shadows, blurring the room’s edges.
A dead body is propped up in a chair. As Hale
shaves its face, he clenches a cigarette between
his lips.
A sigh comes from off stage. A teenager enters,
annoyed. A makeup bag is slung around her
shoulder. She shoves a paper recycling bin into
the room. She reaches in, filling her arms with
tattered newspapers. In the background, Hale
talks to the corpse.
HALE
Not to worry, Mr. Piggy. I’m an experienced barber. Wait until you see
how close this shave is.
As she leafs through the pages, she struts
around Hale, intentionally dropping pieces all
over basement.
STEPH
Yesterday’s classifieds . . . Tuesday’s business . . . last Thursday’s real estate
. . . Today’s entertainment . . . Saturday’s ads . . . Monday’s Local News . . .
No, no, and no. I’ll never find it in this mess!
Meanwhile, Hale nicks Piggy’s face.
30

HALE
Oh, crap! At least you didn’t feel it, right? It’s just a little scratch, nothing
some cosmetic wax can’t cure. Steph—did you find his obituary yet?
STEPH
What do you think?
HALE
(Noticing all the papers) You’re going to pick those up.
HALE
Pick it up.
STEPH
Oh, so you’re like my father now?
HALE
Want me to send you to your room?
Steph lets the remaining papers fall. She tilts
her head, watching them all flutter to the
ground, then looks back at Hale. She raises her
eyebrows.
STEPH
Are you going to ground me or lay me on the ground?
HALE
Pretty please, babe? (Snuffs out the cigarette in the ashtray) Mr. Piggy is a bit
of neat freak.
STEPH
Then he can clean it.
HALE
Well, he’s a bit stiff.
31

STEPH
Funny. What happened to his face?
HALE
Some crazed barber pulled out a razor and mugged him. A tragedy really.
May he rest in peace.
STEPH
Or in pieces, if you keep cutting him.
HALE
Piggs wanted a shave.
STEPH
(Takes the razor) And you?
HALE
No, I don’t need a shave (takes it back). I need the obituary.
STEPH
You’re dead if the viewing’s tomorrow.
HALE
But if I die, who’ll embalm me?
STEPH
I’d much rather scorch that grin off and stuff you into a pretty vase.
Hale chuckles and leans in to kiss her. She
lets him, wrapping her arms around his neck,
enjoying it for a brief moment before suddenly
pulling back—feeling someone’s presence. She
looks down at Mr. Piggy’s barren skin and his
receding hair.
32

STEPH
Is this what’ll happen to me?
HALE
Of course, but thank goodness you’re not alone, like him.
Hurry up with that obituary.
STEPH
Why don’t you find it yourself?
HALE
Time is money, honey.
HALE
You got it?
STEPH
No, um—what’s his name again?
He leans in to kiss her again, but she breaks
away, half-assedly kicking the paper into a
pile.
Hale continues shaving Mr. Piggy.
Steph sits on the floor to restack the newspaper
according to date. She holds up the next page
to read it. Her eyes zig-zag through the lines
but stop abruptly. She stands still with her
mouth slightly open.
While Hale leans over to the table to look at
a prayer card, Steph rolls up the page in her
hand and stuffs it in her back pocket.
HALE
Pygmalion . . . But I like to call him Mr. Piggy. I think he was a musician or
artist of some kind.
33

STEPH
How do you know he’s alone?
HALE
See anyone waiting upstairs?
STEPH
He looks sad.
HALE
That’s just the rigamortis. He’s all yours.
Hale clears away the excess shaving cream.
Steph starts applying make-up.
STEPH
It’s hard working from such a droopy, distorted image . . .
HALE
Once I drain the fluids he should firm up a bit.
STEPH
He’ll miss his family.
HALE
No he won’t. They’ll all end up here.
STEPH
What about the flowers . . . the sun . . . the warmth . . .
HALE
That’s death.
STEPH
I know. (Shivers) But it’s unbearably cold.
34

HALE
He looks great. You’re a magician, you know that? Truly. Magical.
STEPH
(Shuffling though her make-up bag) I can add some color, but I can’t change
his expression.
HALE
It’s okay. I’ll sew his mouth shut.
STEPH
Why?
HALE
So the fluid doesn’t seep out. Could you please put some more blush on
him, babe? Maybe some eye-liner too! I think Piggy would make a mean
pirate. (He leans in to talk to the corpse while she picks through her bag) Were
you a Captain in a former life, Piggs?
Steph draws on the eye-liner, then drizzles
foundation over his frigid flesh. Meticulously,
she brushes color back into his face, breathing
life into his lifeless features.
HALE
Look! He’s blushing. He’s not used to being handled by young ladies.
STEPH
I don’t think it’s me he wants. I don’t think it’s ever been me.
The body starts to fall off the chair. Hale
pushes him back up.
HALE
Aww . . . He’s falling for you. You’re making him want to live again.
35

STEPH
Maybe.
Or maybe he doesn’t want to be silenced.
Maybe he’s afraid. He’s worried his family will forget him. Sure, they’ll
cry at first. They’ll bring flowers and cards for the first few months, but
gradually his grave will turn bare. They’ll find someone else and replace
him . . . Then they’ll sell his art or music on eBay while he’s all alone in the
cold dirt. Maybe he’s giving us a hard time because he doesn’t want to be
buried in the back of their minds. He wants them to remember.
Hale hovers around her.
HALE
You’re a proper artist with that cover up. He looks as good as new.
STEPH
He looks stunned, like he just missed the deadline for his college application
. . . or got caught drinking at prom . . .
HALE
Did you ever think maybe that’s his natural expression? If you would find
the obituary we’d have a photo to compare him to.
STEPH
Parsons, Perry and Pinto. No Pygmalion.
HALE
How about that piece in your pocket?
STEPH
What?
Steph rolls her eyes. She puts her makeup
away and starts going through the newspapers
again, tossing them all over the place.
36

HALE
The one you’ve been hiding.
He swipes it from her jeans, only looking at the
side with the obituary written on it.
Here we go. The viewing’s not until Wednesday. I’ve got plenty of time. As
far as the face—eh, maybe he’s just making faces, because he’s jealous of
us.
STEPH
What’s to be jealous of? He’s just flesh. Was that her problem, too?
HALE
Whose?
STEPH
(Points to the other side of the newspaper) My mom.
HALE
Are you forgetting—
STEPH
Grieving mother attempts—
HALE
—you were the one—
STEPH
—to kidnap a teenage girl—
Hale holds the paper out of her reach,
but Steph rips it away and begins to read it
out loud.
3

HALE
—who left her alone—
STEPH
—outside of Elisanfield High School early—
HALE
—to go crazy—
STEPH
—Friday morning. Authorities claim—
HALE
—because her daughter—
STEPH
—woman is delusional and has lost a sense of reality—
HALE
—left her for a man—
STEPH
—DUE TO THE LOSS OF HER OWN DAUGHTER—
HALE
—not some innocent CUNT!
STEPH
Why didn’t you tell me?
HALE
I didn’t consider it news.
Hale backs off. The damage is done. Steph lets
the page slip through her fingers. Silence.
38

STEPH
She missed me, Hale!
HALE
Don’t start, Steph.
STEPH
She went crazy!
HALE
No, she was always crazy; that’s why you ran away. Remember?
STEPH
I thought love would be enough . . .
HALE
Silly, girl. I don’t think we even made it as far as love.
He goes to the table with the prayer cards and
swipes a pomegranate from the bowl. He bites
into its skin, sucking the juice from its flesh.
He chews it slowly. With his mouth full, he
explains.
I don’t know why you’re so upset. You should be relieved. She’ll never find
us. She’s locked up. She can’t search for you anymore. Not that she would.
You were never good enough for her. I’m sure she preferred that girl she
tried kidnapping. That girl was probably more diligent . . . obedient . . .
appreciative . . . better than you.
STEPH
Liar!
She darts toward the basement door, but it’s
swollen shut from the moist air. She throws
39

the weight of her entire body against it, but it
won’t budge. She turns around. Hale has the
razor.
STEPH
I want to go home. Please, let me go.
HALE
This is home.
STEPH
No, this is a funeral home.
HALE
What did I say?
STEPH
I loved you.
HALE
We all end up here.
STEPH
Let me go!
HALE
Silly girl, I’m not going to force you into anything. You made a choice
(opens the door for her).
STEPH
I did.
HALE
Why don’t you stay one more night and think about it?
40

STEPH
No.
HALE
Where will you eat?
STEPH
I’ll find something.
HALE
You’ve never been alone.
STEPH
I can manage.
HALE
Maybe that’s your problem. I gave you a place to stay. I gave you freedom. I
would’ve kept you for eternity, but you can’t give me one last dinner?
STEPH
You can’t keep me here.
HALE
Pity. I’m sure Piggy is disappointed.
Your favorite fruit. Poison-free.
STEPH
Good-bye, Hale.
HALE
Sure. Stop in anytime.
He throws up the pomegranate and catches it.
He takes another bite and offers the rest to her.
41

Not even a kiss?
Hale stands by the door. Steph attempts to
leave, but he catches her arm.
Steph considers the proposition. She approaches
him with caution. When she leans in to give
him a quick kiss, he wraps his arms around her
in a strangling embrace. The lights dim. As she
struggles to break free he shoves the pomegranate
to her face, smothering it against her lips
until she’s silent and cold.
Hale lets her body fall onto the bed of newspapers.
He stares numbly at first.
Then he moves, crying quietly, as he sews up
her mouth, tenderly preparing her for her own
funeral.
Blackout.
42

Comparative Advantage
Sarah Neitz
A graphite curve connects me to you
so strictly separated into rise and run.
You pick apples in your orchard
and I pick cherries in mine and
our lives are numbers running up the cross-hatched blues of
the page,
trade gracefully arching from my orchard to yours.
I peer toward your axis,
and see you
swollen with crimson fruit,
eyes closed against the sun, seeing red,
pits and cores in the grass by your feet.
I gnaw my yield until I taste stem.
I imagine
that I sit under your tree
while you throw apples at the rough bark above my head.
I laugh,
throwing my neck back,
my hair scattering sunshine
and teardrop seeds.
You wear a hat
and overalls
and smell of fresh grass
and sweet honey crisps.
I already gave you a handful of sour cherries
in early summer.
You closed your hand around my bursting knuckles
43

and said you will trade your apples
for my soft fingers,
and cherry juice ran red down
our wrists,
pits fell from the cracks between
our woven fists.
44

45
Giving Forth
Jonathan A. Danforth

Character Development
Lori Green
Girls 6 weeks
Prior to age prepare their
Selves for what’s to come,
Consume by a flesh tube,
Think unmoving thoughts
Which translate slowly to: I am I am I am
And what I am is different from the other one,
Prepare
By taking in initial senses, which
Are warm, close, rounded about,
Dark inside and out, folded about,
By holding tight hands and arms, then
Kicking out straight, into a soft and cushioned concave.
These fetal females at times dream
What are templates for slow waves
On the beach and midnight caves,
Dream tightly wound phrases without language,
Perceive color where no light cracks,
Hear musical notes pressed to that flesh cathedral
Dome, dance then, sway, tap ten tight toes
Where the world is still secret, where they
Have not yet been ripped, yanked and sent, shot
46

Into a consciousness of the color red,
Something called fluorescence,
And slapping palms.
4

48
Shimmer
Gillian Naro

Untitled II
Marie Barry & Alexander Daly
Dodger, the Artful Robot, leaned his metal forehead against the
cold plate glass of the West building apartment window and looked out at
Monroe Street. His processors whirred, accessing the Monroe Doctrine
from his memory banks. The Monroe Doctrine, which kept European
robots from entering the United States. It kept him from saving his brother
robot, whose broken circuitry was interred under the asphalt of Monroe.
The Artful Robot took a last drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out on
the window. It was time to meet the others. He swung his trenchcoat over
his shoulders and stepped out of the apartment, heading to the library.
* * *
Sitting in the desolate Pro Deo Room, Dodger, the Artful Robot,
addressed the crew of rejects who had answered his call to arms. Hipster A
cleaned her glasses on her scarf, then paused the Phoenix song playing on
her Zune. Sweet Elk chomped on some grass he had brought from outside
to satiate the hunger with which his author had imbued him. But it hardly
compared to the taste of human brains. Jack leaned back on the couch, his
feet up on the coffee table. His author had written Jack as a blank canvas: a
pitiful attempt at a self-insert character for a woefully bad fanfic.
Dodger, the Artful Robot, cleared his throat with a crunching
of differential gears. “I had hoped more of you would have shown up. I
thought more characters were rejected from that magazine.”
Hipster A flipped through the 2011 copy of Esprit and peered at
the Artful Robot over her glasses. “There’s hardly any characters like us in
here. All first person narratives and poems.”
“Don’t forget the pictures,” Jack said. “I much rather would have
been a drawing instead of a fanfic.” The others turned to peer at Jack, but
they could hardly see him due to his vague characterization. “I am Jack’s
literary references,” he said to them.
“I wrote a piece on that movie before it became a cult classic,”
49

Hipster A said dismissively.
“I was a drawing,” Sweet Elk said. “It was a great piece; I was a
moose photoshopped into a generic corporate lobby, eating the brains of
the execs.”
“Was that supposed to be social commentary?” asked Hipster A
scathingly.
“Besides,” Jack said, “they don’t accept photoshopped works.”
“Comrades!” Dodger, the Artful Robot, shouted. “We must not
fight one another; the enemy is without. There!” Dodger, the Artful Robot,
raised a gleaming forefinger and pointed to the Center for Literary and
Performing Arts. “That unholy bastion of critical critics, plotting in they’re
high office, in the suits and ties they stole from dead characters. They took
everything from us. Now, we claim our rightful place in the next issue of
Esprit, right between the table of contents and closing credits. By force if
necessary!”
“Tonight, we dine in Mordor!” Jack screeched.
“You idiot,” Hipster A said. “One does not simply dine in Mordor.”
She paused. “Fuck. Now I’m making literary references.”
“Can we get going? I smell blood!” Sweet Elk said. He spat a few
pixels of executive brains onto the library carpet. “I wish I were zombie
nerd pop art.”
* * *
“This makes no sense,” the Editor in Chief said, as his staff
scribbled comments in the margins of the manuscript. “Where did any of
these characters even come from?”
“The dialogue is terrible. ‘Tonight we dine in Mordor’? A Lord of
the Rings-slash-300 mixed reference?”
“Well,” a third editor added, “it could be deliberate self-parody.
Maybe the author’s going somewhere with this.”
“I doubt it,” the Editor in Chief said. “Or if he is going somewhere,
it’s nowhere good.”
“I mean, really, did we ever even get a picture of an elk
submitted?” asked the second editor.
“Yeah, I think so, but it was horrible. Plus, it was a moose. The
author doesn’t even keep this straight in the text. Besides, look at the
50

conversation the Esprit staff has after the second star break. Why don’t the
editors have any names? That’s so confusing. I can’t tell who’s saying what.”
“Plus, Dodger says ‘they’re high office’ instead of ‘their high office.’
I know we’re supposed to be neutral about submissions, but that’s horrible
grammar.”
“Also, isn’t ‘Editor in Chief’ supposed to be hyphenated?”
“Wait, what? I didn’t read that far yet.”
“Yeah, where’s that?”
“It’s right where the Editor-in-Chief says, ‘This makes no sense.’
It’s the first line after the break. Let me know when you catch up.”
“Yeah, hold on, I’m almost there.”
“But I still don’t know who’s talking when they get to the Esprit
office, anyway.”
“Could you give us an example?”
“Well, look maybe five lines from the break. Where it starts ‘Yeah,
I think so, but it was horrible’? Whoever says that doesn’t even have a
name. Then whoever speaks next, whoever says, ‘Wait, what?’ they don’t
have a name either.”
“Hold on. Isn’t that the conversation we just had?”
“Wait. Yeah, a few lines down after that, it says, ‘It’s right where
the Editor-in-Chief says, “This makes no sense.” It’s the first line after the
break.’ Is that even how you nest quotes within quotes?”
“Yeah, I think the first set of quotations—”
“Wait, guys, what if we skip ahead a few lines?”
“It just says, ‘Then the Esprit editors leaned over to read the rest of
the story.’ I think the author’s just messing around now.”
“But right after that, it says the door is broken open by Dodger.”
“You mean Dodger, the Artful Robot?” a fourth editor sneered.
The Esprit staff turned to look at the door.
“Well, I guess—” The second editor was cut off by a gleaming
metal fist punching through the window of the Esprit office door.
“Wait, the Esprit office doesn’t have a window!”
* * *
Dodger, the Artful Robot, stood in the doorframe, flanked by
Hipster A and Jack. Sweet Elk loomed in background. Dodger motioned
51

curtly to Hipster A, who produced a thick rope woven from suspenders
purchased from the Salvation Army. Jack and Dodger, the Artful Robot,
quickly set about tying the Esprit staff to chairs as Hipster A fed them rope.
Sweet Elk eyed editorial brains hungrily, wondering what they would taste
like.
“Why are you here?” asked the Editor-in-Chief.
“Haven’t you been reading? They want us to put them in Esprit.”
said the second editor.
“I thought you said it ‘Es-pritt,’” Jack drawled. “Unless it’s Eyetalian.”
“It doesn’t matter how you say it,” Dodger, the Artful Robot, said
icily. “What matters is we’re here. And we have the staff at our mercy.”
“But you’re just characters in a story! What are you going to do?”
asked the fourth editor.
“Do you really want to know?” Jack muttered.
“Might I remind you, Editor, that you’re a character in a story
now as well,” the Artful Robot bleeped. Sweet Elk licked his chops in
anticipation. Brains.
“Well,” said the Editor-in-Chief, “your manuscript is lacking good
characters, the plot’s clichéd—it’s a complete farce. That whole attempt at
a meta section was just unclear. Do your worst, robot.”
“As you wish,” Dodger, the Artful Robot said.
“What, Princess Bride quotes now too?” asked the fourth editor.
“That’s my line!” Hipster A shouted. “Sweet Elk, eat his brain first.”
Sweet Elk bellowed, unhinged his jaw and swallowed the head of the fourth
editor whole, chomping at the neck.
“Now, do we have your word, Editor? You’ll publish the
submissions that my comrades and I came from?” Dodger, the Artful
Robot, asked. He began to warm up the laser generators in his fingertips.
“Don’t do it!” said a voice from the shadows of the office. “I never
meant for this story to go so far!” The assembled group of editors and
characters turned toward the back wall of the office, which they hadn’t
looked at until this moment in time. A young woman stepped forward. In
her hand, she held a notebook computer.
“Wait, you wrote this? You’re not supposed to reveal authorship at
52

meetings.”
“This is my story, I call the shots,” the author typed.
“And you’re going to end it with a deus ex? How’d this even bypass
the first round of editing?”
“Enough of this nonsense!” Dodger, the Artful Robot, roared in
a peal of pitiless thunder. “I’ll bet you hadn’t written this!” Dodger, the
Artful Robot, held his right hand in the shape of a gun and mimed firing. A
bolt of brilliant blue light sprang from his fingertip, striking the computer
in the author’s hand. She
53

The Light at the End of the Tunnel
54
Abby Yavorek

Observing at the Louvre
Lori Green
Stone eyes and stone folds
Of garments,
Rest on inhabitants of these
Palatial rooms.
They imbue me with just their
Own state,
Of thoughts which do not move, but
Sit still.
They are still as my finger tips,
Which hover,
Make as if to touch a reclining
God but
Do not, for he is already claimed
By another,
Marble Goddess with veins, same
As mine,
Tendrils which curve just so
Toward breast,
And downturned eyes without
Pupils, white
55

And complacent. So their love
Exists in
Tandem with other figures, some
Lovers too,
Or else warriors, mere limbless torsos,
Alabaster busts.
Solidarity with smooth, stone persons
Who remain
(Even when disgruntled guards would
Shoo us
Away, wield weaving flashlights),
This sense
Of familiarity, identification found
In recognition
Of what we acknowledge as facial
Features, well
It’s worrying. And, circling sculptures,
I wonder
If all that differentiates us from
These perfect
Forms, smoothed, proportioned
Forms, is:
56

Movement,
Movement out of doors,
Movement away from permanent
Partners or a murderous stance,
From a still of pathos (Signs say closing’s in a half hour).
And so, for only thirty minutes,
I will be still.
5

Contributors
Marie Barry is a junior history and English double major.
Alexander Daly is a junior BCMB and philosophy double major in the SJLA
and Honors programs.
Jonathan A. Danforth is a senior economics and philosophy double major
in the SJLA and Business Leadership Honors programs.
Michael J. Farley is a senior English major in the Honors program.
Craig Fisher is a sophomore computer science major in the SJLA program.
Lori Green is a sophomore English and philosophy double major in the
SJLA program.
Shawna Hogan is a junior English major.
John F. McGill is a senior English and philosophy double major in the SJLA
program.
Aimee X. Miller is a junior neuroscience major.
Gillian Naro is a senior psychology and philosophy double major in the
SJLA program.
Sarah Neitz is a senior international studies and philosophy double major in
the SJLA program.
Corinne Nulton is a junior English major in the Honors program.
Rosa Todaro is a senior English major.
Abby Yavorek is a junior biology major.

Esprit Submission Information
Esprit, a review of arts and letters, features work by students of The University of Scranton and is
published each fall and spring as a co-curricular activity of the English department.
Manuscripts - Original stories, poems, essays, translations, features, sketches, humor, satire,
interviews, reviews and short plays must be typed, paper clipped at the upper left corner and in an
envelope. All manuscripts, except poetry and short plays, must be double-spaced. Every page of the
manuscript must list the title and page number in the upper right corner. It is recommended that all
manuscripts be submitted in Times New Roman 12 pt. font. The author’s name must NOT appear on
the manuscript or on the envelope. Please include a CD-R or disposable flash drive containing each
submission saved in Word, and please label the disk with your name and the title(s) of your work(s).
Artwork - Black & white/color photographs and pen and ink drawings work best in this format, but
pencil drawings, collages and paintings will be considered. All original work should be submitted
in a plain manila envelope. The artist’s name must NOT appear on the work. Graphic submissions
should not exceed 8 x 12 inches (larger works will NOT be considered). Please include a CD-R or
disposable flash drive with digital photography submissions. Please note that the original print will
be the only copy reviewed during the selection process. All graphic submissions should include a
simple mark indicating the title and orientation of the work on the backside of the print. When work
submitted is a study of, or is otherwise dependent upon, another artist’s work, please supply the other
artist’s name and that work’s title.
All submissions MUST be accompanied by one 3 x 5 card for each genre. The card should include
the following:
Writer’s or artist’s name
Royal Identification number
Local mailing address and phone number
Year in school, major and pertinent information (Honors, SJLA, etc.)
Genre of submissions on current card
Title of each work submitted in this genre
We will consider a maximum of five visual art submissions (art, photography) and five literary
submissions (prose, poetry) per author/artist. Submissions received late, mislabeled, faintly printed,
damaged or without a hard copy, disk or complete 3 x 5 card (including the real name of the
submitter) will NOT be considered. Esprit does not accept resubmissions, works currently under
consideration elsewhere or previously published works.
Submissions and inquiries:
Esprit
Room 221
McDade Center for Literary and Performing Arts
Scranton, PA 18510
(570) 941-4343
All submissions are reviewed anonymously. All submissions to Esprit that have been accepted for
publication by the editors and that are the work of currently enrolled full-time undergraduates at The
University of Scranton will be considered, according to genre, for The Berrier Prose Award ($100),
The Berrier Poetry Award ($100) and The Esprit Art & Photography Award ($100).
Deadline for submissions for Spring 2012: March 23
Esprit is available online at http://academic.scranton.edu/organization/esprit/

Acknowledgments
Esprit appreciates the kind support of:
Kevan Bailey
Ray Burd
Ellen Casey
Jody DeRitter
Wendy Diehl
Mary Engel
Kevin Kinkead
CJ Libassi
John Meredith Hill
Diane Jachimowicz
Maria Landis
Matt Mercuri
Wade Ollendyke
Glen Pace
Tim Palumbo
Lynn Scramuzza
Mark Webber
Jenny Whittaker
CLP physical plant staff