6 15 89 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/59539f7a01eb1e0d22b72d2ebab620e5.pdf e139a5e3864f2d27b9897552d1489507 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, 2013 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/463cdecf72bf30a44bca3e56cd4894bd.pdf 4b868e82b4b385a5677d8abb0c1dbcce Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, Spring 2014 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/326a425d89ebfdfa6784c0a9297d0bd3.pdf 620f3ee5b59efbb61bd74379758fe823 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, Spring 2015 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/2a1e44f57911af71a20b3d708911b109.pdf 208ae95e6638c4bebd6d75e6df18b65f Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, Spring 2016 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/6da6f5d7a6b4da9819ca301b65a0cd1c.pdf 46219c2e55e4bd0c7b96fd864b9bef92 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, Fall 2017 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/ab5f25aefbd8ab8c35c458c6a0620934.pdf c6f5c21381d74277d7156447aa8da7da Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, 2018 (70th Anniversary Edition) https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/9a77a8c2505cbd00d3eac1e841b32913.pdf 93def1ece608c2fc065215800e5d78f2 PDF Text Text ineteen �47 Forward With this issue of Manuscript, a ne,r: campus in Wilkes-Barre. Those who have hope that through your efforts and the e.= develope into a college y _,· _ - - - on the Bucknlel University - i coming into being earnestly :: - e after you this magazine will _ - _ · all be proud. The E_ditors �Mission Statement ual ar: I _.::ipt Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative writing and visia~azine, The Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial taff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. a··on fo r a career in editing, publishing, or creative writing, any Wilkes student is o - bmit or work on the editorial board of the Manuscript Society. Staff member ~ ·e ,' of creative pieces from Wilkes faculty, staff, students, and alumni. Thi proe includes creative workshoping, copy editing, and layout. e (1) �The Wilkes University Manuscript Society presents to you the 20182019 issue of The Man uscript. The society would like to thank faculty advisor Dr. Chad Stanley and the English department administrative assistant Deb Archavage. A special thanks to all of the amazing contributors, staff members, students, faculty, and staff that have made the 71st Manuscript possible. �Manuscript 5tatf E_xecutive E_ditor Macke nzie T. E_gan Assistant E_ditor Julia Guziewicz Cop9 E_ditor Mrnachi Dimoriaku Social Media Coordinator l:)riannaSchunk Staff \ Villiarn l:)illingsle-'.'.l J\/1a dd1son !:)lack Katherin e Osmanski �Untitled On!Jin!Je Dimoriaku Under the Rainbow Alicia f endana Untitled Maddison 5lack WaterColors Sarah We!Jnand Feminism Madd ie 5lack Catholic Feminist On!Jin!Je Dimoriaku Untitled Ja!J Guziewicz 5earing the Cross Michael a Catapano , noise J. M . "Metronome" William F arnelli Lipstick Stains and Works of Art Macke nzie T. E_gan Al icia f edana Swimming in Sapphire Jenance M add is on 51ack Valle!) of Fire G enn!J Fredricks Untitled Willia m 5illingsle!J Recover!:) l 9 l 9 Dr. Chad Stanle!J A licia f endana Letting Go Angel in a Centerfold Ja!J Guziewicz Alic ia f endana 5itter R epose La 5elleza de le Naturaleza Ju a n Flores Romero Mackenzie T . E_ga n 5o!:) in Jictures f recious Art On!Jin!Je Q im oria ku b ecoming the fl!) M add ison 5 1a ck t) rianna S chunk Solitar!J Research ''Ar lath ma )) Ja!J G uzi ewicz J a!J Guziewicz Somed a!J et all M ackenzie T . E_gan "I am at war with a ~oem 5rianna Schunk 5rianna Schunk C 1ot-i 12N20 Alicia f endana Serenit!J Untitled On!Jin!Je Dimoriaku i 6 7 8 9 l l 12 l? 14 15 17 19 20 21 22 2? 24 28 29 ?? ?4 ?5 42 4? 45 46 47 48 49 5l 5? 54 �Untitled �Under the Rainbow Alicia Fendana �Untitled Maddison 5 lack �WaterColors Home on Long Island The blood that runs through these halls can repaint the exterior of this house twice over The white front door is the only light I can see from the kitchen floor even when the dimmer rises even when the shades fly up the sun shines through, urging me to push myself up, to push up the corners of my mouth but what does it know about the heat I already have to take? As black coats my cheek Yellows and blues grace my thighs And cherry pours from my lips �Sarah We~nand I'm all colors, all you have to do is hang me up yet I want to be as pure and clean as the door that breathes a whisper of freedom if only i'd just leave The artist, sponsor of the work that is my body looms over, his shadow blocking the fantasy of ivory bliss His deep baritone tells me that he likes me better in color How romantic that would sound if his brush strokes didn't send me flying into the wall �Feminism RI k Maddie L_Jac �Catholic f erninist (Found poem from the pla~s The Crucible, For Colored Girls and Grand Concourse) Qn_yin_ye Dimoriaku You've been placed in some faceless, institution Wearing a pretty dress We acknowledge the congregation A feeling of kinship surround us Lady of blue Laced in pri ilege Lined with small iridescent feathers The pastel ivy drawn on her shoulders Fixating the signs of deceit Finding differences in modes of worship In one hundred or in two hundred years . �J a_y G uziewicz untitled my poetry comes to me at night or in the shower or on a long drive. sometimes, it softly introduces itself, sticks out its hand for me to take as it leads the words down from my brain and out through my fingertips. other times, it falls from my tear ducts and splashes onto paper below forming lines without my hands, shaping itself without my input. the worst times are when it burns itself into m skin or etches itself into my bones, and i know it will not lea e me until i rip it from my body and offer it to the divine, my own version of abraham and isaac on mount moriah �E,earing the Cross Michaela Catapano This is not my cross to bear. It is not my job to hold the pieces together when you are unable. The wood slips through your fingers, and I cannot stop myself from running to catch it. Splinters dig into my delicate palms, the long end slams bruises onto my fragile shoulder. I did not think, was not fully prepared to share your burden, and was not at all prepared for you to let go. You didn't say it would be mine alone. Abandoned;no Simon of Cyrene to rush to my aid when I inevitably collapse from the crushing weight of your desertion. �nots I hear everyone who surrounds me. My neighbor to the left. My neighbor to the right. My neighbor across the hall, if I try hard enough. Most audibly, I hear my neighbor above me the clearest. The cheap rent explains the poorly installed sheetrock, which allows for no noise to leave his residence without me hearing it. He has a girlfriend. A very pretty girl who looks to be around 20, with fair complexion and shoulder-length black hair. She doesn't live wi him, though she is around a lot. I hear her all the time. Her and my upstairs neighbor have been together for a while. He's a very tall, very pale man with growing blonde curls that bounce with e, ery humongous step. He towers over her average height. I hear them all the time. They always have conversations at 3am about whether or not bugs have feelings, or if one of them were to be trapped on an island, , hat three items would they bring to help them survive. Their laughs are loud and full of life. His bed is very old and squeaky, probably a box-sprina. They've dropped 3 plates this past week. She put liquid soap in the di h,ra her. He plays guitar for her. She wants kids. He wants to tra, el. Shes going to school for teaching. He's working part-time. He makes her laugh. She gives him advice. They fight. He yells. She cries. She yells. He cries. The calm down. They joke. He says he's sorry. She says she's sorry too. He tells her he loves her. She says she loves him back. Everything. I hear everything. I've talked to him about it once, when we were getting our mail. I told him that I hear his footsteps when he walks in the door. I told him I can physically feel whenever he puts the dishwasher on. He laughed at me. I said it's alright, just to keep it down, if possible. He said that he'll try. And he did. I'd even get a knock on my ceiling time from time, when 1 �J.M. he would hear me awake. I couldn't do much to ((knock" back, so I'd usually just ignore it. I would still hear them talk late at night. I could still hear her delicate steps trailing behind his bold ones. I couldn't make out words, only sounds. The bed still creaked, that couldn't be helped. Their laughs were always loud, which I didn't mind. The fights were minimal, as usual, but just as loud. Their usual, everyday lives, through my ears, -turned from a conversation I could easily follow, to several undistinguishable mumbles. This went on for a few days. Weeks. Months. Until, it got louder again. She moved in. She leaves after dinner. He stays. He watches TV. He waits for her. She gets home late, 4th time this month. She's drunk. He takes care of her. Repeat. His patience runs low each and every time she's late. She stumbles in. He yells. She yells. She cries. Silence. There are hushed and quickened mumbles. Silence again. Quiet, unidentifiable footsteps head to, ards the door. I fall asleep. It's been a month. I don't hear her anymore. He gets home from work. He microwaves something. He throws it in the sink. He closes the door to his room. There is no laughter. There is no talk. Just the noises of basic living- the shower, the sink, the microwave, the TV, the door. There is no life. There is only living. There is no fun. There is no more motivation in his every step. There is no her. There is no love. There is no emotion. There is no heart. Nothing. I hear nothing. 6 �"Metronome)) A metronome is used to keep time. A watch is used to keep time. Only one can be worn on a wrist. A metronome is used to play piano. A watch is not used to play piano. Only one can be worn on a wrist. A metronome is not used to start fires. A watch is not used to start fires. Only one can be worn on a wrist. A man walks into a close~ antiques store. Another man walks into a closed antiques store. Only one can start fires. A man pours gasoline over a piano. The other man realizes that his watch is an hour slow. Only one can start fires. es �William Farnelli A man lights a match. An antiques store owner comes back earlier than expected. Only one can start fires. Gasoline is not used to keep time. A match is not used to keep time. Both can start fires. Old clocks need pendulum . Pianos need metronomes. Only you can prevent forest fires. A metronome is used to keep time. A watch is used to keep time. Only one can be worn on a wrist. 8 �Lipstick Stains and Works of A....-.....-.1 He'll take the lipstick stains on his collar The smell of her perfume. Works of art on stucco walls Memories taken down the hall. He'll take the scent of rainy days Traveling cross country in window panes. Laughter spilling over seams Of dust ridden leather and harlequin dreams. He'll take the secret letters to the grave Tear drops staining - driving ink. Silence ringing through the air An epithet he'll never spare Mackenz' T.La He'll take the late night calls Her voice drifting through the cracks. Wary moments of happenstance Wondering if she'd ever give a real chance. He'll take snowflakes in the morning Loading up the car ,vith her gloom. Light breaking over a bleak midnight Could he ever haYe ma e it all right? He'll take the little gold band With its starlet center piece. There's a scar in his left eyebrow , If anybody asks he doesn't knO"\ how. He'll even take the silence The vvay it wraps around him still. Indents on the pillow case How her warmth still makes his heart race. He'll watch her walk away again Never counting the steps back to him. Because one day she will retrace their tracks All he has to do is count the minutes until she comes back 1 �Swimming in Sapphire Alicia 0 Fendana �fenance Maddison 5 lack �Valle~ off ire G enn~ Fredricks She walked to the edge of the rock; the red sandstone pebbles underfoot crunching with her steps; dust moving with the strong gusts of wind. Taking one last glance back, she lined up her toes with the edge and peeked over at the rock below her, as the wind began to swirl her hair into knots and tangles. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, full of fresh air; the kind of air she couldn't find at home. In the city the air was already used, already breathed, already cycled through the buildings and machines and cars and people, but here the air was all her own. The air wasn't used, the air was in command. It weathered the sandstone, broke the branches, pushed around the in sects. It offered forgiveness from the beating sun, played with the leaves, whispered secrets only heard in the absolute silence. And here she , as at one ,dth its po\\Ter. Arms outstretched, eyes closed, she let the ,vind play with her hair, tickle her skin, whisper what it needed to say. At that moment she never felt more free, more alive. �Untitled It was late, Angelo was my opponent, It had continued into the night, Far past curfew... Both queens, dead. The endgame just beginning, Angelo traded his bishop for my rook With two pawns apiece and kings remaining, The game entered its final phaseA reckless charge, Both pawns mercilessly advanced 'Onward to glor ' the shouted Both were promoted though, Mine was first. With newfound royalty on my side, Another pawn charged, Deep into the empty battle lines, At 11:02, Angelo's fate was sealed His doom, impending Checkmate. 2 �Recovering 191 9 Chad5tanle~ If the Twentieth was, as Luce said, America's, nineteen -nineteen is where it began. Jazz bloomed to dysphonia in ccSaxophobia'': an irony-free symphony of sexeuophobias. The song of year, hands down, was Jolson's: ((You Ain't Heard Nothing • Yet;' and they hadn't ccWhen I call;' he sang, ccshe takes my hand;' he sang; ccMy girlie, when we'll marry, she'll be ccmy pef' Hands stretched, petting pets as they listened, patting pets yet unmade. �Roosevelt lay dreaming in state; intestate; dead in January. "Put out the light;' he said, and the light, as he said, was extinguished. With the dawn vats rebel and explode: molasses breaks its bounds in the North End. Waves flow from Purity, slouch southward, and twenty-one drown, sweetly, in Boston. The great distillationprohibitionGently, is born. Unginned, bathtub poisons to blind you, unmade, but predicted. �Gin to make one still unmade as last year's sickbeds. Blown by Wilson's whistles the klan catches protestant winds, changes tack; billows to four million sheets In literary terms, the year, as we know, is a wasteland. Where Debs cleaves the land, Anderson delivers Winesburg, Ohio. The year is not literary, but explosive: paramilitary. It was, you see, just one year out from the Great One: the newly done, lost/won. The ordinance, passed down from the front, �rolled over palms, into fingers. 1' Fingers calloused by work, that held cigarettes, or Bee's Knees, worn smooth by leisure. They say, today, in the North End, when it rains and the air's right, the sweetness; the stench: you can smell it. It's in the city, they say: in our bodies; our mouths; 1n our us. It tastes like, they say, prohibition. It tastes like a war yet unwon. �Letting Go Alicia f endana �Angel in a Centerfold Ja_y Guziewicz First, let me preface this whole story with the fact that I work the fuckin' graveyard shift at a convenience store. I've seen some shit. People high on almost every drug, people covered in what I hoped was fake blood, people who were used to being up late, people who hadn't stayed up past 9 pm since the seventies. I've had people swear at me, threaten me, try to rob me, try to save my soul, try to save my soul and then,when I blew them off, try to rob me. Let me tell you, all of that? Nothing compared to this. When I first laid eyes on it, I thought I was seeing things. There was no way in hell that what I was seeing was real. It was 3am on a Tuesday night when it showed up. I was behind the register, selling Mrs. O'Reilly her nightly post-hospital shift cigarettes when I heard the door jingle. I didn't bother glancing at who entered, too_busy with my sale to be bothered by the probably high college kid stopping in to grab a slushie and some snacks. After all, Mrs. O'Reilly always complained that I was too distracted, and I wasn't in the mood to deal with her bitching tonight. But after she left, I looked out into the store, and that's when I saw it. It was standing in front of the beer cooler, and was about 5'10, wearing ripped black skinny jeans, a black shirt, a leather jacket with the hood up, with two huge-ass wings protruding from what I assumed would be shoulder blades. I don't know what my face looked like, but I can imagine my jaw hanging open in shock. It's not every day you have an encounter with the unknown in the middle of bumfuck nowhere Pennsylvania. Anyway, as I was saying, there it was, standing in front of the beer cooler, just staring at the cans, when the door jingled again. Again, I didn't bother looking, but that's because this time I was too busy staring at Maximum Ride to_be �--, bothered. Suddenly, there was a bang, like someone hit the register and I jumped before looking at the counter in front of me. There was Lloyd (always Lloyd, never Mr. Yankovich) with his Big Gulp and bag of salt and vinegar chips glaring at me. "Young man, I don't have all day;' he told me. He did have all day. I knew for a fact he was just going to buy a pack of cigarettes to go along with his midnight snack, and then sit in his shitty pickup,smoke, and eat while the missus was asleep and couldn't get on his ass about lung cancer and diabetes. "You're right, sorry about that, Lloyd:' I told him, scanning the items: "A pack of Marlboro Reds too, son:' He said, softening up slightly. An apology would always do that, serious or not. I just think he felt guilty about being rude to the one person in his life who knew all his secrets. "Of course, Lloyd;' I said, turning around to grab the pack. "Hey Lloyd, you see that person by the beer?" I asked him. "By the beer?" He turned to look "Son, there ain't nobody in here except m e an' you:' He told me. I grabbed the cigarettes and scanned them, placing them next to the bag of chips. "You really don't see them? Right there by the cooler? Big wings? You cant m iss 'em:' I asked again. He shook his head. "Seriously son, there ain't nobody there. Are you feelin alright?" He asked. "Y-yeah:' I stuttered. "Been working too many night shifts I guess:' "That's probably it. I'll see you later then, Wade:' He said, turning and walking to the door. He stopped before opening, turning back around to look at me. · :Maybe you should close up early and go home, Wade. Get some rest. Call off tomorrow:' He said, before pushing the door open and walking out. I rubbed my eyes before looking back at the beer cooler, think maybe wings would gone, but . o. Hawkman was still standing there. Great, after being boring all my life, now I ·. -as seeing things. I couldn't have seen winged creatures when Supernatural was :- opular? At least then people would know what I was talking about when I said �Castiel came into my job at 3am. And then I could've passed it off as being the actor. But no, it had to appear now, after high school and the Supernatural craze. Finally, it opened the cooler, and grabbed a six pack. It then began to stumble around the snack aisle. It seemed to pick up every single bag in the aisle and read all the ingredients before placing it back down. Not only did Rainbow Dash . have to be in my 7 - 11, it had to be a health freak too. Eventually, it made a selection and walked over to the register, placing it's items down. Finally, I got a good look at its face. It was young, too young to buy beer. Choppy bangs, poorly dyed green almost covered its eyes, which were covered in black eyeliner. It was pale, and its lips seemingly had no color. It was like the emo Gabriel, but instead of bringing glad tidings of great joy to shepherds, it was bringing me coors light and mini muffins. And they weren't even really for me. I scanned the little bites. "Um, so, I kinda have to see an ID for this:' I said, patting the beer. Out of everything I could imagine myself saying to what appeared to be a celestial being, that was not what I thought would come out of my mouth. "You need a what:' It said, looking absolutely floored. "An ID?" I asked again, unsure. "I was created before this world and yet I still have to produce an ID to buy beer. I helped guard the Garden of Eden. And I'm getting carded. At a 7-11 :' It muttered to itself. "Sorry, it's store policy, gotta card anyone who could possibly be underage. You fit the bill on that one:' I said. "It's store policy. It's store policy to card all the angels that come in to get beer. Jesus Christ, I really need to find a new form that looks older than 18:' It said. "If you're an angel, should you really be taking the lord's name in vain?" I asked "Besides, why are you even drinking? Isn't heaven perfect and all that Sh 1't?. " �It laughed, or what would pass for a human laugh. Maybe it was the angel equivalent of flipping the bird. «Rough millenium:' It said, before reaching into its back pocket and pulling out a small stone. It handed it to me. The writing on the stone was not English. I looked up at the being. «Where is this ID from?" I asked. «Sumer:' It told me. «Ooo yeah, sorry bud, looks like it's expired. Got anything more recent?" I asked. With a roll of its eyes, it took the cuneiform tablet back from me and placed it back in its pocket. From its other pocket it removed a beat up leather wallet. «All I have is my entrance ID for the Gates of Heaven:' It told me. «Can it be scanned?" I asked. It looked down at the ID and nodded. «Hand it over, doesn't hurt to try:' I said. It passed me the ID and as soon as it hit ID) hand it \\ as like a bolt of ~ htning went through me. I looked do,\·n at the ID. On the front were four different photos in a grid-like pattern, one box had a picture of the being in ont of me, another one had a picture of an ox, another a picture of a tiger, and the last a picture of an eagle. Across from the photos was your standard ID information, y'know, name, date of creation, wing color, height in full angelic glory, the like. I was barely able to read it, as it seemed to be almost every language shifting into each other. On the back, sure enough, there was an area to scan. I slowly ran the ID over the scanner. Nothing. I tried again, a little faster, nothing. I resorted to swiping the ID back and forth rapidly until I heard the confirmation beep of the register. I mentally fist pumped and handed the ID back to the being, along with the rest of its purchases. «Thanks for shopping at 7-11, have a great daY:' 2 �E)itter Repose Alicia f endana �La 5elleza de la Naturaleza Juan f\.omero flores �5o~ in f ictures Had she been given a choice she wouldn't have waited so long to meet him . That was one of her first thoughts, one of the first things she'd scripted in her head, when she walked into the small diner. The diner itself was a sunlit corner of town - full of a friendly atmosphere and dated decor. After she looked aroun finding a seat at a burgundy benched booth beneath a large section of windows, the woman checked the tightness of the scarf wrapped around her face. It was loosening against her nose and her breath had long since started to cause a sticky, damp spot over her mouth. With a heavy sigh she unwound the gossamer swatch of fabric and people did the very worst. More than a few heads turned in her direction .- berating her with wistful stares and suspicious glances. Then the most miraculous thing they all turned back to what they were doing, as if she wasn't the first person to enter their lives in her condition. She felt elated. The sense of anonymity, of fitting in without being seen, made some-thing so precarious as her heart soar. It was something so coveted and so rarely recei ed that the moment filled her with ease. After setting the fabric beside her on the bench she picked up the plastic-guarded menu, not hungff so much as looking for a v a, to hide herself. A waitress, slight in stature "' ith mousy brown hair and eyes only a shade lighter, came over to her table moments after she sat down. The girl was wearing a grey and pink ensemble resembling a poodle skirt. Her name tag read Allie and she all but ignored the woman's appearance. "What can I get you to drink?" She asked instead with a sunny smile, her heart going out to the stranger. The woman glanced around the girl, her eyes searching the door, her face pinched, before she replied. ''Coffee. Black. And could I have another menu please?" �Mackenzie. T. Lan «Are you waiting for somebody?" Allie's hand hovered over her notepad with a precision in the furrow of her eyebrows. Dark green eyes met Allie's face and the woman nodded with a wavering smile. Her mouth barely form the words «I am". I've been waiting a long time, she thought, I just didn't know it. Before Allie could respond the door opened and in stepped he, getting salutations and tossing smiles in return. Coarse black hair and peridot eyes, a bewitching corn starch smile, all of it glanced around the room with confidence. Until those bright eyes landed on the woman with the dark curls, tense smile, and ruined face. He shot the waitress a strained smile as he crossed the room and touched her shoulder with one thin hand. "Nothing for me, AI:' He murmured and sat down with a stiff spine. Understanding crossed her face and Allie nodded, hurrying towards the counter of the diner. As she slipped behind the divider the other waitress on duty, a classmate to the aforementioned children, whispered to her. «Is that..?" To this Allie could only nod. At the table, the woman looked over at her new companion and tried to smile. With a shaking hand she reached for the scarf, sure his silence was from discomfort. He shook his head when she started to put the fabric before her face and she let it drop. «I was surprised that you called:' His tone, too tense for his fragile features, caused a chill in her spine. "Margarette, · ht<" ng . The woman nodded and swallowed back her sadness. "I was surprised that you existed:' Her response, so soft, made his face contort more. "More surprised even when the private investigator told us you'd been putting feelers out for me as well:' She held out one hand, a fan of formal introductions no matter how late they came. "It's nice to meet you, Connor:' �Connor's hands stayed firmly in his lap. His head pounded and soon he'd need to fish the pill bottle from his pocket. Not in front of her - no. This meeting was strictly business. Should he show weakness she'd surely see how much he needed her. Her words stuck with him as he pondered when to slip to the bathroom with a cup of water from the kitchen - perhaps after she gave her denial and left. Until then, he might as well fish for information. "If you ... :' He started sluggishly, paused to collect his thoughts, and then started again. "How did you find out about me?" He thought she could've been beautiful, had her pale lips not been interrupted with thick scars, had her nose been straight, her eyes not rimmed with violet bags. Her dark bangs covered a forehead that seemed to drip with webbing pink lines, curving around cheekbones and in the hollows of two temples. "I've always known about you:' The woman, Margarette, sighed heavily. "We had a private investigator keep in touch with your family when I woke from the accident-" "Accident?" Connor's ears practically perked on their own. He took into account the woman's face, all the way own to what was exposed of her collarbone. Marred by pink spider webs, her skin resembled in fraction the pigments his carried. "What accident?" Margarette's eyes darkened cautiously, pitching towards blackness in the way a healthier version of Connor's used to. " hen I was twenty one ... when I was pregnant with you ... we were hit head on by a drunk driver on my way home from work:' Connor could've sworn he saw dampness in her eyes as Margarette sank back into the booth and crossed her fingers before her. When he didn't say anything she continued on. "I'd had no immediate family so you were taken by Cesarean section and put up for adoption. I was in a coma, the doctors didn't believe I'd wake up:' Connor nodded slowly. "But you did?" Of course she had. She was sitting before him, wasn't she? "You would've been almost three when I did. My husband, he was one I �of my doctors - « Margarette stopped talking when Connor quirked a thin eyebrow. «We got married ten years ago:' "You fell in love with your doctor? Isn't that kind of.... against their code or whatever?" Connor couldn't help himself with that quip. It seemed a little surreal. «Yes:' She smiled at his ruefulness and continued. "His name is Roger, he told me about you and we searched for you. when we found you ... your parents wouldn't let me so much as see you:' A tear escaped Margarette's eye and trickled down her cheek. "So when you contacted the investigator.. .! had to come, don't you see? They'd led you to believe I didn't know you existed and I had to tell you the truth:' He nodded and focused on her intently. «Maybe they were trying to protect me.<" «From your own mother? That hardly seems like protection to me:' Margarette scoffed at Connor without really meaning to come across as rude. After a silent pause she reached her left hand forward, it was the hand that carried less damage. "How are you feeling?" Feeling. Of course she knew. That was why they'd met after all, because Connor had leukemia. And he needed her bone marrow or else the prognosis was grim, very grim. "Ill:' He tried to smile but upon her flinching offered a tepid expression. «My head aches, but it always does. Somedays are better.. .! mean I was able to meet you today, that counts for something right?" Neither woman nor boy smiled, just exchanged a glance - sizing each other up. Connor would be handsome, Margarette decided, had the treatments not taken from him. There was a hollowness in his cheeks that proved he once had more meat on his bones and the bags under his eyes mirrored hers. He was still handsome; she puzzled that quietly. Maybe not in the way he'd have found attractive if she were that age again but the waitress, Allie, ,vho had just set her coffee down and hurried back to the counter, didn't agree. Watching her gaze at him made a softness bloom in Margarette's 8 �chest. Even sick, she was able to see her son - a piece of her, and know he was at least okay. His eyes were starting to really hurt and he had to fist his hands in the fabric of his shorts to keep them from shaking. "Can you help me or not?" He asked her finally. The words that came out softly surprised them both - Connor because he sounded almost desperate and Margarette because he wasn't angry. He looked at the her and saw some of himself in her features. It seemed that every time he looked at the woman he saw more of their relation in her being. Now he noticed the softness of his jaw attuned to the curve of hers, the bowing of his upper lip, even the slightly off center way his eyes sat. They had the same dark colored hair and he bet she'd been a shade or two lighter in her youth. What he didn't see in her left him questioning, before she could even answer, "What of my father?" Margarette's face, already screwed into a scowl, became pinched. "He left when he found out I was pregnant with you:' Connor nodded. That seemed about right. Just his luck. "Can you help me?" This time the question came softly. "I cannot. .. all of the medications I'm still on, even seventeen years later, make it impossible:' Her e1es ,, ere slipp er ith tears. "Roger and I tried to find a loophole .. .I "ould if I could. You have to believe me:' Connor nodded slowly as his heart sank into the pit of his stomach. "Why did you come then?" He felt the fool for allowing himself to believe that this absolute stranger would be able to help him but at the same time he'd gotten to meet her. That had to count for something right? "I had to meet you! To see you before .. :' She was using her scarf to dry her eyes as she stared at him. This boy, her son, a piece of her whose body was destroying him from the inside out, looked at her with so much hopelessness it his eyes that she was wracked in pain. It was an emotional sort. The kind she'd experienced for months after learning her child, the �boy she spent months sharing a heart beat with, was taken from her forever. «Before I died?" Connor asked softly. He wasn't angry. If anything he was resigned. He pushed himself up from the table with a weary sigh. «Because that's what's going to happen. I'm going to die if I don't get the bone marrow:' He ran a thin hand through his hair and came free with a few hairs clumped in his fingers. It didn't seem to phase him - he shook his hand and the hair fell to the floor. "I'm glad I got to meet you, Margarette. But if you can't help me I don't see a reason for us to be in further contact:' When she started to speak he raised a hand to cut her off. "My mom is having a hard enough time with this as it is ... I'd honestly be rude if I kept in contact with you." Margarette dug around in her purse, producing two black and white images dated the year Connor was born. She placed them both on the table. ccThese are for her:' Then she too rose and touched his thin shoulder. Connor nodded slowly and shrugged away from her hand. "Thank you." The words hung in the air between the two of them for a moment before Margarette wrapped her scarf around her face. Even if they hadn't both agreed on what exactly he was thanking her for the sentiment was there. You are ... .I wish you the best of luck:'And then she was gone. Allie walked over just as Connor was sitting down heavily. She set a glass of water in front of him and then eased herself down beside him. Together they tared down at the seeming! healthy baby boy pictured belo\i\ . Connor took o of the pills from the bottle in his pocket and chased them do,\ n with a alf a glass of water. Allie rubbed hi arm until he ,ra fini hed. "I'm sorry:' She said finally. "She brought sonograms. For my mother. \ \ h -, ould she think that · ·e'd want these?" Connor couldn't help his disbelief. "Because you do. The youngest picture your parents have for you are ·. -hen you're like two right? These are the youngest pictures of you to be had. 0 �Your mom's going to want them. Maybe not now but if you .. :' "When I. When I die:' "If you die. She was trying to help - at least in the ways she can:' Connor nodded and picked up the picture dated earlier on. "I was so small:' "And you've gotten so big:' Allie laughed softly and stood up. "Let me· see you home, okay?" "Okay:' Allie started for the door but Connor stayed rooted in his spot. His knuckles pressed into the tables face and he waited only a second before he scooped up the two black and white images Margarette ha left behind. Silently he put them in his back pocket before following Allie out. A small voice told him that he got to meet the woman who looked like him. 4 �f recious A rt Precious Art I met you young Your eyes called to me Begging for love Your voice danced like calligraphy in the wind Your heart full of wonder and awe You see the ugliness painted on the canvas Mean, hurtful, dead You enlighten my heart with love Lovely, wonderful, humble You rewrite your beauty Reborn butterfly Precious is what you are Precious is what you will be �becoming the fl~ be I house, horse, or fruit? I become the fly. the ommatidia be my optic as I take this dipteran disguise! unrecognizable to past populations, I take my rest on familiar fortification. I've been here before. previously coerced by its citizens, destine for abnormalitybut this place had concealed it. "conform to the common!" "adapt to the ordinary!" I complied with their cliches; acted as advised. driven to practical lunacyI left. they were just too frivolous. and I was much too fascinating. and now, 4 �Maddison lack I am a fly. current tenants are buoyant, but oblivious to connotation. so here I sit, a fly in its opulence overlooking senseless suburbanitessquatters within a previous life I lived! but to newfound residents, I do provide a housewarming gifttake this inevitable advice: avoid individuality or you, too, will become the fly 4 �Solitar~ Research 5rianna Schunk The world has shown, to my eyes, foreign sights Hands held with fi11gers loosely intertwined, I fear my fear of warmth has won the fight This kind of love I don't twhink I can find. To have someone's breath warm upon my lips, To have someone's arm gentle 'round my waist, I shy away from chance to share a kiss, my bones' hunger for touch is gone to waste. I can't imagine it - myself and what? Another being taking up my space? I see myself alone and living, but unable to thri e in a lo, er's place. Send all thoughts from m selfish heart above, Remember when I used to fall in love. �.r J G a_y "Ar lath man uziewicz you and i are too alike to ever get along in close proximity, so we separated. we put one hundred and twenty five miles between each other, gave ourselves breathing space. it drew us closer than we ever were and now, in the middle of a harsh winter you are the one i turn to, the one i know will still be there. �Someda~ Ja~ Guziewicz ' someday the bald patches on my scalp will grow hair and the bruises on my trachea will fade but the mirror will always be dripping red like my nose onto my upper lip and I'm not sure you will leave me whole, sane like when we started. �- et all Mackenzie. T. Lan you didn't fall at all at least not hard enough the to shatter ground warning bells and despite still stand 1n we this gether to convince you still try do Better. I angry pills room tome to I �"I am at war with a poernn I am at war with a poem. It puts up a good fight, refuses to be written, rejects forms I wish it to take. Words that make it out of my brain walk stiff-legged, stilted and messy. They make no sense. What drunken general orders these troops? I open my mouth to speak -The cowards all vanish and hide. I will not sit back and wait like they do, Snuggled up in trenches of my brain Away from criticism and the cold, harsh light of the world . . It is beautiful out here, I whisper to them, People will revere you, they will shout you to the heavens. When the coaxing does not work and my whispers are wind in my ears I will fill my words with bullet holes. �t:)rianna Schunk They will fall to their knees, submissive to my pen. They will come running and sprinting, They will come crawling and limping, Eager to escape my retaliation. I am supplied, stocked, prepared to fight for this poem. They will not come. They will not come? I will make them come to me: Angry and bitter, Sad and repentant, Joyous and content, My words will come to me. �More ... more ... I need more. My ragged breath echoes off the alley walls. The brick swims before my eyes. I stumble and fall, gravel digs into my palms. It burns. My pain receptors are on overload. I can feel my toler. . ance building, spiking. This shit isn't all it's cracked up to be. My head pounds. I vomit, yellow bile spilling onto my inflamed hands. I can't move. I am weighed down by the pain. My skin stings. The world is ricocheting around me. I drag myself over to the brick wall and lean up against it. I'm in a dense, thick, molasses fog. I'm move in slow motion as I reach into my pockets. I must have some left - something, anything to get me through the next few hours. My stinging hands roam the ground around me like beetles and graze it - cool, slim metal attached to a glass tube. I grab it and hold it in front of my watering eyes. My hands are shaking too much to read the label, but it's the right color. There's half a milliliter left - not a lot, but enough to keep me going. I drape m forearm across m 1 bent knee. I can find a ein with my eyes closed -- puncture ,,-ounds pep er my arms like bullet holes. I bite my lip and slip the needle into m arm. Fuck, it hurts. 1 hand, still twitching, pushes the plunger, and the last drops of that sweet green medicine enter my veins. I sigh in relief. It feels so damn good. My head pulses with colors - pinks and greens, purples and yellows swirl in my mind's eye like a lava lamp. I'm back in my happiest memories college friends, my first dog - it's euphoria. I feel myself fall sideways, my head bashing into the asphalt, but it doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts. My pain receptors have finally shut the hell up and I am content. ****** �5rianna Schunk ''Wh at. .. wh at 1s · 1t, . sarge.?" «Hmm ... vacant expression, swollen tongue, inflamed hands. Eyes unresponsive. And a nasty-looking mess on his head:' «But he looks so ... content. Happy, even. What was it? Crack, meth, LSD?" «Nah. Looks like a classic case of serotonin overdose. God, the arms look like a warzone. Who knows how this kid lasted so long:' «Serotonin overdose?" «Hey, I don't judge. I guess some people just want to be happy, and street drugs don't cut it no more. They're doing all this weird scientific shit now, messing with brain chemicals and whatnot:' «Shit. .. God, he can't be much older that I am. " «Yeah, son. New York just ain't what it used to be:' �Serenit~ Alicia Fendana �Untitled 4 �Contributor l:)ios Juan Romero Flores Juan C. Romero Flores is a Secondary Education in Spanish major at Wilkes. He likes taking photos, watching Netflix and having a good time. Photography is something he is very passionate about and he enjoys very much Genn~ Frederick Genevieve Frederick is a sophomore double major in English and Earth and EnYironmental Science. She is a member of the Geo-Explorers club and enjoys reading, hiking, and writing in her free time. She's and avid fan of NEPA pizza and any drink that contains coffee. Will F arnelli William Farnelli is pretty okay. He can tie a bowline with one hand, has a caffeine addiction and a tiny brain, is about to eat something off of the floor. Someone should top him. ana Alicia f edana Alicia Pedana, a 2017 graduate from West Side Career and Technology School. earned a certificate of study in Multimedia Technology. Alicia, sophomore, Wilkes University, pursues a B.--\. in E rly Child Education. Photography is a form of relaxation for Alicia. Although she photographs a varietY ; ·e-·-, her passion is nature. Will l)illingsle~ William Billingsley is an upcoming Junior studying Political Science and Hi • also be found reviewing Manuscript submissions and \'Oting again t 'TIO_ • G fully make Die Hard next year's theme. In his spare time. he -a J. l\I. enjoys long wal - on the bea-h and ~ . D- ·~== ·he chool year, he can .ar he hopes to success~ Cltimate Frisbee. e, but are not limit::- :; nr1ower seeds with - -e-thetic choice for ice ed to: being able to _iuggle o. e · em a: the shell. They al o really ha e rai Michaela Catapano Michaela Catapano is a Junior Musical Theatre major with minors in both Dance an Crea iYe \Vriting. She has been writing little stories and silly poems since a very young age, and is very honore o ha,-e her first ever publication be in the Wilkes Manuscript. Sarah We~nand As she completes her sophomore year, Sarah Weynand is thrilled to be included in thi year's manuscript. When double majoring in Musical Theatre and English Literature, it can be hard to find time to write, but Sarah devotes her free time to writing poetry and has even started to showcase it on her poetry Instagram, @thornedrose.poetry. She would like to thank her mother, Maria, for always supporting her love of the arts and letting her fly on the wings of her dreams. �Dr. Chad 5tanle~ Chad Stanley is an Associate Professor of English and the 2018-2019 faculty advisor to Manuscript. He also writes things. And paints things. On~in~e (Mrnachi) Dirnoriaku ~1machi 0 . Dimoriaku is a Nigerian-American actress, singer, dancer, writer and photographer. She does a lot of s it.h the limited time she has to do them. She thanks you for reading her work and for you to check out her photography page in Instagram: md_pixs "le· a Junior Theatre Arts major and a creative writing minor at Wilkes University. She is currently the presiof the Wilkes African Cultural Association, Copy Editor of Manuscript and Public Relations Officer for the Multicultural Student Coalition. She enjoys singing, choreographing, and making clothes. Maddison Dlack iaddison Black is a junior at Wilkes University. She has a dual major in Musical Theatre/ English as well as a minor in Creative Writing/ Art. Maddison enjoys all aspects of creation. She was recently nominated for the Irene Ryan Acting Scholarship for her performance as Fraulein Schneider in Wilkes University's production of Cabaret:' Last year, her poem "Unbreakable" was selected to be a part of Poetry in Transit. In her future, Maddison hopes to bring happiness to other through her various creative outlets. Ja~ Guziewicz Jay (Julia) Guziewicz is a sophomore psychology major and apparently the assistant editor of this thing. They only wear black leggings and flannels. You can usually find them wandering around campus at 2 am wondering if it's really worth it to order Taco Bell or if they should save their money. Taco Bell usually wins. Don't tell their parents. Drianna Schunk Brianna is a Junior with a dual major in English and Dance. She is the Social Media Coordinator and puts her blood, sweat, and tears into every Instagram post. When she isn't holed up in Kirby writing poetry she enjoys cross stitching, creating costumes for drag shows, and taking care of her succulents. She thanks you for reading and asks that you kiss your cats for her, please. Mackenzie T. E_gan Mackenzie is a copy editor and content writer who will be receiving a B.A. in English and History in May of 2019. Recently, she was a writing intern for the website Discover NEPA.com and a lifestyle writing intern for the online women's magazine Blysee.com. She is also working as a communications and marketing intern for the Pittsburgh magazine Kine Hearts Magazine. She is an avid coffee drinker, a fan of Netflix shows and romance novels, and adores all four legged creatures. Outside of professional writing she writes poetry, short stories, and full length pieces and has recently been published in Kine Hearts Magazine. This part march, Mackenzie won third prize in the Original Fiction category at the 2019 Sigma Tau Delta International Convention for a short story titled "Sentiment:' Katherine Osmanski Katherine is a junior English major at Wilkes. �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, 2019 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/23e7b3177e8b9dc769cc5b57c8634d04.pdf a0ada072d7e6ccededd4e752c45d31f3 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, Spring 2020 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/adceda551e568f515d42bd165547de17.pdf c8ab812620d444955bbb8bd0e28bf869 PDF Text Text 1 ��Manuscript 2020-2021 Edition Wilkes University Manuscript Society �1947 Foreword With this issue of Manuscript a new publication is launched on the Bucknell University Campus in Wilkes-Barre. Those who have been responsible for its coming into being earnestly hope that through your efforts and the efforts of those who come after you that this magazine will develop into a college tradition of which we may all be proud. The Editors © 2021 by the Wilkes University Manuscript Society. All rights reserved. �The Manuscript Society Editorial Board Advisor Dr. Mischelle Anthony Dr. Chad Stanley Executive Editor Sarah Weynand Co-Assistant Editors Rashonda Montgomery Emily Cherkauskas Layout Editor Jay Guziewicz Art/Copy Editor Haley Katona Social Media/Photo Editor Emily Cherkauskas Spring 2021 Cover Design Haley Katona Editors at Large Jordyn Williams Ashley Wallace Editorial Consultant Sheylah Silva Staff Caitlyn Bly William Billingsley �Dear Readers, At the risk of sounding like a high school/college graduation Hallmark card, I would just like to announce to the world (Wilkes-Barre, to narrow it down): we did it! It is always a big challenge for me to write these little notes because I just want to get right to all of this incredible work. However, I will celebrate our accomplishment by giving a quick outline of what we did this year. First, with a wish to make outreach as safe and effective as possible, we made a Welcome to Manuscript video to (virtually) spread around the Wilkes campus. This was so much fun to make and I believe I can speak for all of us when I say that watching ourselves on camera was one of the hardest things we have ever done. We made a similar video for Banned Books Week in which we expressed that Banned Books authors’ voices never should have been silenced and neither should ours. We used this opportunity to encourage the Wilkes community to share their voices by voting in the extremely important, monumental 2020 election. Also, for the first time, we produced two editions of The Manuscript. When I became Executive Editor, I wanted to use this literary magazine as a platform for Wilkes University’s students to release, to be heard, to be read. That is why we decided to put out a digital edition of Manuscript in support of Black History Month and in allyship of Black Lives Matter. A polished compilation of poetry, art, short essay, and prose that showcased Black voices would be able to be spread around campus and beyond. The submissions we received were incredibly beautiful and we were grateful to have published them. And finally, this Spring edition! The theme is “New Beginnings” because this past year and almost-a-half has reminded us how little control we may have over our surroundings, our health, our government, and our very lives. Many of us pray to start over, many may pray for it to end, and all of us are doing our best with all the wishes in-between, and so we give you this �edition. Art, poetry, prose, the like—I’d like to call these musings new beginnings to a new hope. I neglect to call this a “new normal” because we are forever adapting to whatever life throws at us and many of us have struggled with loss, accomplishment, grief, joy, and all that have changed us even before the pandemic. We have all adjusted to a new normal at some point. So, let’s throw “normal” away. Let this edition bring in a fresh start to whatever our story may be, the ones that lie in the short stories, artwork, and poetic verse. Let’s start anew. Thank you to all that submitted and to all that made this issue possible. Executive Editor Sarah Weynand �TABLE OF CONTENTS First Love - Sam Burgess, Jr. Pg. 12 You’ll Remember Me - Caitlyn Bly Pg. 13 What She Left - Lydia Poer Pgs. 14-15 Gravedigger’s Faith - Sean Schmoyer Pg. 16 Intrusive Thoughts - Darren Martinez Pg. 17 As Is Life - Emily Cherkauskas Pg. 18 philia - jay guziewicz Pg. 19 I Talked to Icarus - Genny Frederick Pg. 20 Light in the Time of Coronavirus - Chad Stanley Pg. 21 Ninak - Sheylah Silva Pg. 22 Vulture - William Farnelli Pg. 23 The Ultimate Insult - William Billingsley Pgs. 24-27 A Lovely Murder - Sean Schmoyer Pg. 28 What Can I Do - Sam Burgess, Jr. Pg. 29 Thinks - Darren Martinez Pgs. 30-31 Mother Nature - Sarah Weynand Pgs. 32-33 My Body Will Never Be Your Home - Caitlyn Bly Pg. 34 �TABLE OF CONTENTS Yani - Ana Perez Pg. 35 Tempest - William Billingsley Pgs. 36-37 Solitary - Lydia Poer Pgs. 38-39 arin means exalted - jay guziewicz Pg. 40 Warrior’s Way - Sean Schmoyer Pg. 41 Mama Pearl - Sam Burgess, Jr. Pgs. 41-44 Window - Emily Cherkauskas Pg. 45 Medicine for the Uncertain Mind - Sheylah Silva Pg. 46 Sunset City - Caitlyn Bly Pg. 47 The Waves of Anxiety - Breanna Ebisch Pg. 48 Parasites - Darren Martinez Pg. 49 August 2020 - Chad Stanley Pgs. 49-50 A Story Most Foul - William Billingsley Pgs. 51-58 Soulmates - Genny Frederick Pg. 59 We Will Serve the Lord - Sam Burgess, Jr. Pg. 60 i learned more from shonda rhimes then i ever would from henry grey - jay guziewicz Pg. 61 Matinee - Lydia Poer Pgs. 62-63 �TABLE OF CONTENTS Love Me in All the Ways My Grandfather Has Loved My Grandmother - Caitlyn Bly Pg. 64 Paraiso En El Caribe - Ana Perez Pg. 65 Browsing Steam on a February Evening Instead of Writing a Paper Due Tomorrow - Darren Martinez Pgs. 66-67 I Swear - Caitlyn Bly The Visit - Sam Burgess, Jr. Pg. 68 Pgs. 69-70 Shake, Sit, Shake, Sip, Swallow, Sit, I promise I’m Sane in the End - Sean Schmoyer Pg. 71 thomas aquinas taught me well - jay guziewicz Pg. 72 Rise - Emily Cherkauskas Pg. 73 Put the Pen Down - Sean Schmoyer Pg. 73 Invitation (snippet) - Mary Oliver Cover ��First Love - Sam Burgess, Jr. When first love came, he stole my heart, and took my breath away. He swore to me we’d never part, until our dying day. It was a fairy tale romance, My prince had come for me. On big white horse with stately prance, For all the world to see. There was no mountain top too high, No sea too deep for him. To rescue me he’d climb the sky, And many miles he’d swim. But love was lost and feelings fade, As fairy tales oft’ do. Through destiny our lives are made, A foregone plan, that’s true. Though years have passed, since we did part, I can’t forget the day. When first love came and stole my heart, He took my breath away. 12 �You’ll Remember Me - Caitlyn Bly You’ll smell me in the day From all the flowers your nose will come across You’ll see me on the horizon The bird with its wings stretched free You’ll hear me in the dark grass The cricket chirp of a symphony You’ll miss me in the morning When you sip your bitter coffee Knowing that no more sugar is left to fill your cup 13 �What She Left - Lydia Poer The first time you saw a dead animal, you couldn’t look away. You knew that as a small, impressionable young girl, you should be reeling away from it, fainting, screaming, but what you did was stare at its small, gored body, innards laid out on the cold concrete, waiting to be stepped on. Hand still grasped on the garage door, you dragged your gaze up to your cat, who was sitting proudly with her paws placed primly in front of her, waiting for you to accept her gift. The fur on her face was pristinely white. You carefully placed your foot on the other side of it, giving the dead mouse its space in death. You scooped up your cat, walked out of the garage, around the house, and went back inside through the backdoor. You didn’t tell your dad it was there because you felt like you were going to get in trouble. She was your cat, after all. You left it there, and when your brother almost stepped on it later and called for you to look at it, you reacted the way you were supposed to. The day after your senior prom, you woke up from a nap after spending the night at your friend’s house, the chlorine smell of her pool still trapped in your hair. You glanced down over the edge of the bed, seeing your cat’s curled spine pressed against the wall, right underneath where you had been sleeping. You stared at her for a beat, a habit you adopted as she got older and older, waiting for her chest to rise just briefly before falling back down. You moved quickly, flinging your legs over the bed, falling to your knees, shoving the side table away. She didn’t budge. Her fur was smooth all but one spot, where one of the dogs had nudged her. You remember having to tell yourself to cry, to show what you were losing after fifteen years. You did not touch her, although now you wish you had, one last 14 �time, but you’re also afraid of how cold she would have been. You leapt from your floor and ran to your dad. He saw you sobbing, and you had to tell him that she was under the bed and she wouldn’t move. You watched from the windows as he went inside and when he came back out, he was carrying a trash bag, cradled in his arms. 15 �Gravedigger’s Faith - Sean Schmoyer The giant walks forward on a sacred quest, Bestowed by a god who cherishes the dead, Putting the lives that were lost to rest. A silent prayer to his ghostly crest, His tribe gone like a severed thread, The giant walks forward on a sacred quest. Heroes welcome him to be their guest, He joins them and takes a tyrant’s head, Putting the lives that were lost to rest. With magic light, he cures on request, Easing the worries of those filled with dread, The giant walks forward on a sacred quest. He learns that feelings should be expressed, Though a loner he starts to trust others instead, Putting the lives that were lost to rest. The god shows signs that he is impressed, Still, it is known that death is widespread, The giant walks forward on a sacred quest, Putting the lives that were lost to rest. 16 �Instrusive Thoughts - Darren Martinez english class nestled in room 300-something a sunny, warm room with a fireplace, never used thought of tossing themself through the kaleidoscope in the middle of stairs delicate, little intrusive thought ghost pains of tibia and fibula tearing through the flesh of the knee the crunch, baked into a splat ensuing scream, from a passerby or other the thoughts begin to ask them questions. Would you die? Maybe you’d make it to the hospital. Do you think the class would miss you? I would. they’re answering their own questions heehee hoohoo charming little sprites, aren’t they? 17 �As Is Life - Emily Cherkauskas 18 �philia - jay guziewicz i am not used to this. i am not used to being listened to to sharing things, instead of holding everything, the mother who watches as her children board a rollercoaster but never climbs on herself. i sit in the back seat, silent, holding my tongue from biting insults while i get called a fucking bitch by someone who once wanted to call me theirs. i am not used to this, so i am sorry if i don’t have the right words to say, or if i apologize too much, or if i expect too much. but i hope you know, everytime i tell you i care, i mean it. heart is so full of a love i’ve never been allowed to experienced before now, and how can i say anything but thank you. 19 �I Talked to Icarus - Genny Fredrick I talked to Icarus on a beach one time. He was younger than I remembered. Funny thing is he didn’t remember his death much. Told me the wax felt kind of nice dripping off his arms. The water and waves reflected well too. It was a dream of course, but after I heard him say that I never was scared of death. I was 15 then, and by the time I turned 17 I was still resistant to its fear mongering. Death was as normal as life. When you were sitting in your mom’s uterus floating around in embryonic fluid you didn’t think of what was coming next. You just sat there growing and changing and listening and feeling and when you popped out, you screamed a little then you were cool. I wasn’t gonna spend my whole life worrying about death, I was gonna scream when I got there then I’d be okay. I hated the classics. We spend years of our life reading what people have read for years. Thesis’s were built on ideas, that were discussed in classrooms, that were written about in books, that were shared by firelight, and still we think that we can come up with a new way to address tragedy. That was the most human thing of all, expecting we can do better when better isn’t even real. 20 �Light in the Time of Coronavirus - Chad Stanley So supposing, We hit the body with light. And I think you said, That hadn’t been checked Because of the testing. And then I said, Supposing you brought the light Inside the body. And I think you said, You’re going to test that Too. 21 �Ninak - Sheylah Silva I asked where you had gone, and you said the stars in my deep brown eyes. I told you to take my hand, wading into the dark: descending to the ocean floor. I lay there alone in the sand, in the salt staring up at the moon’s strange face. I conjure these notions of mine, naming them under the stars wondering if I am looking into my very soul. I have built a home inside my heart; and I will live there, forever. 22 �Vulture - William Farnelli In my mind, the question sounds: Why do you smile when I am around? Do the songs that fall from the sky Distract you from the pain in your side? I’d kiss you if it wouldn’t burn my lips, The face that could destroy a thousand ships, And still, I dream of the scars on your torso As the cracks on your plinth slowly dance a calypso. And if one day your chains are let loose, Or rusted away by the ocean’s abuse, Would you fly with me to where bones lie to dry, Halfway between the sand and the sky? “Put honey and yeast in a keg for me,” Far sweeter the nectar than the sting of the bee. Carry on, carry on, Carry on, carry on. Are we limited by the tools we employ To only accept organs we can enjoy? If only we had a body to spare That could endure this wear and tear. In your black eyes, I find the Sublime, Enough to make me fear at times That I stole your liver and you stole my heart, A curse from the beak that tears you apart. Would having a heart really be a disgrace For a harpy without a human face? “Put Nobody at the helm again,” I’d rather be no one than have the wrong name. Carrion, carrion, Carrion, carrion. 23 �The Ultimate Insult - William Billingsley History tells us of an insult so powerful, it could kill a man where he stood. Throughout history, this insult went by many different names. But at some point during the last hundred years, knowledge of that accursed insult’s deathly words suddenly vanished from the historical record. And today, only a few historians speak in hushed tones about the mythical ‘Ultimate Insult’ and the power it commanded throughout history. But very few take the claims seriously, and those who get too close to the truth are allegedly never heard from again. So goes the legend, of which I would have very much liked absolutely no part of. But my grandpa Maximillian’s dying wish was for me to finally get to the bottom of all this. Why did the Insult disappear? When was it used last? Would the Insult still be as potent as it was a century ago? These were all questions that he bade me investigate. And normally, I would not have bothered, if it weren’t for the fact of how close our families were or this exceptionally enigmatic map that he secretly handed to me on his deathbed. The map was arcane in every sense of the word. The area shown in the map was vague, to say the least. It was a top-down perspective of some village or other— utterly useless without knowing where the map originated from. Even with weeks of research through various mapping tools and satellite data, I was no closer to the answer. Frustrated, I then decided to explore what language or cypher existed on the map itself. It was nothing that I had ever seen in my time, but I was faced with a serious dilemma: should I divulge my quest to anyone else? Was my grandpa’s fear about those who got too close to the Insult actually true? Would I be silenced too? Better to be safe than silenced, I suppose. In order to ensure my own safety, I looked for a public place that I could remotely upload pictures of the text to various websites via flash 24 �drive. However, it was important that this public place also not have very many cameras, as camera logs would certainly be checked if my upload aroused any undue attention. And once identified, that’d be it. Game over. After some searching, I eventually found a newish internet café that had just been set up in a safe part of town. Better yet, they had public booths that would limit how traceable my upload might be. So after scanning the text portions of my map (there’d be no point in uploading the entire map, as it might encourage others to complete my quest for me), I went to the café and uploaded it onto various forums and websites, not really expecting anything. Still, I asked any interested parties to email me at a throwaway email address. Of course, I used a VPN to cover my tracks when I checked that email address too. Weeks went by, and all I received was the usual: junk emails with the occasional edgelord chiming in about the images. On a cautious whim, I decided to return to the café where I had first conducted the upload. And as I parked across the street, I was suddenly hit with a massive bout of apprehension and terror. Not knowing what was going on, I decided to make a swift exit, driving out of the parking lot. To my sudden horror, I saw three armored vans swarm out in front of the café, with roughly a dozen armed men wearing body armor and plainclothes rapidly jumping out the back. Armed with a ridiculous complement of accessories on their assault rifles, they methodologically stormed all of the entrances to the café. Gunfire could be heard, though I know not if they were killed or merely threatened. But in not knowing whether I would be pursued for witnessing this brazen black op in broad daylight, I kept driving. I foolishly had the map tucked inside a hidden area in the car (the glove compartment), but I had to assume that I did not have long. The best-case scenario would be that they weren’t onto me at all. But the worst-case? I had hours, tops. 25 �And so, I stayed on the highway for hours, finally stopping at a gas station for much needed fuel and food. I didn’t think I was followed, but being that the whole point of following someone is to remain undetected, I didn’t want to make any assumptions that would put an early end to my quest. And then my phone chimed in with a new email notification: “LEAVE NOW.” Not needing any more of a warning than that, I immediately left the station. Much like with the café, vans and helicopters soon descended on the station, blocking all of the exits. Shit. I really was being tracked. But how? Why? And who was behind that mysterious tip? A new email arrived: “PULL OVER.” Normally, complying with this would also be a poor decision, but again, if the choice was to be interrogated, silenced, or seeing where this third path led me, it was an easy choice. I found a spot a few miles down the highway and pulled over near a quiet stretch of forest. After a few agonizing minutes of listening to the cars roar by, I received a new email: “ENTER THE WOODS. BRING THE MAP.” As I recovered the map and walked over to the woods immediately adjacent to the highway, I heard a faint whirring sound from above, just seconds before what used to be my car exploded. Looking away from the wreckage of my baby, I resumed my sojourn into the woods. Or rather, I would have, if I were not immediately clubbed as soon as I turned back around. *** I woke up some time later on a strange horse-drawn cart in an unfamiliar snowy locale. My hands were bound, and there was another horse-drawn cart ahead of us on the dirt path. “Hey, you,” a ragged man in front of me cryptically said. Like mine, his hands were similarly bound. Oh no, I thought. 26 � “You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right?” he said with a gravelly tone of voice that belied his somber awareness of his surroundings. Perhaps he knew. I was speechless. I cast my gaze towards the sky, searching frantically among the rim for something, anything that would dispel this cruel illusion. I was trapped. 27 �A Lovely Murder - Sean Schmoyer His Love A dagger A dagger My heart it now bleeds A wound A wound He has Done To me Sharp Oh how Sharp Blood I see My heart Yes My heart Oh yes I see I see Oh yes My Heart It bleeds My Broken Heart bleed I see I now am A fool My Wound My Wound He Has S lain Me A Lover A Criminal A Murderer You See Was So Deeply In Love That He Has Killed Yes Me 28 �What Can I Do - Sam Burgess, Jr. I’m just a child, What can I do, about the world today? I’m only eight, I can’t relate, Don’t know the words to say. To those who are in power, Who lead us every day. How can I make them listen, How can I make them pray? To our great God, that he end, All wars and poverty. All illness and pollution, Of land, air and sea. They all should stop and listen, This world is in decline. I’m only eight, and I pray to God, That I live to see age nine. 29 �thinks - Darren Martinez im searching for an original thought. if I dig far enough in my every orifice, perhaps I will find something thoughts pass me by, enveloped in a haze of a thousand hybrid cars for a glimpse, occupied with the consecutive thought; What shall I eat for dinner? It’s an essay question. written on my arm, a thousand different answers. cut like runic symbols, still fresh with thin blood starve. order the same pizza you’ve had thrice this week. eat the chocolate pretzels you stole from the convenience store for breakfast, lunch, brunch, linner, and dinner. the sweat gloves cannot grip the pen, the mediator looms over my shoulder Cheating, are we? that wasn’t such a difficult question. come, eat dinner with your family and there she goes. next thought. if you cannot eat, you must love. it sneers at me from below the crank window you’re all filled with objects! so filled! and yet, you cannot think. you’re cold as ice your flesh is burned inside out the postman lost your address, giving your mail to the sweet old lady 30 �that lives next door. why not try to love, . shake that one off, will you? c’mon champ, don’t let it get you down. we’ve got to go deeper still here the thoughts are more primal they snarl, grinding up your artefacts ahh, broken brakes. the sole bane of humanity. come so far, built so much, thought a thousand thinks you’re broken. undeniably. thanks doctor. can he be fixed? why, no who would trade a brain in the wretch for a slug on the street salted, squirming slit his throat while the anesthesia grips his heart he’s probably happier in there 31 �Mother Nature - Sarah Weynand I treasure your birth of tulips and oak, of emerald leaves and sparkling waters; your tender caress of the ocean, your fingers circling about in its depths like you would a sweetheart’s hand, sweeps bikini girls under waves, and your rumbling moans bring us thunder, nails gripping the silk beneath you as your lover leaves sparks with his lips on your collarbone— your choked whisper cracks like lightning and your afterglow cardinal cheeks grant us sunrise. But you are also composer of spiders, snakes, scorpions, who hold us down and cover our mouths as their venom destroys our petals. they wrap us with silk and their smooth bodies hold us and hold us as if they starved for us and sting us with a shrug, when their zip their jeans back up and wipe the blood from their knuckles. it’s in their nature. But if it’s their nature 32 �and you are their mother, how could you let this happen? How could you spoil us with such pleasures and turn your cheek to those who abuse us for them? 33 �My Body Will Never Be Your Home - Caitlyn Bly I can feel your eyes examining me Acting like my body is for sale My chest tightens The thought of disappearing invades my soul Like an insect under a microscope, I am left exposed Here I am completely clothed But in your mind disrobed Your seemingly innocent smile pierces my very being Do not undress me with your eyes Do not ravage me in your immoral mind For my body is not yours to take My body can not be bought nor sold Do not look at me with those unholy eyes My body shall never be your home 34 �Yani - Ana Perez 35 �Tempest - William Billingsley A solitary gale through the moonlit forest, between sleeping oaks, slumbering deer, and past waters of the lake. Along the water’s edge, another arrives, cast out of heaven, and left for dead. Stirred by the wind, she stands up, steadies herself, and leaves the forest. But weaving their grim tapestry, the three Fates are not yet finished, and ever-greater torments await her. A fell wind through the night forest, between twisting canopy, owls on the wing, and over torpid waters. Along the water’s edge, she finds herself, exiled once more— alone again in the abyss. Unyielding, she stands up, staggers out of the forest, and the cycle repeats. 36 �The wheel turns and turns, and once again, she washes ashore— but she does not stand. A familiar gust through the crimson forest, under that oak firmament, among the bodies on the shore— but she does not move. Once more, that gust sweeps through the forest, under the canopy, through the underbrush, and along the lake— and at last, her eyes open. By now, she surely knows, that in leaving the forest, her return is inevitable. But to remain is to embrace oblivion, to surrender to that dark tapestry. So she must stand, no matter what reckonings await her, and leave the forest. Once more, that fleeting tempest cuts through the smoky forest, under burning canopy, over the captive lake, and those who would not stir, guiding her out of the inferno. 37 �Solitary - Lydia Poer It’ll hit me randomly that I’m really alone, not like when I’m by myself in my room (but also like that) but that I’ve never had a boyfriend or a girlfriend or a partner or whatever they want to be called – besides my theater teacher’s son from freshman year of high school who I broke up with after three months, but he’s married to a nice, lovely girl and besides, who counts those short, short relationships? – so sometimes I’ll lay in bed at night and wonder what it would be like to stand in a kitchen with someone next to me helping me chop vegetables for a meal we bought the groceries for together and are making together and will eat together and what it would feel like to stand side by side, barefoot on cold tile, the windows open to let in the warm summer evening air, while they stir something in a pot while I push something around in a pan and then after we would put off doing the dishes so we could watch just a little bit more of the movie I’ve been wanting to see but haven’t had the guts to face alone and even now, I remember what it was like to hold his hand even if it was saturated with fourteen-year-old awkwardness and how he didn’t laugh at me with our friends when I cried at X-men twice, but I wonder what would it be to hold someone else’s hand and get to be in a relationship now that I’m older and would like to say wiser and have better stories to tell because we probably won’t run in the same circles and therefore I can meet even more new people through this stranger who’s just a shadowy silhouette in my head that’s just out of my reach even when I imagine them sitting in the passenger’s seat as I drive home for the weekend or across from me when I’m eating lunch or walking next to me on my way to class and trust me, I’m well acquainted with being alone because it’s been my state of being my entire life, even during those three months, but even though I can’t remember anyone looking 38 �my way, doing a double-take, or seeking me out and it’s hard to consider being together, I imagine what it would be like to put my number on that guy from my friend’s class’s car on a premeditated whim and what it would be like if he called and asked if I wanted to go somewhere, and I’m thinking this as I sit typing in my pajamas, the only other sound being the tinny music lifting out of my computer’s speakers, and that it’s like he only crosses my path when I don’t have time to stop and change my course and then the dull ache will start because I don’t really want to be alone right now. 39 �arin means exalted - jay guziewicz you are poisoned water, the stream I’ve been drinking from for months. the stream that has my insides rotting away, and my teeth decaying, and I know that I should stop taking sips from you, but you say you are clean and you cool my parched throat, and I am just a silly little girl with a god complex who craves the power that you threaten to give me. 40 �Warrior’s Way - Sean Schmoyer Boats rock on the waves Wounded men search every day Seeking one last grave Mama Pearl - Sam Burgess, Jr. Deep in the woods of Tennessee, once did a Midwife live. With gifted hands she healed for free, and endless love she’d give. They called this woman Mama Pearl, and not one Mom to be. Would give birth to a boy or girl, unless Mom Pearl could see, Their life begin upon this earth, with gentle tender touch. She’d christen every precious birth, each one she loved so much. The year was nineteen sixty-four, and one hot summer day. A northern friend came to Mom’s door, here’s what he had to say. “My wife has run away on me, she’s with another man. My child needs constant care cause he, can’t walk as others can. 41 �He’s four years old and he was born, with a deformity. Within six months my son will mourn, my death because you see. I’ve only six more months to live, as cancer’s come to claim. My life, and I am here to give, lil’ Charles and it’s my aim. To have you love and care for him, as you are known to do. And when my final light is dim, my conscience will be true.” “I’ll take your child and give him love, as God will be my guide. He sends his guidance from above, he’s always by my side” Mom rubbed Charles’ fragile legs at night, and then to him she’d say. “Through God’s power and His might, you’re gonna walk one day.” She had her sons pick up the boy, and carry him to springs. Where water therapy brought joy, while pretty robins sing. Melodic music sweet and pure, rhapsodic harmony. By now Lil Charles was very sure, that his new family. 42 �Loved him as though he were their own, yet, Charles would have his doubt. When Mom would smile as she was known, to do at times and shout. “You’re gonna walk one day lil man, when? God will let us know. You must believe and think you can, and on your way, you’ll go.” One day when Charles was nearly eight, it was the first of May. Mom said to him, “It’s getting late, come child, this is the day.” “Come on now Honey, walk to me, that’s all you have to do. The love of God will set you free, it’s now all up to you.” Said Charles to Mom, “Look at my legs, you know I cannot walk. Sometimes they feel like wooden pegs, but every time you talk. You give me confidence and I, will give it all I’ve got. So now I’ll stand and even try, to walk, though like a tot. If I should fall, I’ll try again, you’ve always preached to me. That if at first, I did not win, another try would be. 43 �The proper course that I should take, because the Lord above. Has shown that He will not forsake, those seeking His true love.” The little boy stood on his feet, and looked Mom in the eye. What took place next was hard to beat, it made all present cry. He struggled with each little step, determined look on face. Great Kings of Egypt would have wept, had they been in the place. It seemed as though the Angels sang, the sky was clear and blue. The bells in Heaven even rang, a heart rendering view. At last, he fell into Mom’s chest, about four feet away. They held each other and the rest, mere words cannot convey. It took Charles several months before, he walked with normalcy. His would become a tale of lore, a sight for all to see. Mom passed away in eighty-eight, in peace she left this world. Now souls beyond the Pearly Gate, are healed by Mama Pearl. 44 �Window - Emily Cherkauskas 45 �Medicine for the Uncertain Mind - Sheylah Silva Hot like brush fire, we run through the land whose abundant voice calls us further through the steps of many ancestors. The wood engulfs us in the close and quiet love you find between shaded trees. Aglow in the dim, you then become the moon: shining seemingly from within finally turning back to gaze at me. Selfishly, I would keep you on earth with me – if I could plant your feet in the ground in hopes you might take root and rise into the sky gradually, over time. Until then, look down at me lovingly, here on the mossy ground. For I am small and true and yours, nourished by the dead things you hold inside. 46 �Sunset City - Caitlyn Bly The daylight sparkles in the sky Allowing my body to experience a high The golden hour of life Piercing my body like a knife Satisfaction takes over my soul But soon the sun will set and my chest will no longer feel whole I only spend my days in Sunset City Hopping between these walls of happiness and pity There are chains wrapped around my feet When dusk dissipates, I am overcome with defeat My bones start to ache While my heart breaks Wishing for my sun Waiting for the dawn to come I only spend my days in Sunset City Hopping between the walls of happiness and pity The sun soon awakes And the rope around my frame breaks Blackness no longer lurks instead, brightness sparks The petals of the flower within me unfolds Leaving me with colors bright and bold I survived the night And now better days are in sight Although I only spend my days in Sunset City Endlessly hopping between the walls of happiness and pity I know the sun will always rise And no matter how much darkness I will continue to thrive 47 �The Waves of Anxiety - Breanna Ebisch Take a deep breath, they say. Inhale. Exhale. Count. Everything will be okay, they say. How do they know the constant battle being fought in my mind? Heart racing. Short breaths. Foggy thoughts. Lost in the convincing but untrue statements. Buried under too many emotions. I am better than this, why can’t I be better? Panic sets in. Hands shaking. Tears falling. World crumbling. When will it stop? Please make it stop. The hysterics come to an end only to be replaced by guilt, disgust, unhappiness. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. The war is over for now. Take a deep breath, they say. Inhale. Exhale. Count. Everything will be okay, they say. Will I believe it this time? 48 �parasites - Darren Martinez bitter, flea-bitten dog dies defending a stale piece of bread with 1, 2, 3 maggots inside August 2020 - Chad Stanley Was this your celebrated summertime? Was this your celebrated summertime? Was this our celebrated summertime? --Husker Du This was not our celebrated summer. Not by or for the packs of feral children on bikes, Shouting defiance at drivers, Tearing bark off of trees, Hoarding snacks. Not for or by neighbors snorting trance at 3am, Blasting coke so loud to wake up half the town (it was a boat offshore, some said, On Facebook). Not for dads by rucking heavy YETIs, full ‘n frosty, To the beach. Not by moms for leasing ponies so critters could canter, In secret. 49 �Down sunlit streets dark cars with darker windows Move slowly, every day, Cruising rentals or houses up for quick sale; Their trunks: filled with cash. An actor is spotted at a gas station (getting gas). It escalates quickly. Instagram goes wild and High-end taco bars are mentioned. No, this was not our celebrated summer, but Of all of all our summers, Was not equally uncelebrated. Where it should have been uncelebrated equally, It was celebrated unequally; Uncelebrated unequally. My summer was split like a clavicle Snapped by the strap of a cooler. Which marked, on my body, my privilege, To set, like a fracture, in my bones. Bones that, unlike others, Heal and still live. This was not a summer to celebrate. This was not a summer to have celebrated. This was a summer to have not celebrated. This was a summer to uncelebrate, And remember. Summertime is always, always on your mind. Summertime is always, always on your mind. Summertime is always, always on our mind. --Husker Du 50 �A Story Most Foul - William Billingsley Once upon a time, it all started when I was born. Fast forward to the day of my seventh birthday. I was going to be seven in a few scant hours. I was seven. Life was good. Or so I thought. No, this isn’t dramatic foreshadowing of any sinister event. This isn’t that kind of story. No, it was at my seventh birthday party that my parents opted to surprise me with something I could have never expected. You know, because I was seven. Because it was my birthday, I was allowed to stay home from school for the day, which was always okay with me. I was able to sleep in and ruin my circadian rhythm just a bit (but it’s not like I knew what that was anyway when I was seven). After that, I went up the hill behind our house and into the woods for several hours playing with whatever woodland critters I could find. As it turns out, those woodland critters were very fast. And did not want to play. My memory of exactly what animals I saw while I was playing in the woods escapes me, but I probably saw a deer. I definitely also saw a bunny. My parents never believed me, but I swore I saw a bear. For some reason, the details were always a little fuzzy. I never did see that bear again. I hope he’s doing well. Nonetheless, I eventually returned home around noon. And I was starving. I was ravenous. It had been quite literally, forever, since I had my last meal. So I cried out to my parents, who had stayed home for the day. You know, because it was my birthday. And I asked them what was for lunch. To my utter horror, they said nothing. No lunch? This was inconceivable. It could not be. It must have been some cruel joke. With my developing mind still calculating the ramifications of no lunch, I asked again. No response, but this time they looked at each other in unison. In retrospect, this part was a little weird. Oh well. So I asked a third time, my hunger gnawing at my very bones like a rat in a bucket in one of those old torture methods. And it was 51 �On this third request that they told me that they were still making my birthday meal and that it was absolutely a secret. Well, telling any seven-year-old that they have some great meal surprise waiting for them is definitely not something you want to tell them if you have any expectation of secrecy. My parents should have definitely given me some generic-branded animal crackers and sent me on my way out of the house. But, they did not. But they did insist I go back into the outside world and play for a few more hours. Begrudgingly, I did. On my way out, my parents assured me that this birthday meal would be ‘to die for’. While again in retrospect, this might be a red flag and particularly ominous, a seven-year-old is not going to be able to ascertain any kind of malicious intent behind anyone’s words. Unless like, they were comically evil. But even then, if your parents were villains, would you be keyed into that knowledge too? Or would you be utterly unawares? Anyway, like I said at the beginning, this isn’t that kind of story. So I entered the breach once more, fearless (and starving). Seriously, if seven-year-old me knew how to hunt and had the means to do so, I would have spent hours trying to catch a rabbit. And if I had been so lucky to actually hunt one successfully in that alternate timeline, I would have absolutely been hit with the existential quagmire that is the value of life. I would have pondered that rabbit’s sacrifice for hours in the corner of the woods. Should I have killed it? What would I have done once I killed it? I didn’t know how to skin a rabbit. I also didn’t know how to cook a rabbit. Or even start a fire for that matter. And once I had finally gotten over the fact that I had slain this poor creature, I’m sure a wolf would have leapt in and stolen my dinner anyway, making the whole endeavor pointless. Sevenyear-old me was not especially good at anticipating the future. And while I did not know how to hunt at seven, I did see a lot of berries and plants that might be edible. And when I say that I was starving at this point, I meant that. So I scaled the hill that sat behind my house and headed back into the tick-infested 52 �woods once more. What else was I to do but wait for my birthday meal and subsequent presents? This time, however, I had brought along my backpack so that I could carry essential food supplies that I would scrounge up in these wild woods behind my house. It was a warm day in late spring, so there were a lot of different varieties of plant life out and about. But good luck trying to convince starving seven-year-old me that eating anything in these forlorn woods was a bad idea. After all, I was hungry. And if I didn’t eat something soon, I would undoubtedly and inevitably become hangry. The final form of any child. In that state, a child is not only mostly stoppable, but they’re also very loud. And if there’s one thing people don’t like, it’s loud children. Anyway, so there I was, collecting random assortments of plants from the woods. I started by collecting some berries of the blue variety. My parents had bought blueberries before, but these berries were of a brighter hue. After all, if apples can be red OR green, why can’t blueberries be two different shades of blue? So I grabbed a few handfuls of these berries and added them to my pack. And though I was rather famished at this moment in time, it was not yet time to devour my picked bounty of berries. Nay, even a seven-year-old needs variety in their foraged cuisine. So I sallied forth, my eyes peering as far as they could see in the woods for items that I could eat. Well, as far as my eyes could see, with some old glasses anyway. After a few minutes of searching and light walking, I found my next delicacy: a red mushroom with a white stalk, spackled with white dots. Or was it a white mushroom spackled with red dots? Seven-year-old me cared not. I like to think that I’m still a fun guy, but I can definitely empathize with my younger self for ignoring the duality of mushrooms in his hungerous state. If he had not been so hungry, my younger self would have undoubtedly pondered this matter further. If they were indeed red spots, would they taste differently from the white portions of the mushroom? Or if they were white spots, would they taste differently from the red portions of the mushroom? And what about the stalk? Would that have an 53 �entirely different consistency? Nonetheless, I collected several of these redwhite mushrooms. They proved to be somewhat tricky to locate given the fact that mushrooms do not grow very tall and I could also not see very far as a wee lad. With the mushrooms added to my inventory, I came to realize that my hunger had been escalated to a higher echelon of hunger: hunger pains! As one might expect of a child on any endeavor, I was not very efficient in my foraging. Indeed, several hours had actually passed while I was on my foraging quest. Surely my parents could have finished preparing my birthday meal in these last few hours? With myself fiending for some of the delicacies in my backpack, but encouraged, I went back home. Which, if you’ve been paying attention at all to my story, you should know wasn’t very far from the woods. So I was there in like five minutes tops. Really, it was pretty quick. Nonetheless, I entered through the doorway and found that someone had turned off all the lights at home. The door was unlocked, which was different. My parents would have definitely locked the door if they were going out. Maybe they finished my birthday meal and were out looking for me? But wait, no. That wouldn’t make any sense if both of them had left. Maybe my dad went out to get some more cigarettes while my mom went towards the woods looking for me? Once again in hindsight, these are all huge red flags. These red flags should have been apparent to any normal-functioning adult. But seven-year-old me was not one of those adults. So I just turned the lights on and scanned the living room. Nothing was really out of the ordinary. Then, I looked over at the kitchen and saw…My parents? Still standing there at the kitchen counter like they had been several hours ago? In typical parenting fashion, my parents simply smiled and waved at their dear boy. Now, I know what you’re thinking: that my younger self was in for a bad time and should have bailed a long time ago out of this story. But what was I to do? They were my parents, and I was hungry, dammit. It was either whatever they 54 �made for my birthday or my foraged foodstuffs. Besides, it was my birthday! What could possibly go amiss? And like I keep telling you, this isn’t that kind of story. Undaunted, I triumphantly walked into the kitchen area. I set my bag down on the table and told them about the berries and mushrooms I had found. Again, they warmly smiled at me as I recanted my second woodland expedition to them. Of course, my expedition’s exposition was all for a singular goal: my birthday meal. I knew this. And my parents definitely knew this. Probably because my stomach growling at that point had become something fierce. It had actually gotten so loud that it caused me to double over in an effort to minimize the sound. Otherwise? I would have never been able to tell my story over that racket. But through some further perseverance and grit, I finished my story as if it were my magnum opus for life. And so, I asked them if they had finished my birthday dinner yet. No response. So I asked again. After a pause, they looked at each other, again in unison. My hungry eyes darted between them as they held their silent stare for several seconds too long. Or, if I knew better, it would be too long. Determined (and hungry), I asked a third time. Their gazes immediately darted back towards me as I repeated my request. With a simple head nod to me and to each other, my mom headed for the living room and my dad approached the fridge. Excited, I hurriedly sat in my chair with great anticipation. And then my mom shut off the lights. My dad’s footsteps approached the fridge. Then, nothing. The anticipation was killing me. But as I began growing anxious, my dad opened the fridge, casting him in an ominous yellow light as he retrieved a plate. Given my short stature at the time, I was unfortunately unable to ascertain what shape my meal might be. Was it a cake like my friends at school had raved about every year? Or maybe a single oatmeal raisin cookie, like the one I got last year? I still remember that meal. I think it was the best cookie I had ever had. 55 � But enough of those halcyon days, I wanted to eat my birthday dinner in the now, not devour my memory of last year’s. As I waited in the darkness, my dad’s footsteps began approaching the table in a measured fashion. As he did that, my mom began locking up our five locks on the door. It was some arcane contraption of deadbolts, chains, and even included a customized 2x4 propped up against the doorknob. What can I say? My parents like to have peace of mind. After all, you never know who’s gonna kick down your front door. Now you’re probably thinking about the windows in my house or some such. But let me assure you that you needn’t worry about if we had secured our windows in a similar manner. This is because my parents sealed up all the windows from the inside, so that it only appears like we have windows. This way, they claimed, would allow my parents to not be disturbed by the morning sun. After all, who was seven-year-old me to argue? Anyway, my trepidation was especially evident as my dad approached the table. He set the plate down and began fumbling around for something. I waited patiently, hopefully with a full complement of silverware on the table in front of me. As my dad found the object he was looking for, my mom returned from the front door and stood behind me, still seated. She quietly placed her hands over my eyes. I heard a scratching sound from my dad’s direction. Scritch. Scritch. Scritchach. A small flame had roared to life and a small amount of smoke had filled my nostrils. At the same time, I heard the plate of destiny being placed right in front of me. Without a word, my mom lifted her hands and bade me to open the dish cover. In the dim candlelight, with both of my parents sitting quietly next to me, my dinner had finally arrived. It was a new dish covering, so there was no way to peer inside without removing it. I looked at my parents again, their gaze ever fixated on me. Or was it my 56 �dinner? Did they want some too? I asked if they were going to partake in my meal. No no, they said, this one was for my birthday. As such, I should be the one to eat it. That sounded good enough to me. Thus, the moment was finally at hand. My dinner. Whatever mysterious cuisine or delicacy it was, it would assuredly be devoured by me in a heartbeat. Unless like, it was broccoli or something. But I’m sure my parents wouldn’t do that to me. Would they? That would be a cruel joke, carried out by only the most nefarious of parents. And after all of this waiting and adventure, surely my parents would reward me in a just manner? So I reached for the dish cover, hands trembling. Whether they were from genuine excitement or as a side effect of my hunger pains, I know not. But nonetheless, I began to lift up the dish cover with all of my measured might. After all, I wouldn’t want to break something as treasured as this dish cover. But as I lifted, the candle was suddenly snuffed out. My dad suddenly stood up. Apparently he had not been expecting this development, because he knocked over the box of matches onto the ground. He began fumbling around for the box and the matches. I set the dish cover back down on the plate. I started to leave my chair to go help my dad, but my mom firmly set her hand on my shoulder. Getting the message, I patiently waited for my dad as he gathered as many matches as he could. So alone I sat, my stomach growling evermore. And at the last, he stood up and began to light another match. Somewhat unbalanced by the night’s sudden developments, my dad took a few more attempts to get a working match lit, even breaking a few in the process. But once again the dining table was lit by the candle and my birthday dinner could resume. cess. But once again the dining table was lit by the candle and my birthday dinner could resume. And as I lifted the cover off once more and peered at the treasure that lay below, I could hear my parents breathing. I hadn’t noticed them get up, or get so close to me that I could hear them breathe. Alright, I told them. This is weird. I’m going to go eat in my room. As I got up from 57 �my chair to take the mysterious dish into my room (and to the much better lighting), my dad suddenly swatted the dish out of my hands. Being pelted at what must have been light speed, the plate never stood a chance. Neither did whatever delicacy lay beneath. It was gone. Reduced to atoms. And though I was devastated and on the verge of tears, all I could think about was… That this was how you get ants. 58 �Soulmates - Genny Fredrick “But we’re soulmates” “And?” “Don’t you think that means we have to be together” “Have to? We don’t have to do anything. I definitely don’t have to do anything. You think of soulmates as a two-person puzzle and you’re the only person I’ll fit with so I have to, I have to. That’s not what soulmates are. Soulmates are the colors blue and white. They look great in the sky together, make everyone who looks at them feel great too. But the cloth I used to stop the blood running out from under your skin last night was white too. That white rag was full of blood red and it sure made me feel more than the sky ever did. Don’t tell me what I have to do. You might think of me as your white but I sure as hell don’t want my soulmate to be blood red.” 59 �We Will Serve the Lord - Sam Burgess, Jr. He suffered so greatly, so calmly, so long, His purpose was noble, His spirit so strong. The nails pierced His flesh, His tendon, His bone, Though no one was with Him, He was not alone. His blood flowed so freely, upon wooden cross, Our lives now eternal, our souls are not lost. When the spirit did leave Him, the curtain was rent, We know why He died, and why He was sent. He was placed in a tomb that was borrowed not new, On the third day He rose, for me and for you. God so loved this world, after all it had done, That He gave up His child, He gave up His son. We really are blessed, this whole human race, We’re saved by His mercy, His goodness, His grace. I know not how others pursue their reward, As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord. 60 �i learned more from shonda rhimes than i ever would from henry grey - jay guziewicz weeds grow in unexpected places, cracks in the sidewalk or an old pair of shoes, and my love for you grew unexpected, shooting out from the muscle of my heart that i thought was nothing but ash. and i love the ground, solid under my feet, as much as you love the ocean, seaweed wrapping around ankles but i will walk underwater for you as you would climb ashore for me. 61 �Matinee - Lydia Poer I’m going to the movies. This means driving myself, the summer sun tanning my legs through the windshield as I maneuver the streets, going down the long stretch of highway to get to the old theater because the new one is too crowded and I’m loyal. I’m going to the movies. Nobody is with me this time. I want to see this on my own – I want to experience this movie to the fullest, without my uncontrollable need to put my hand on the arm of my friend, without the stress of making sure my leg doesn’t press against my neighbor’s, without having to restrain my feelings as I watch the looming, god-sized figures before me. I keep the ticket that the teenage usher gives me, the paper no longer perforated so the edges are rough and quick. I’m going to the movies. I get a soda and some candy and take my seat. The best seat is either the second or third row from the top, as close to the middle as possible. This is so your head isn’t craned back too far, and you can recline your seat, and you are faced only with the next two hours. Under my breath, I sing along with the jingle that tells me that Haynes has got the car (or truck!) that’s right for me. The movie starts and I put my feet up on the empty seat in front of me. This early in the day, there’s no one around except for the older couple closer to the bottom of the stairs. My jean jacket crawls up toward my ears, the denim rubbing against my jaw. I tell myself multiple times to remember that moment, that one shot that seems so perfect and so beautiful, but it’s forgotten almost as quickly as the next shot that seems so perfect and so beautiful. The movie seems like it’s four hours long, time extending without the sun for reference, lost in the space of the movie, but when I look it up, it’s only a few minutes over two hours. 62 �When I leave the movies, I take my trash with me, the thin pink strip of plastic that I tore away to get to the candy riding home with me in my pocket. When I step outside, the sun wraps its arms around me, and I feel warmer and cozier than I ever have. I take off my jacket and move on. 63 �Love Me in All the Ways My Grandfather has Loved My Grandmother - Caitlyn Bly When we meet Sweep me off my feet When your glance meets mine Promise me a love so divine When it’s time to pick out my ring Do not pick the most expensive bling For no matter how small I’ll always keep it close to my heart From my finger it will never part When it’s late and I can’t sleep Hold my hand and start a conversation so deep And when we find ourselves miles away Write me letters to remind me that our love will stay When it’s time to raise our own Make sure I am not left to do it alone When I am disrespected Make sure you object Come to my defense Speak words so intense That the words of vulgarity will never be spoken to me again And then When I am old and gray Grab my hand and take me away Lead me to the dance floor Sway with me so pure Love me until my last breathe Love me in all the ways I deserve to be loved 64 �Parasio En El Caribe - Ana Perez 65 �browsing steam on a february evening instead of writing a paper due tomorrow - Darren Martinez i found the online profile of someone i’d since cut off in the friends list of a service we both used to frequent a sudden door, hurtling down from on high exploding the terrain. dud warhead, tilling the ground through sheer force of will. the gunpowder’s dried up, packed its bags, went to heaven the door brought about a channel a connection that all at once was bungled, constricted, strangulated, murdered i could feed words through the keyhole twist the knob, type in morse code mend broken relationships with men shattered helm to toe I went to typing and my brain’s suggestive text went as edgy as possible, instantaneously. “I hope regret eats your bones.” No, fuck that. “I earnestly, actually hope you’re happy.” Even if I did, it’s not very believable. words cycled in and out, pedaling those pretty mountain bikes that were too tall to let the rider stand still 66 �four hours later, sweat dripped from my brow. if I hit the same keys my perspiration did I likely would’ve typed a more coherent message I resolved myself, took a deep breath, and unfriended may we meet again in the next chat service 67 �I Swear - Caitlyn Bly I swear some nights I hear god He speaks to me from above While the angels descend down And tap on my windowsill I swear some nights I can reach the stars Float up and grasp them between my fingers The madness explodes in me Like bright colorful fireworks I swear some nights I feel completely alive As if I could never die 68 �The Visit - Sam Burgess, Jr. If you don’t believe in angels, you’ve every conceivable right. But I was cast from my own hells, when one visited me last night. With loving hands, she touched my head, then life became so clear to me. The beauty of her insight led, to feelings of serenity. We talked about the problems that, exist across our troubled earth. I asked her why, during our chat, a person’s life has little worth. As fighting all across the world, persists at such a rapid pace. And since “Old Glory” was unfurled, the loss of life from every race. Has caused more “Moms” than I can count, to mourn the bodies of their sons. She spoke, I felt my comfort mount, I was among the chosen ones. She said, “There soon will come a day, when pain and suffering will cease. All creed and races work and play, there will be everlasting peace”. 69 �“The world must look”, she said to me, “at how young children have behaved. And then it will be plain to see, how man’s existence can be saved”. There was a lovely radiance, that glowed when this supreme one spoke. I felt relaxed, no longer tense, I pinched myself, yes, I was woke. As she continued, I was sure, that somehow this would change my life. She delved into my very core, erasing anger, fear, and strife. Too soon her time came to depart, I thanked her for a precious night. She gave me blessings from her heart, and disappeared towards the light. 70 �Shake, Sit, Shake, Sip, Swallow, Sit, I Promise I’m Sane in the End - Sean Schmoyer Whoops! I forgot my medicine, not where it is, No I forgot to take it-this makes the second day in a row. Surely it is fine, I’m sure I’ll be safe. What’s the worst that happens, My hands continue to shake? M-y h-a-n-d-s continue to shake? Nah that’s nothing, Maybe instead I should be concernedAbout the the way my leg never stops moving, Medicine or not. That’s just me, impatient to a T. Wait it seems I forgot about my anxiety. I think that’s why I take it, I think that’s why I shake? No one can seem to tell me-perhaps it’s my mistake. I should know what’s wrong with me, What’s shaking me to my core. Perhaps it’s my stutter taking a new form. I-I-I, I think that might be it. I’ll take that pill when I get home, I stop shaking my leg, I hope my hands calm down, so - I can write - straight again. My computer says I made an error, but I see no mistake. Perhaps I should get my glasses checked? Perhaps I simply shake my-ss-ss-elf to sleep. That sounds much more peaceful-than putting drugs in me. 71 �thomas aquinas taught me well - jay guziewicz i keep my worry coiled tight around my stomach, a constant throb of pain making sure i wake violently every single night, vomit creeping up the walls of my throat. i keep my grief packed into my heart so it always feels full, so i am always empty, but never feel like it. the cremated ashes of every love letter i’ve ever written seep out of my ventricles and travel around my body, a sickening train to remind me of all the loss i have carried. my lungs fill with my guilt, aspirating the muddy shame every time i breath in, shallow enough so i don’t drown, deep enough to have me coughing up red river clay, staining my hands copper, bloody. my body has become a shrine, organs laid out on the altar i have built out of my own mistakes, tucked along vases of bitter yarrow and pitchers of rubbing alcohol, my own summa theologiae. 72 �Rise - Emily Cherkauskas Put the Pen Down - Sean Schmoyer Proud of your self-growth Fingers ache from weeks of work A final poem 73 �74 �Biographies Ana Perez is Digital Design and Media Art major and is graduating in 2021. She has been reading at least one book a month since 2017. Ashley Wallace is an Editor-at-Large for Manuscript and an English major. Last year, we learned that she had 61 digits of pi memorized. Breanna Ebisch is a junior with a Communication Studies major. Her favorite flowers are sunflowers! Caitlyn Bly is a staff member who is an English (Writing concentration) sophomore and a Nursing freshman! She loves everything Disney. Dr. Chad Stanley is an Associate Professor of English and Writing Center Director at Wilkes, who also paints and writes some things. Darren Martinez is a senior English major. In place of a fun fact, he politely requests that all play Shin Megami Tensei IV for the Nintendo 3DS. Emily Cherkauskas is Manuscript’s Social Media and Photo Editor and Co-Assistant Editor. She is a busy sophomore with majors in Communication Studies and English as well as Creative Writing and Women’s and Gender Studies minors. Food and memes are her love language. Genevieve Frederick is a junior with a Double Major in English and Environmental Science. She really likes Bruce Springsteen, which she thinks is pretty unique for someone who isn’t over 50 years old. 75 �Biographies Haley Katona, Manuscript’s Copy/Art editor and Cover Editor, will be graduating in 2023 with degrees in Political Science and English. Her favorite classical piece is Chopin’s Ballade No. 2, Op. 38. jay guziewicz, a rising senior and Psychology major, is our Layout Editor for both the Black Lives Matter Special Edition and the Spring 2021 edition of Manuscript. Jay occupies its time by working, playing Mortal Kombat, or re-watching the 2021 Mortal Kombat movie. It mains Mileena, if you were curious. Jordyn Williams, a senior at Wilkes, acts as Editor-at-Large and majors in English and Theatre Arts. She loves growing plants. Lydia Poer is a graduate in the Maslow Family Creative Writing Program. She loves to keep up with actors - if you name an actor, she can tell you what shows or movies they have been in! Mischelle Anthony, co-advisor to the Manuscript Society, is also Associate Professor and Chair of the English Department at Wilkes University. She teaches and writes poems, and has served on the editorial boards of the Midland Review (now defunct, hopefully not her fault) and Cimarron Review. Rashonda Montgomery is Manuscript’s Co-Assistant Editor and a junior English Major. She absolutely loves fluffy animals. Sam Burgess, Jr. graduated in 1994 with an MBA in Management. He refurbishes computers and donates them to those who cannot afford to purchase one. 76 �Biographies Sarah Weynand is Manuscript’s Executive Editor and will be graduating in Spring 2021 with her B.A. in English. She is so excited to be packing up her books and feline pal, Theo, and moving to Connecticut to complete her Creative Writing MFA at Southern Connecticut State University! Sean M. Schmoyer is a junior and majors in Communication Studies. He was in a speech therapy program for seven years to address issues with speech articulation. After overcoming that he is now a communication studies major confident enough to speak in front of his peers, and on live recordings for T.V. and podcasts. Sheylah Silva is an Editorial Consultant for Manuscript and will be graduating in 2021 with their degree in English. They took their senior quote in high school from Howl’s Moving Castle; now that they are graduating college, they can confirm it holds up. (“I see no point in living if I can’t be beautiful.”) William Billingsley is a Staff Member and will be graduating in 2021 with a degree in Political Science and History. Fun fact: William simply is. Will Farnelli is a junior English major. Fun fact: Will actually can not be killed, and someday will turn into a small wetland. 77 �Art Credits Halloween 2020 Poster Olivia Lombardi 78 �Art Credits ���������������������������������� � ������ ���������� ����� ������� � ����� ����������� ������������������������ ����������������������� �������������� ��������� ���� � �� ������� ­€€ BLACK LIVES MATTER “Beauty was not simply something to behold; it was something one could do.” - Toni Morrison Black Lives Matter Edition Poster 1 Olivia Lombardi 79 �Art Credits MSC & Manuscript Society present a Black Lives Matter digital issue Your voice not only matters; it's essential Submit art, writing, and photography to magazine@wilkes.edu Deadline is 2.19.2020 “Beauty was not simply something to behold; it was something one could do.” - Toni Morrison Black Lives Matter Edition Poster 2 Olivia Lombardi 80 �Art Credits Black Lives Matter Edition Cover jay guziewicz 81 �Art Credits Valentine’s Day 2021 Poster Sarah Weynand 82 �Art Credits sometimes we can only find our true direction when we let the wind of change carry us Deadline: April 2nd, 2021 Submit your work to Manuscript at magazine@wilkes.edu Check Facebook at Manuscript at Wilkes University Twitter at @WilkesMag Instagram at @wilkes_manuscript for submission guidelines Spring 2021 Submission Poster Sarah Weynand 83 �Manuscript would like to extend a hand in thanks to: Deb Archavage, English Dept. Administrative Assistant—You Keep Us Going! Dr. Mischelle Anthony, Manuscript advisor, CEO of “What Slippery Language,” Forever Supporting the Staff Members Dr. Chad Stanley, Manuscript advisor, CEO of “You’re Doing Great,” Also Forever Supporting the Staff Members Jay Guziewicz – InDesign Star, CEO of “Whatever You Need!” The English Faculty & Staff, Supporters and Encouragers of All Who Dare to Submit and/or Join! The Art Faculty & Staff, Supporters of the Cause The Kirby Hall Ghost, we miss you! Follow Us: Facebook: Manuscript at Wilkes University Twitter: @WilkesMag Instagram: @wilkes.manuscript 84 �85 �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, 2020-2021 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/f8416b2a53dcb41fe195872a7c35b5cc.pdf f9213c893b2a6d5ae06ef54960fa630f PDF Text Text MANUSCRIPT 2021-2022 -1- ��The Wilkes University Manuscript Society presents Manuscript 2021 - 2022 �1947 Forward With this issue of Manuscript a new publication is launched on the Bucknell University Campus in Wilkes-Barre. Tose who have been responsible for its coming into being earnestly hope that through your eforts and the eforts of those who come afer you that this magazine will develop into a college tradition of which we may all be proud. — The Editors �Mission Statement Te Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative writing and visual art magazine, Te Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the studentled editorial staf publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. In preparation for a career in editing, publishing, or creative writing, any Wilkes student is welcome to submit to or work on the editorial board of the Manuscript Society. Staf members critique a variety of creative pieces from Wilkes faculty, staf, students, and alumni. Tis process includes creative workshopping, copy editing, and layout. Wilkes students may elect to enroll in ENG 190B, Project in Writing: Manuscript, for one (1) credit of coursework. Meetings are held during club hours each semester. Monthly, bimonthly, or seasonal campus poetry reading are open to the Wilkes Community and greater public. Te end product is a published, award-winning magazine. ��The Manuscript Society Editorial Board Jay Guziewicz Executive Editor Emily Cherkauskas Assistant Editor Breanna Ebisch Art/Layout/Copy Editor Fen Farnelli Darren Martinez Jordyn Williams Editors at Large Maddy Kinard Jackie Costello Staf Dr. Mischelle Anthony Dr. Chad Stanely Faculty Advisors �Table of Contents Seraphim, an Acrostic - Fen Farnelli Forever - Mya A. Banegas Seasonally Torn - Haley Katona Sedona 1 - Claire Wynne Shoes - Darren Martinez Home at Last - Hannah Simerson A year ago today - Sydney Umstead One Moment in Time - Breanna Ebisch Observer - Emily Cherkauskas A Tale Told of Sapphire Steps and The Aureate Response - Annie Arsenic Ray Of Hope - Sam Burgess, Jr. There are thanks in order - Sydney Umstead losing time - Cas Schiller Astro1 - Tyler Savitski bullat - Darren Martinez Rigid - Haley Katona Games Children Play - Cody Marsh Whitetailed - Tyler Savitski Garden of Secrets - Ashlee Harry horticulture - jay guziewicz April Leaves - Ylonis Grant Poetess of Motion - Sam Burgess, Jr. VIOLET PETALS - Emily Cherkauskas Sketch - Samantha Ann Stanich-Romasiewicz Astro2 - Tyler Savitski Sarah - Mya A. Banegas The Watchman - Maura C. Maros The Glass Clock - Haley Katona Timeless - Emily Cherkauskas Battle Cry - Breanna Ebisch - 10 - 11 - 14 - 15 - 16 - 18 - 19 - 20 - 21 - 22 - 24 - 25 - 26 - 27 - 28 - 30 - 31 - 35 - 36 - 38 - 40 - 41 - 42 - 44 - 45 - 46 - 48 - 50 - 51 - 52 - �Table of Contents (Cont.) Surmonter - Ylonis Grant - 53 Unsetting Sun - Jackie Costello - 54 twilight - jay guziewicz - 56 Grand Canyon 1 - Claire Wynne - 58 No Shame in Defeat - Sam Burgess, Jr. - 59 Treading Water - Maura C. Maros - 60 Valley of Fire 1 - Claire Wynne - 61 The Diet Game: Conditioning the Conditioned Response - Rene Allen, M.D. - 62 Valley of Fire 2 - Claire Wynne - 65 A Brief Description of the Creek Behind the Old Barn on a Hill, where I ofen Wrote when Alone: A Haiku - Fen Farnelli - 66 shape of form of love of - Darren Martinez - 67 Does the Ocean Likewise Fear the Swabby? - Fen Farnelli - 68 glass feelings - jay guziewicz - 69 Is there a way to love me? - Haley Katona - 70 Phototropism - Growth Toward Light - Rene Allen, M.D. - 72 Roses Lightened - Emily Cherkauskas - 74 pwepwepwpe - Darren Martinez - 75 Angry but, a Little Less - Sydney Umstead - 76 Bluebird - Tyler Savitski - 77 Last Night I Cried - Sam Burgess, Jr. - 78 this poem isn’t as quite as important as you think it is - Darren Martinez - 79 Pull the Threads - Jackie Costello - 80 Grand Canyon 2 - Claire Wynne - 81 Prima Materia - Fen Farnelli - 82 - 83 Astro3 - Tyler Savitski - 84 haven - jay guziewicz - 85 Exit - Emily Cherkauskas - 86 Little Braves - Maura C. Maros �Seraphim, an Acrostic - Fen Farnelli Nature’s reverse astronaut, Evicted from the sky, the Earth Pummeled by the Heated form, limbs Intertwined in the ground Like roots tearing Into soil to continue growing Miles deep. - 10 - �Forever - Mya A. Banegas Our love was sof and sweet. I remember how you’d give me fowers before every date. How you’d kiss my forehead sofly in the morning to wake me up. I remember how you would sing to me when I had bad dreams, you always made sure I was never alone. I remember the sweet words that you would mumble in my ear just because. I remember all the many questions you used to ask me just to hear the sound of my voice. I remember how you loved matching clothes with me so that people instantly knew that we were together. You thought it was cute and funny, I thought it was cheesy but you loved it and so did I. I remember the Friday nights we would share laughing and cuddling while eating pizza on the couch and watching a movie. I usually picked the movies and you would groan at all my decisions because you claimed they were cheesy rom-coms but secretly you and I both knew how much you loved them. I would laugh at something funny and I would ask you “are you seeing this” or “isn’t this funny” and you would say “yeah,” but I knew from the tone of your voice that you weren’t really paying attention. So I would turn my head to see you staring at me. I never felt more seen than that. I remember when I would cry you would hold me and tell me everything was going to be ok. And if it was a movie that I was crying for you would chuckle and wipe my tears away then you bring me ice cream and tell me “and this is why I don’t like these types of movies,” then we’d both laugh. I remember how we’d sleep. Me cuddling into your side or falling asleep on your chest then waking up to you on mine. I remember how you’d laugh at all my jokes even if they weren’t funny because you thought that I made a good attempt. I remember how much you supported me in everything that I did. How you celebrated my wins and helped me through my losses. I remember you being nervous to meet my friends and family because you wanted them to like you. You made my mom smile when you ofered to help her cook or clean. You made my dad laugh when you told a joke or made fun of me. You made my heart melt when I saw you playing with my siblings. I remember being told, “he’s a good one” and I replied, “I know.” I remember the fghts and arguments we used to have and how you would leave. But then you’d come back and say “can we talk about it?” I remember no matter how many times I pushed you away you pulled me closer. I remember how you’d give me my space when I needed it but how you’d also recognize when I needed you. I remember you telling me “we never go to bed angry” so you made us discuss all our issues and problems before bed. I remember when I told you that I needed space and I remembered how you looked when I said it. Your eyes instantly flled with tears and you sat down and asked me “Is there anything I could do to fx this?” I told you “no” because it wasn’t you who needed to do the fxing, it was me. You didn’t believe me at frst, you claimed that that was something people always said. But I looked in your eyes, smiled, and kissed you. You asked me if I loved you still and I said “It’s because I love you that I can’t aford to bring you down with me.” Every word of it was true. It would’ve been selfsh of me to - 11 - �let you fade with me. But I wanted to be selfsh for one more night, so I asked you if you could stay and you smiled and said “I wasn’t planning on going anywhere”. Before we closed our eyes to drif of to our alternative realities you turned to look at me and asked one more question “How long will it take for you to come back?”. I looked at you with tears spilling out of my eyes, “I don’t know love. But I promise when I get better, it’ll be you and me forever.” You smiled and we held each other for the last time that night. I remembered all the text messages you would send me every morning. I remember the voicemails you’d leave me telling me about your day and hoping that mine went well too. And if it didn’t you’d say “and if you didn’t have a good day then I’m sorry love. But just know better days are on their way, because where there is a storm there’s a rainbow too. I know that was cheesy but it’s true.” then you’d do that I laugh that I love so much. But slowly the messages and voicemails started to decrease by the day. And it made me sad but it made me happy as well. It meant that you were moving on. No matter how much I love you it would be selfsh of me to ask you to wait when I didn’t know how long it would take. You’d only end up texting or calling if it were a holiday or my birthday and you would even tell me if something big had happened to you. Like a job promotion or booking a fight to your dream vacation that you always wanted. I know that this is taking a while. And love I’m really sorry for that. I know you have a diferent life now and I hope that you haven’t forgotten about me because I haven’t forgotten about you or the promise I made to you that night in my apartment. It’s been a few years since that night. We both have become accustomed to “adult life”. I went to our place, the place where you frst asked me to be your girlfriend and we spent every anniversary thereafer that. I sat down and ordered a nice glass of red wine, it was sweet and savory. I ordered your usual, I don’t really know why since I hate steak but I guess it made me seem closer to you even if you weren’t there. But you were. I notice you sitting by yourself at a table near the far end of the deck by the water. The fairy lights above you were the only source of light that I got since it was dark out, so it was hard to tell but deep down I knew it was you. I waited for a bit to see if anyone else would sit with you or if you were alone. No one came. So I grabbed my wine and my plate and made my way to your table. “Is anyone sitting here?” you looked up at me in shock, as if you couldn’t believe I was there. “No. All yours.” Is what you said next. We talked for a bit and caught up with one another on our lives. Then you asked me what I was doing here. And I told you that I remember how we used to sit at that exact table year afer year drowning in laughter and love, I told you I wanted to feel that again. Then I asked you what you were doing here. And you said “Waiting for you to show up.” I don’t think I ever smiled harder than I did that night. “Well I told you that I’d come back didn’t I.” We smiled and laughed. By the end of the night, we kissed. And just like that, it was you and I again. - 12 - �Now, look at us. Married with kids living the life we both had dreamed of. No matter the challenges that we faced, the hardships that we went through, or where life took us, I always knew that we’d be together in the end. Because you and me, babe you and me were always forever. - 13 - �Seasonally Torn - Haley Katona with you, somehow I felt sof despite the rest I felt the fush of red against my own skin from the quiet of being stared at and every part of me wanted to embrace you like a fower opening, petals blooming I wanted to appear to you as if I was the sea on a summer evening even though you knew I was the sea during a summer storm crashing and striking the fragmented rocks that sharpened and caressed the shore you made me want to laugh grabbing a hold of the door and swinging in between in and out, in and out and stick my tongue out as I ran away while you tried to pick me up I wanted to pick apples for you, tossing those bruised, away and sitting on the ground, hair fying in the wind to tug on your sleeve and pull you down to wrestle in the grass, in the pure sunlit green smile on top of you, like you were the clearest thing I’d ever seen I wanted to hear you teach me anything you had up in your brain, your treasure chest of years that I had not been known clinging to your shirt, in the sof wind of may I don’t think I would’ve ever let you go - 14 - �Sedona 1 - Claire Wynne - 15 - �shoes ---- - Darren Martinez I give Greg a ride home from his job. One Thursday In A Sea of Them, that I’ll ever have of. Greg takes a hit from his vape. He empties the bin to the bathroom. It smells like wet cat. Greg and I were friends, once. I don’t know what we are now, nor care. I give him a ride Because of that Once. Onceness. Debts repaid. Ten marks were lain in the cupholder. Obviously not a cup, but held all the same the brain holes up in the body but my thoughts seem to dance above raw and bubbling, full of a cruelty too much for my body I am here, me, Darren. Smiling laughing absolutely unaware. - 16 - �It’s like my soul checked out Afer I fell on pavement when I was 13, Slipping out through a crack in my skull I look at the road. I look at Greg’s shoes out of the corner of my eye. - 17 - �Home at Last - Hannah Simerson Lately, I have come back home. It has been so long since someone has listened. Truly, wholeheartedly listened. He begs me to talk to Him—about my fears, my goals, my desires. He wants to know. He opened up His doors for me once again. He called me home afer I lef and found a new one. He made a bed for me and kept me warm. He lef my room the way it was before I ran away. He fed me and poured His love right into my heart. He held my head high when I was ashamed to have run away. He said to me, “You came back and that makes all the diference.” - 18 - �A year ago today - Sydney Umstead A year ago today I was still tasseled within your grip The smell of cofee One of my favorite books that I just started reading The hold you had of me, the pain in my face everytime our eyes met A look I once defned as love, but now known as fear You stripped me of a soul of my own I became your walking pradagee A mold of what you defned as a good lover The person I will never get the chance to know, a version of me that has withered away because of your actions I will never know the plan that was made for the girl in that photograph. - 19 - �One Moment In Time - Breanna Ebisch One. A blink of an eye. Two. Your fngers wrap around mine. Three. Is this really happening? It is, it is, it is. Four. Gazes locked, nothing by love. Five. Lips colliding, making sparks fy. One. A blink of an eye. Two. Your fngers wrap around mine. Three. Is this really happening? It is, it is, it is. Four. Gazes locked, nothing but despair. Five. The end has come, this is the fnal goodbye. - 20 - �Observer - Emily Cherkauskas - 21 - �A Tale Told of Sapphire Steps - Annie Arsenic It started with a dinner, plain and simple. Our meal was cooked and fresh, a palette pleaser with no equal. And paired splendidly with a bottle of our fnest drink. But in good company, cups soon run dry, and drink must be reflled. I stood, as best able at the time, and ofered to grab some more. I threw my azure cloak around my back and fipped open our cellar door. I grabbed a pair of candles for light and stepped into the dark downstairs. I fumbled down the frst few stairs and almost lost my stance. The hot wax punished my drunkenness as I swayed it onto my hands. In my stupor, I reached for the rail, only for my elbow to greet a smooth stone wall. Peculiar of course, because I have no stone wall. But in the moment, unnoticeable to an intoxicated me. And down I went. Afer some ten minutes of walking the steps, even I could sense something was odd. I looked out the window and saw in the darkness a range of imposing indigo mountains in the distance. Between them and I, a thousand pillars, wrapped in spiral sets of stairs. But, what fresh hell was this. A window? Mountains? In my basement? It must have been the wine in me, something I’m sure. “I’ll stand perfectly still.” “And I will not move.” Such thoughts comforted me, let me hope I was dreaming. But this was no make-believe. This place, I could smell it, feel it. The cool almost-breeze as it crept up the staircase, which spun and spun under my feet. As I looked around myself, I found my staircase quite like the rest around me. Even behind me, and as up as I could see. I had to understand. So down I kept, being more aware than before. Small markings in the slate walls became apparent, short notes in a script totally unintelligible to me. The window I looked through was - 22 - �repeated down the stairway, giving me occasional glances at this odd world around me as I made my descent. In passing, I almost thought I could see candlelight on some of the other stairways. I was almost at my wake’s end and the bottom still eluded me. When my wax had burned nearly all out, I turned my self around. I shufed back up those sapphire steps for as long, what felt like longer, than I had gone down them. My feet were tired and my spirit ached. The stony hallway felt colder as I climbed and climbed up as if it were to demand I stay. I could not give myself to it. And at long last, partially to my surprise, I came back to my door. I fell through it onto the warm foor of my home. The guests crowded around me and I fell asleep. From what I hear, I was gone for not even a minute. An Aureate Response I heard your footsteps patter on the gilded stone, a rhythm new to break the silence that’s my home. I heard you walk and saw your candle’s light glowing from afar. I tried to see you through the windows but you were too far and focused on your descent. What business you had at the bottom I would never know, because you turned back before you had a chance to show me. I wonder sometimes about the travelers, on these glittering golden steps they always climb. Why not come down to the bottom, is there something they see that I can’t? I’ve lived my life on this foor, and I’ve yet to fnd the trouble that seems to scare them all away. Countless pillars in my sight, no end I see at all. But as the glowing light of candles lowers toward and toward me, all are snufed out or turned back, which I cannot tell. I should learn to look away with both my eyes and hopes. These steppers will not reach me even if they come close. I make peace with my quiet because there is no other way. I wait for the faxen light of another candle, and I wait for another day. - 23 - �Ray Of Hope - Sam Burgess, Jr. Peeking just beyond the clouds, Across the mighty frmament. There is something to behold, I feel it must be heaven-sent. Fighting like a warrior, Whose maiden’s life depends on him. It struggles on quite fercely, While sparkling like a precious gem. Never wavering at all, A splendid sight for one to see. Climbing higher in the sky, In life it is the treasured key. What is this that shines so bright, And allows you and I to cope? The answer is known to all, It is, of course, a ray of hope. - 24 - �There are thanks in order - Sydney Umstead All that summer held used to be a mystery to me I was ignorant to what it felt like to have the sun illuminating of your back Surrounded by warm air and fts of laughter Coming of age, for the frst time in my entire life The sun brightened everything And for the frst time, I realized what it felt like to be alive. - 25 - �losing time - Cas Schiller every day i grow up a little more/i think the bags under my eyes are darker than they were before/and all the girls i went to school with avoid looking at me/sometimes i wonder what they see/sometimes i wonder what you see/will i remember today in six months or is it already gone? why am i trying so fucking hard these days? why am i never wrong? i want to sleep for the next sixty years but i’m carrying her banner and i’m already here i’m not scared of anything. maybe i could use a little fear. i’m not scared of anything. i can’t remember two weeks ago. i’m not scared of anything. my hands are shaking again. heartbeat at a hundred ten/i hate when you ask if i remember when/summer looming heavy starting to afect the tides/and i think i might know why/and i can’t remember why i’m sorry. why are you still here? ‘cause this will never make sense. i say all these words but in the end it’s nothing but pretend. are you a monster too? what’s underneath your skin? is it ants or an anthem? unoriginal sin? - 26 - �Astro1 - Tyler Savitski - 27 - �bullat ---- - Darren Martinez I’m here. Quite alive, I assure you. Unchanged from the last time we met. Though much has come between us since. The world greys, with a wintry beard, it scratches lines for planting in the neighbor’s feld. plants sprout from pods. upon tasting air, they curl up spiders hit by a newspaper wound tightly you smile blighting the earth with light she is drenched, with too many privates not enough towels the tub spills. rocking rolling, the earth’s task since it became Earth. the asteroid that rocked their surface full of your grey matter, and mine too. her crust bubbles like acne pustules life spills forth in the absence of the reaper - 28 - �when the reaper smiles, and lets his Jamaican accent ring forth, I will not smile back. I am unchanged from the last time. My facial structure is a little fatter sure, The birch beer tap a little drier. My pants a little tighter, My hair a little Worse. A bullet in my clavicle, a coupon that the bodega owner honors, but never takes. - 29 - �Rigid ---- - Haley Katona I put people on pedestals too ofen I forget they’re human, born of blood and skin I instead trace my fngers along the edge of marble and ivory in the ridges of my created memory so breathless is the birth, so dense is the destruction, quick in its own life careful not to dirty the white snow to distract from the blood caked on the foor beneath not your shoe, but mine - 30 - �Games Children Play: November 1996: Twelve Years to Fatherhood - Cody Marsh When you’re a kid, you don’t think much of the history of a place. Ofen, the only thing worth knowing about it is the quickest way to leave. And in school, you learn about state history to some degree, but only as much as will be on the end-of-year standardized test which determines whether you’ll move to the next grade, like who wrote “Texas, Our Texas,” which you’ll remember because you share his surname and make up a story that he’s some great grandfather of yours. No one ever talks about the fact that, if you’re in the heart of East Texas, you’re living in Indian country, and so much has transpired here over the millennia—things you’ve been told only happened in other places—and that the land you walk, and the pines and nettle and chiggers, have been nourished by the spilling of blood. Dad took me hunting on leased land in Jeferson County. He and Uncle Roger, my mom’s brother, tended to the small acreage all year leading up to deer season, cutting away underbrush to create shooting lanes, ensuring the box stands were in decent enough shape to hold a grown man’s body weight, placing dried kernels of corn in strategic places so the biggest bucks would become accustomed to grazing in a bullet’s path. Hunting whitetail is a religion flled with sacraments such as these, all pointing to the frst weekend in November—a holy time—when the general season begins and something primal comes alive in its believers. Practitioners become the new Indian braves on vision quests to touch that spiritual aspect of manhood which is seemingly activated only by acts of brutality. I would become such a brave when my frst kill was bagged and tagged. Before the sun was up, Dad walked me through the thicket from the clearing where we’d parked, accompanied by the beam of his Maglite. He carried a Maglite everywhere he went and had several more around the house in places he deemed handy. The Maglite, he said, was the fnest fashlight known to man, and heavy, and versatile enough to be used as a weapon if necessary. And it could not be crushed no matter what you ran over it with, a twenty-six-thousand-pound Mack truck included. He’d tested this, and the Maglite was indestructible, like we were. The fashlight beam bounced of the brush, exposing a walkable path to what would be my box stand. I barely stood waist-high to Dad, and both of us were fully decked out in camoufaged, insulated coveralls to beat the early morning chill, and both carried rifes—he’d outftted me with a Marlin Model 336, a leveraction 30-30, forever a favorite gun for youth hunters. A few summers before, it had damn near blown me backward over the hood of his truck when he took me down to the river bottoms to shoot at cans for practice. I knew for sure my shoulder would turn solid black from the recoil, but there wasn’t a mark on me when I inspected the impact site. This day, I’d be shooting the big rife from an elevated place, which would make aiming easier, and the rail of the box stand would provide the needed steadiness; I could rest - 31 - �my elbow on it, bracing myself as he’d taught me, and wouldn’t mess up the shot. Missing my shot, if I had to take one, terrifed me. How much more useless could a boy be than if he could not hit his target? So I practiced and practiced and could shoot the mouth out of a Pepsi can from twenty yards away, just like my Dad and Uncle, the sharpest marksmen in Angelina County. Uncle Roger had once slit a buck’s throat with a .22 long and lef no holes in its body, salvaging every morsel of meat. That’s the story I remember anyway. And Dad had been trained to shoot by the United States Marine Corps, arguably the most expert killers on the planet. My stand was a forest-green-painted, plywood structure, with a ladder crudely fashioned from twoby-fours, and a roof slanted to keep rain rolling of the back, just in case it started coming down when my trophy buck walked up and visibility was key. Because my legs were too short to reach the frst rung, Dad hoisted me up to it, and I took it from there. A few steps up, and he handed me my rife from his place on the ground. “Now make sure there’s no yellowjackets in there with you,” he said as I cleared the stand’s threshold. Yellowjackets were some of the most feared fying things of my childhood imagination. I’d seen Pawpaw stung by many while he worked in the woods cutting timber to be taken to the sawmills. Our town was altogether a timber town, and everybody worked in logging at some point in their lives, and yellowjackets seemed to be the tiny, crazed creatures who could end a logger’s career—and life—in minutes. My respect for them was healthy, if not exaggerated. “Yes, sir.” The bill of my camoufaged cap drifed down over my eyes, obscuring my vision. I squinted hard and peered from underneath it to check my surroundings before settling down on the permanent bench the stand’s builder had installed. “And check under the bench. You don’t want ‘em gettin’ ya in the ass.” He was right. I didn’t want that at all. When my inspection was complete, and no yellowjackets, spiders, scorpions, or any other critters were found, I sat on the pine bench and adjusted my bulky clothing to get comfortable. “If you see somethin’—and you will—don’t hesitate. Put your scope on him and fre, no secondguessin’.” “Yes, sir.” “When I hear the shot, I’ll come see about ya, so don’t shoot me comin’ outta the bushes.” “Yes, sir.” I could have pissed my coveralls as he walked of toward his own hunting grounds, a spot he’d cleared between two conjoined oaks, where he’d be hidden behind their tangling trunks. Being tough is a lot easier when someone is watching, and pretending to want to kill a deer was being tough. In truth, I couldn’t imagine anything I wanted less than to shoot a deer, but it was a rite of passage for we forest dwellers, and I’d heard stories of Indian hunters eating the heart of a fresh kill to honor its death and partake of its life, and it seemed like something that had to be done. To encourage myself in the pursuit of my game, I envisioned myself standing over the carcass of a massive, downed twelve-point buck, its pulsating heart-thumping between my clasped hands, my face covered in its thick, warm blood—war - 32 - �paint. This image lasted only a few seconds before I began praying in earnest that no deer crossed my path that morning or ever. If I never saw anything, then I wouldn’t have to kill it, because missing—I knew this to my core—was not an option. Maybe an hour passed, and the sun began its ascent above the forest canopy, but it was still dark enough to have to squint to see. I’d spent the past hour daydreaming of baseball and being warm in my bed at home. A rustling came from a stand of brush to my lef. I had shot plenty of squirrels and birds before, and it had never dawned on me that they might be conscious creatures. A deer, on the other hand, being a much larger animal with big, expressive eyes, was another thing. I hoped this noise was a group of rabbits playing, or anything other than what my gut knew it was. Out she came, one hoof falling gracefully in front of the other, snifng and grazing for corn on the cold earth. My heart rate must have tripled at the sight of her and the thought of what was coming next. Dad’s voice played over in my mind— “No hesitation”—so I tried hard to steady my breath, which only seemed to make it heavier. I could hear the blood fowing around my ears. As quietly and slowly as was possible, I raised my rife, propping my elbow against the splintery wood railing, which made an almost imperceptible creaking sound I feared (and inwardly hoped) would startle my prey and send her running. But it didn’t; she remained there nibbling at Dad’s corn. Peering through the rife’s scope, I placed my crosshairs directly behind the doe’s shoulder, where the bullet would tear through her heart, and fred. A perfect shot. The doe’s back legs dropped to the ground and seized violently, her front legs holding her weight. She pushed herself back up into a running position, then lunged toward the tree line. But her attempt at escape was a stumbling race against death, as all four legs began to fail her. Her eyes. I seem to remember them, big and black and fooded with fear, though there was too much distance between us for that memory to be true. The wet blood stuck to her hide, turning it dark as the soil beneath her. Still, she pushed toward the trees hunting a place to die. Dad was making his way to me by the time I reached the forest foor. I heard his boots clopping against the brushy earth. What my next move should be was not clear to me, so I waited by the base of the box stand until he joined me there. “Did you get one?” He asked. “Yes, sir,” I said. “A doe.” Hearing about my kill, pride radiated from his eyes, and his skin turned beet red between the cold and the joy of the moment. His only boy’s frst deer—like it had been his own relived. “I’ll be damned! Hell yeah, son,” he said. “Where’d she run to?” I showed him the spot she fell in, and he inspected the blood on the dried oak leaves, sticks, and dirt. “Clean shot, boy.” He could tell by the blood’s color that I hadn’t hit her in the gut. Of all the possible ways to make a bad shot, gut shooting an animal is the worst, because then the blood is tainted, and the meat will be ruined if you ever catch her. But a gut-wounded deer may never be found because they usually have enough strength lef in them to run faster and farther than you ever could. But my shot had been perfect, and the doe would - 33 - �be easily tracked, her bright red vitality serving as our markers. We found her not even a hundred yards from the clearing laying beneath a crooked oak. We watched for signs of breathing but saw none. “I think you got her, boy.” “Yes, sir,” I said. “Keep your gun on her just in case,” he told me. I raised my rife to waist-level, not sure that I could shoot again if I had to, if she was only laying there playing possum and jumped up to maul Dad and me for our crimes. I obeyed, aiming my rife at the top of her head. Dad took the yellow-covered Case Trapper from his pocket and opened its longest blade. Dad’s knives were always sharp enough to shave with, or use to cut a throat, which would be this one’s purpose today. “Shit,” I heard him say half under his breath. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Boy,” he said. “That ain’t no doe.” “What do you mean?” “It’s a button buck.” He scratched under the bill of his cap, as though deciding what he should do next. “Hell, let’s get him skint and outta here.” I hadn’t seen the young buck’s antlers just beginning to protrude through the top of his skull. It wasn’t exactly an illegal kill. A licensed Texas hunter is allowed a certain number of antlerless deer each year, but those are reserved for does like the one I thought I was shooting. By defnition, a button buck is less than six months old, and killing one is frowned upon by almost everyone in the woods, and certainly by my Dad who had been so proud of my frst deer until that moment. He placed the blade of his Case to the fawn’s neck, slicing it all the way across. This ritual, some say, bleeds the deer out. To others it’s a spiritual act, releasing the animal’s soul back into the land. For Dad, I think it was just something he did because he was supposed to—a habit and nothing more. The fawn feld dressed and hanging by its slit neck from a hearty pine, Dad’s blade skinned, quartered, and deboned my victim without another word. - 34 - �Whitetail - Tyler Savitski - 35 - �Garden of Secrets - Ashlee Harry Death and decay These are the words used to describe me now. I can no longer age with the surrounding world, that was once my home. I foat in my temporary grave as it drains the remaining life from me. The one that did this to me stares down at my fnal resting place. The scent of fresh dirt that should have flled my nostrils was lost to me from the bloody, metallic waters. I’m lef to wonder if anyone will know of my demise. Will I be missed or will I be scrubbed from their memories? My grim reaper gives me another look once his work is done. My body is slowly pulled from the water’s clutches and dragged in the woods without care. The reaper uses his scythe and I am no longer one. My blood waters my grave instead of boiling with rage in me. I should have listened to the little voice in my head, when the man I trusted revealed his true intentions. - 36 - �He planted the belief for love with his fowery words, to only reveal his danger coated thorns. Without a second glance, he covers me in the earth – I will be his secret, but soon will be revealed, For the world will recreate me - 37 - �horticulture - jay guziewicz i was partially formed when i met you, skin growing over my muscle in broken patches from where i peeled of the parts of the last girl who said she loved me, threw those pieces to the dogs to try and make room for myself. but you came along, told me you loved me, and my raw patches became lakes for you to swim in and my new skin cracked to make way for the blooms of your favorite fower. i made myself into the image of things you loved, in hope i would become one, in hope that you would not want to leave. but you did. you set the garden growing out of my joints on fre, drained the lakes i built for you out my own blood and tears and once again i found myself lef raw, patchy, broken. and now i begin again. i peel of the skin i grew for you - 38 - �and let myself greet a new world tender and sinewy, preparing to shape myself into gardens and lakes once again, this time for myself. - 39 - �April Leaves - Ylonis Grant - 40 - �Poetess of Motion - Sam Burgess, Jr. Gliding cross the dance room foor, Was someone I did adore. Swaying like a branch under the Force of a windy day. Sweet fragrance from her perfumed lotion, Gave me an exciting notion. But I hoped, she wouldn’t approach, For I didn’t know what to say. Rhythmic feet and dressed divine, How I wished that she were mine. Such devotion to an Art, I had never seen. Imitating a wavy ocean, Was this Poetess of motion, A delightful smile, all the while, With warmth and senses keen. When the music stopped my feet were tapping, And everyone did join in clapping, As she began to leave and out the door, Did make her way. Did she take some magic potion, This Poetess of motion? Whether she did or whether not, She certainly made my day. - 41 - �VIOLET PETALS - Emily Cherkauskas “Confused, faking, invalid.” “A phase—a soon-to-die stage.” “Nothing more than a plastic fower,” Spews the venomous doctrine of normativity. The system is said to guide me to the other half. Unfortunately, it appears that I must be lost. Or blind. Or, unfnished? Something isn’t ftting in, But alas, I am caged within the confnes of this lonely world. Is this limbo a supposed form of happiness? Is this a form of liberation? This conformity? This gray, bleak plane—which, suddenly, Is broken by a spirited call of joy. Locks and chains refect the sight Of violet petals falling from every which way, Yet unite together in the wind, leaving a path for me to follow. It might be treasure, it might be nothing—but it is my nature to go forward. Those violet petals will always fy, And only fall to grace the ground Of the once-blocked path I walk through now, Far from compulsory standards that my heart rejects. The sunset rays shine through darkness, Warming my cold and lost soul, Bringing me hope for my once-lost future, As I march toward my desired freedom. - 42 - �As the sun sets, my once-clouded mind awakens. The endless scarlet and orange skies call out, Gartered with the pure white mist of peace, Kissed by the striking felds of violets below. The warm and wondrous landscape Opens its glowing, glistening arms. The opportunity to break free stands before me, A sign of life for the woman I shall be. As I watch the violet fowers blossom, I sit and fnd myself where I am now. The fact that I am me, that I exist, Is not a miracle; it is mere nature. - 43 - �Sketch - Samantha Ann Stanich-Romasiewicz Biting my bottom lip, tasting the dull chapstick lef by your quick kiss, your grey eyes searching, pretending not to know what lies beneath my rising sweater, silent inhales, though you are an expert at shivers and groans that overcome me, you are never lost in my curves, always knowing where your touch should land, always knowing that we can’t, shouldn’t, talk about the sweat stuck to the back of our necks as fngers trace outlines of our shapes, grasping at any available skin, pulling at hair, crashing into each other, tasting ecstasy and salty skin as we fall back onto guilt-stricken sheets that hold the secrets confned in my memory, only to be shaken like an Etch-A-Sketch as you pull me violently, amnesia washes over me, erasing any sign of another love who is mine but not fully one with me as I have given myself up to you once more, falling asleep in the wake of the destruction we have become accustomed to. - 44 - �Astro2 - Tyler Savitski - 45 - �Sarah ---- - Mya A. Bagenas Her name was Sarah. She was my best friend. She wore bright colors and her favorite season was spring because “that’s when the fowers would start to bloom” she would say. She was everyone’s golden child. There is no true defnition of a person so perfect but she was. She made all the parents say why can’t you be more like her and all the kids either wanted to befriend her or hate her. She was the sweetest person you would ever meet and her voice sounded like a lightly feathered pillow. She always wore a lavender scent, it matched her so well. And her smile. That smile that everyone craved to see because it made their day brighter. That smile never lef her face no matter what happened. That smile that so easily hid the cracks that laid deep within her soul. Her name was Sarah. She was my friend. She wore grays and blacks, her favorite season was winter because “it’s cold and harsh just like the world” she’d say. She was troubled. She never listened to anyone anymore, she didn’t care for anything either. She made all the parents question whether their kids should be around her or not. And kids stood away, those who weren’t troubled like she was anyway. She rarely spoke. I almost had forgotten what her voice sounded like, and how it defnitely would not ft the girl I knew today. And her smile. The smile that I looked forward to every day, was gone. No matter what happened that smile never came back. Now everyone was seeing what Sarah’s smile had been hiding. Her name was Sarah. She was my friend. And over time I began to feel the weight of what being her friend meant. It meant waking up in the middle of the night to pick her up from her one-night stand or to get her from jail. It meant worrying 24/7 whether or not that would be the last time you receive a call from her. It meant babysitting her to make sure that she doesn’t do anything that can’t be taken back. It meant losing yourself and losing all connections that you have to the real world because you rather do that than lose your friend. It meant telling her that this was the last time you would bail her out, or the last time you would pay for her rehab because you can’t take it anymore. Because it is taking everything out of you physically and mentally. It’s watching her eyes fll up with tears because she’s fnally realized that she has lost everything. Her name was Sarah. She was my best friend. She was a sweet girl that was tainted by the cruelness of the world. She loved bright colors and warm seasons. She was kind and it was hard not to love her. But she had demons and it wasn’t her fault. She didn’t ask for the life that was given to her, to lose her dad to cancer one year and to lose her mom to an accident the next. It was hard for her. And even afer everything that happened, all the fghts between us and the things she’d done I still loved her. Because - 46 - �we had no one but each other. I remember how much time we used to spend together. Going to the park, chasing each other, playing soccer, and picking the prettiest fowers that we could fnd. She loved picking fowers. And now I pick them for her, sitting with her every Sunday giving her the rundown of all the latest gossip. Her name was Sarah. She was my family. And I wish that I could see her smile just one more time. - 47 - �The Watchman - Maura C. Maros Safety latches mounted on cabinets, monitors listen for every breath. Eyes never far from catching a tragedy, table corners and stairs are worthy opponents. Safety cones line the end of the driveway, training wheels removed. Helmets fastened, peddle to the end of the block, just out of sight. Watch for speeding cars. Bus stop, good-byes, yell, I love you. Wait for school nurse to call, hold your breath. Exhale as she runs down the block, back to outstretched arms. Years later, a car horn beeps, wave good-bye from the doorway. The words Be careful bubble in your throat, door slams close. Silence echoes through the house, imagination plays cruel jokes. The sound of a motor approaches, front door slams with I’m home. Resist the urge to gather her onto your lap. A game of tug-o-war ensues, the trophy- independence. Curfews negotiated, twilight sleep wins until stairs creak. Her shadow lurks in bedroom doorway, Hi, Mom, kiss her forehead, smell her hair. - 48 - �Toss and turn sleepless with worry, college looms like a predator. Waiting to take her. No more slamming doors, announcing her safe arrival home, She must go. Long for her to come back to me, even if she is only twenty feet away. Arms ache to pull her close. - 49 - �The Glass Clock - Haley Katona sitting near the crumbled ivy of seven months’ neglect it rests in the sunlight refecting back to me and in the smoke of my breath, it keeps me awake in the violet night clicking, ticking, until it feels right and I don’t have the correct time set it’s all relative it’s all lack I only see mornings because of the glass I feel 4:04 in the afernoon in my chest sitting near the crumbled ivy and it counts down the wrong hour or one that does not yet tick until the shadows crack - 50 - �Timeless - Emily Cherkauskas - 51 - �Battle Cry - Breanna Ebisch A battle cry. That is how I entered the world. The piercing cry that signifes life, that I was breathing, that brought tears to my mother’s eyes, was a battle cry. Because the fght began when I took my frst breath. But from that moment on, my battle cry wasn’t heard by those who needed to hear. Yet, I push forward and my voice is joined by millions of women from across the world. We have no other option. Our rights are stolen away with simple signatures on legislation. Our earnings are still glaringly unequal. Our bodies are seen as beautiful, as a vessel to create and carry life, but are damaged by violence. And when we scream, the air full of battle cries, whether in triumph or fear, we are ignored. Ignored, silenced, defeated. What will it take for someone, anyone, to notice our endless struggles? A war? A revolution? I’m afraid it’s already begun. - 52 - �Surmonter - Ylonis Grant Being in the same room was stifing, thank god I won’t be trifing. I’m sure in your eyes I’m still a prize, a prize? The anxiety, the guilt, the blade was pushed to the hilt. I refused to make eye contact, it was like I was in a contract, and I couldn’t escape. You demanded attention and I fgured we could stay past collecting our pension, but there was tension. Thinking about it makes my skin crawl. Being in that situation— I no longer ship us together, now I feel light like a feather. Anticipating everytime you would touch me, tensing when you approached, too close, too close. How do I react? Do I say stop? Do I say sorry? I became unresponsive, I froze. Let it pass, let it pass, this can’t last. I didn’t realize how much my past afected my present. I don’t hold any resentment towards you. Had I known, I would have healed more, I’m going to heal more. I don’t want to feel anymore. I don’t want to see it now, but I’ll see more. Please let me go, I’m not the best you’ll ever have. I don’t want to feel trapped, I want to be free, free from the pain, from the trauma, the anxiety. I want to start again. I want to be in control, I’m giving back the heart I stole. Forgive me, for a rose has its thorns and I can’t help but use mine. You can no longer call me yours and I will no longer think you’re mine. It’ll get better with time. I won’t tell you any more lies. I sincerely apologize. A hopeless romantic, who feels undeserving, who’s still understanding the concept of romancing. - 53 - �Unsetting Sun - Annie Arsenic - 54 - �Today, of all days, I put my feet toward the unsetting sun. Afer deliberation day in and out. And so I marched forth to that deathless light. The cold of my breath projects fog to my visor, and I cannot see but a meter. The fog protects me from its damned stare, but no haze could ever fully obscure its light. That light which hammers down upon me as the snow crackles to my feet. The light which the frost itself returns to my eye from below is like the refection of a mirror. How human we were to imagine we could travel beyond its touch. How arrogant, to imagine we could live without its warmth. Through countless hours of travel I wade, hot on its trail. Days(?) perhaps, pass me by as I go. The grass seen though frostings of ice loses some of it’s green. The cold now warms my feet as it licks its chops, hungry. I cannot say I am not surprised; I cannot say I am not afraid. The sun has not set. On my tenth day, time returns to me. The passing of each second is etched into my mind. My mind, like a perfect clock. My legs walk in exact rhythm to each moment. I know when each breath, and the next will hit me, and all thereafer. I know of each minute, a hundred twenty steps. I know of each hour, that same tree, twice. I know of each day, a day of light. The grass creaks like now as it yellows. I wonder if it is so behind me as well. My mission is one of good. Why must it be this difcult? The cold has brought me to numbness, and I am warm for just a moment. I bask in it for twelve-point-three-nine-six seconds to indulge my aching body. On my twenty-eight-thousands-fve-hundred-twenty-third minute, it almost blinded me. Fogged no longer was my visor, for ice had formed where breath once laid. I’d hoped it ofered the same protection, but in its solidity was its weakness. The ice obscuring, protecting, my eyes began to crack. And then it fell. Now in my visor, there was a hole no smaller than a penny. A horrible portal through which that wicked sun could stab and jarr my eye! I must move forward, but this pain is too much to bear, I must stop it. My lef leg is still, and time has no meaning. I knew trusting the warmth would undo me. And now it has swallowed me whole. Aside from my coldened leg, I’ve given four fngers to the cold, if the two lost aren’t to be counted. If only I could reach this sun, I would be healed. I could stop it. Why does it torment me? Why does that tree echo back again? I’ve forgotten the time. I can’t move. The ice has become thick over my visor. The world is dark. My mind is cold. My body is cold. I can still feel the light around me, even without my eye to see it. The sun still stares down at me, cobalt rotten thing. I can see it with my eyes closed, with my mind in silence. I can see it with every fber of my being, shining demonic rays of hate. I want to move further, but the ice keeps me still. - 55 - �twilight - jay guziewicz i’ve been in love with sunsets ever since i was a child, the beginnings of night started with the most beautiful colors i’d ever seen before. pennsylvania hills fooded with oranges and purple, gentle pinks fading into dark night skies. i would try to draw them, laying on the foor, torn up crayola crayons scribbling on scrap paper pulled from trash cans. i saw the most beautiful sunsets down in the south, during that summer, the summer i lived on a bus the summer i felt the most lonely even though i never had a minute alone. that summer, my phone camera roll was flled with pictures of the sky instead of other memories, hazy purple in missouri tiger lily orange in texas. now, looking at the sky from my work parking lot, i think of those color in the south, talk myself out of driving sixteen hours to you, and your sunsets, - 56 - �the colors you must see tucked into the mississippi lowlands. i wonder how similar our skies are, if we see the same palettes or if yours are more bright, and i wonder if i’d ever see them, with you, together, our hands tucked into each other, our faces illuminated by the evening light. - 57 - �Grand Canyon 1 - Claire Wynne - 58 - �No Shame In Defeat - Sam Burgess, Jr. There is no shame in losing, No matter what they say. It’s not the end of the world, And it happens every day. One must not take defeat, As a sign that all is lost. Just lick your wounds and carry on, No matter what the cost. For defeat, you see, is a cleanser, That clears the clouded mind. It enables all to start anew, And leave the worst behind. So, if you’ve hit rock bottom, And you’re full of endless doubts. Always remember, and never forget, It’s where you go from there that counts. - 59 - �Treading Water - Maura C. Maros Arms ache, paddling to stay afoat. Head heavy, struggle to remain above water. Weeds like fngers encircle ankles, in murky depths below, Slipping below, trying to surface, sun penetrates the dark A beacon, follow the light, breach the fat veneer. Gasp for air. Sun blinds, shoreline on horizon. Eyes seeking, a vest, buoy, boat- any lifeline Sinking again, clinging to hope, kick, breath, propel forward. Breathless, crawling on the sandy beach, safety at fngertips. Until next time a riptide, drags me back under. - 60 - �Valley of Fire 1 - Claire Wynne - 61 - �The Diet Game: Conditioning the Conditioned Response - Rene Allen, M.D. One of my patients, Flora, called from the hospital. “Dr. Allen, I wanted you to know what happened. I wanted to gain weight, so I went to a hamburger joint and ate two quarter pounders, large fries, and a milkshake. That was two days ago. Yesterday, I had my gall bladder out.” At 5’3”, she weighed ninety pounds and had been trying her entire life to gain weight. I didn’t even try not to laugh. Fat overload and gall bladder disease— “Flora, did you enjoy the burgers?” “Yes,” she said. “But do you think it was the fries or milkshake that pushed me over the top?” The Diet Game—as a gynecologist, I was always looking at new diets both for myself, who, at a svelte 212 pounds was obviously overweight, and my patients, ninety percent of whom, normal weight or not, wanted to lose a few pounds. Flora had been the rare exception. She had wanted to gain weight. The Diet Game was a game of Try This, Try That. How would this food plan, this nutritional manipulation, these shakes, and supplements be better than the last ones? Realizing I had certain trigger foods I wondered if I could turn of the triggers to make the next diet more successful. I decided to deal with the trickle of candy that came into the ofce, particularly those universal favorite, M&Ms. The problem with M&Ms was that they tickled Skinner’s pleasure centers and triggered Pavlov’s conditioned response. In the Diet Game, they were rainbow yumminess, the perfect reward for passing go at the check-out counter. You could easily hide several in your hand. They melted in your mouth. They were flled with chocolate, and they had the requisite number of grams of sugar to make them sweet and delicious. My patients called them PMS pills. And if you only ate a few and were really good with the rest of your diet, well—conventional wisdom said to not be so harsh with your food you developed obsessions. And twelve peanut M&Ms—Twelve! only had about 140 calories. We kept a dish of them at the check-out counter. I’m not sure who felt obligated to keep the cut glass bowl full. I may have had something to do with it and on occasion, my patients. They brought large bags, poured them into the bowl, then free of guilt, grabbed handfuls for the trip home. Part of the game was to see how long I could go afer having one M&M before I had to have another. It was white-knuckle will power. Once I had an M&M, the remaining candy whispered my name every time I walked to the front ofce. I was particularly fond of the brown ones. “Doc, we’re here for you,” they said, and I responded like Pavlov’s dog. This was about the same time Barry Sears came out with his Zone Diet which promised remarkable results, plus it had the added credibility of Sears being a biochemist. Part of the Diet Game was determining how much food you could eat and lose weight. The best thing about the Zone Diet was the quantities of food—albeit veggies—that you ate to be in the metabolic zone that promised peak athletic performance, a muscular body, longevity, and weight loss. I bought the book and a plethora of green, orange, and purple vegetables. - 62 - �M&MS, however, were an obstacle to entering the Zone. Thinking about Pavlov’s dog, I wondered if I could change my conditioned response whenever I saw an M&M. Winning would be freedom. They would no longer call my name. I would no longer be victimized by a bowl of candy. The transformation ignited one day in a sporting goods store when I saw a pile of slingshots, those Y-shaped pieces of wood with bands of rubber attached to the arms and to a piece of leather into which you put your bullet—a spit wad, a rock, a small orange—anything you wanted to propel through the air toward a target. In a heartbeat, I imagined a red M&M zooming toward—here I faltered. I couldn’t see myself actually hitting someone or something. So, what could I shoot at? The perfect solution came to mind. On impulse, I purchased three slingshots, two for home and one for the ofce, and three bags of peanut M&Ms. That afernoon, I took my son to the driveway and raised the lid on the dumpster which was about twenty-fve feet away. “Okay, this is what we are going to do. We are going to take these slingshots and shoot these M&Ms at that lid where they will splat into pieces and drop into the garbage.” There is an expression that boys get, bafed, mouths open. “Mom, you don’t shoot M&Ms. You eat them.” “You do? Well, I thought I would try this. Look.” I picked up a yellow piece of candy, loaded it into the slingshot and let it fy. It was a lucky shot. It hit the dumpster lid with a loud thwack, and like magic, dropped in. The feeling was incredible. I reached for another one, but not before my son defensively put a handful in his mouth. “No,” I said. “You need to try it. Here.” I handed him one of the slingshots. He shook his head. “Mom.” But he loaded the slingshot and let it go. He obviously wasn’t interested in the dumpster because the candy few past another twenty feet before hitting a eucalyptus tree. We went through two bags of M&Ms. I don’t know how many he ate while I zealously peppered the dumpster, but when we were fnished, I hadn’t eaten a single piece of candy. It was a miracle. The next day I took the remaining bag of M&Ms and a slingshot to the ofce. I explained to my staf we were going to play a game, that I had to get rid of M&Ms and had an idea about how to do it. I am sure we looked ridiculous standing in the parking lot shooting candy at a dumpster lid. But once we started, we forgot about appearances. There were three of us, me, Jeanie, my ofce manager, and Linda, my nurse. Soon, we were venting with each shot. Jeanie said, “This is for the bleep-bleep insurance company that made me fle a claim three times because they kept losing it.” Wham! “Give me another piece of candy.” Linda pulled back on the rubber tubing. “This is for my idiotic ex-husband.” The candy smacked the dumpster lid and broke into pieces. I didn’t say anything, but a surge of anger caused me to pull hard on the slingshot. I let go and the candy shattered. “So there,” I said. We laughed at ourselves, but there was underlying substance to what was happening. Not only were we having fun, but the M&Ms disappeared and with them the craving. Afer that, whenever I saw a M&M, I imagined the sound it made hitting the dumpster lid, WHACK, and the urge to have one went away. - 63 - �At the time I was in therapy for some personal issues, including a desire to lose weight. I told my psychologist about the experiment with the M&Ms. “I’ve been playing this game,” I said, explaining it to him. “I think it’s going to work. I haven’t wanted any M&Ms. What I’ve wanted to do instead is go outside with the slingshot and shoot the dumpster. It’s really fun. You ought to try it.” Then I told him about my plans for the Zone Diet. “I’m excited about this. I think I can do it. You get to eat lots of food.” The fear of not having enough food because of low-calorie restrictions was one reason I had failed in the past. Before I lef, I asked if we could have a hiatus from our weekly visits, so we agreed on a return appointment in six weeks. Since it was the end of May, we talked about vacation plans and set up another appointment for July. I didn’t eat any more M&Ms. I didn’t want any M&Ms. And I ate lots of lettuce and celery, and the requisite amount of protein, and I cut way back on my favorite trigger foods—white bread and four tortillas, and I took all the omega-3s suggested by the diet. I lost three pounds. When I saw the psychologist again, he looked diferent. “Did you lose weight?” I asked suspiciously. “Twenty pounds,” he said proudly. “Afer you talked about the Zone Diet, it sounded so good, I tried it.” He shrugged and held out his hands, palms up in the classical, what-was-I-supposed-to-do pose. He had the bafed look men, and sometimes boys get. I shook my head. “Dumb game. It’s just not fair.” - 64 - �Valley of Fire 2 - Claire Wynne - 65 - �A Brief Description of the Creek Behind the Old Barn on a Hill, where I ofen Wrote when Alone: A Haiku - Fen Farnelli Smashed television Bicycle sans handlebars Half buried in dirt. - 66 - �shape of form of love of - Darren Martinez do courtship rituals come naturally to thee? or do we mirror our favorite flms and tropes and books and novels and novellas and parents and and and and just hope that the object of our afection shares our favorite flm trope blah etc. you know the details whatever love’s innates innards? I don’t know, innards things that demonstrate what love is, such as, like, so, forthwith, wherewithal you know like the warmth of a fellow being gifs ranging between any or old new thing meal prepared special attention efort compassion teaching how many of what? I have many, have had many, will have many if I keep on moving will I ever be satisfed???? life hardly feels real in your arms - 67 - �Does the Ocean Likewise Fear the Swabby? - Fen Farnelli One cannot dread not, The nautical knot Of nocturnal naught, I curse the serene Surface of the sea For these sirens who’ve sighed Of what beneath the waves lies, And avert my eyes As I hear more aye-ayes, Captain says; I comply. Captain says; I comply. The ocean, a sheen Shewn shining ashore, Could scant keep its tongue As I mopped the starboard, For to mess with the mate Who messes with masses Of messes about the estate, Oh how great, For the fates shan’t abate As I portly pad port, Captain calls, “Keep at work!” And the mates shout “Aye-aye!” Captain says; I comply. Captain says; I comply. And when the ship had docked that night, I swifly took fight, abandoned my plight, And set myself right To never go sailing again. I never heard, nor smell’d, nor saw, There may have never been a maw, But praise the Lord And all that’s good That I have not seen it And now never would. So good luck to the mates And their solemn aye-ayes, Captain says; they comply. Captain says; they comply. And from the wind af the af, The Odyssey’s oddities Audit inaudibly, Muses amused mumbling To my bumbling ear Of cephalopod deep, Most extreme of enemies, Squeamish extremities Reach up as I cup both my hands To cover my ears. It is then from the helm That I eye an aye-aye, Captain says; I comply. Captain says; I comply. Just to peek the beaklike maw, Not in awe, for the gnaw Of that natural ‘nought - 68 - �glass feelings - jay guziewicz - 69 - �Is there a way to love me? - Haley Katona socks dripping wet from muddy puddles and footprints that follow my march to the fridge to grab the wine would you love me even in the mascara caked to my freckles would you wash my hair holding my head under the water running your fngers through the strands watching me bend to your form as though I am warm clay for you to sculpt would you let me consume you where no matter how far I reach I just keep reaching and pulling into your chest to reach in to your evaporated soul fnding midnight blues and greys pool where my end becomes yours would you grace me like lightening leaving me patterned and struck and listen to me roar as the thunder does whenever your fame bends to my wick is there a way for love to construct and conquer, captivate and corrode all while letting our souls eat one another alive while it pours and foods outside do we lay against and with one another watching the time though you could kiss me without your eyes closed - 70 - �does that mean you watch your love grab a hold of me or that you are waiting for the explosion of the ticking time bomb of all that’s mine - 71 - �Phototropism—Growth Toward Light - Rene Allen, M.D. My boots crunch through a thick layer of frost and break the predawn silence. It is January and cold enough in Tucson, Arizona I wear a jacket. But cold is something I will remember in July before the monsoons come. Daily temperatures of 112 degrees, and looking at thirsty saguaros, their green-ribbed bodies gaunt and shriveled, is depressing. Recalling that a few months ago I wore a jacket and in a few more months, I will again, helps. Seasons do change in the Sonoran Desert. Eventually, respite comes. A deep salmon color in the low eastern sky dusts the undersides of clouds lef over from yesterday’s storm. Every morning is diferent, the color, the air, the way the gravel sounds underfoot as I make a three-mile loop. But it is always quiet here—so quiet I hear my thoughts. I claim this time, this silent pause between night and day when the sun gathers strength, pierces the darkness, and illuminates the desert in a wash of light. I have been present at this pre-dawn hour countless times when I have written through the night in a room called Purgatory—so named because when we put in a Pergo foor, my four sons chose the name Pergo-tory, which in a heartbeat became Purgatory. But it fts. Purgatory is a place to do penance and make peace with the past. Only it wasn’t my sins that kept me writing in this room long past sunset into the darkest part of the night. The gif and curse of both writing and a room called Purgatory is how they pull truth from my soul and demand of me my fnest integrity. What is written exists. I can hold it in my hands. It is mine. I stop and wait for the sun. My breath comes in bursts of white vapor and my hands are cold and clenched in my pockets. When it is cold like this, I wish I had thought to wear gloves. Winter sunrises are subtle, gentle pulsations, delicate at frst, a nudge of light, a ripple of orange-rose that gradually turns pink, then yellow, until it flls the entire eastern sky. Gold light brushes the tops of the eucalyptus and illuminates priestly saguaros whose arms raise heavenward in morning supplication. There are lessons here about these magnifcent saguaros. In the desert where survival depends on meager inches of rain and the topsoil is only an inch deep, saguaros may live 150 years. Those massive arms begin as tiny buds. In the spring, their heads are crowned with white fowers that are pollinated by bats. Native Americans harvest the ruby colored fruit. When full and tight with water afer summer rains, they may weigh two-and-a-half tons. I had an epiphany about saguaros. A couple of weeks ago, I was walking later in the day—the sun was up, the sky was blue, the clouds were pristine and white. That day was the frst time I really noticed the saguaros. I had been thinking about night things, particularly the anxiety that kept me in Purgatory writing until dawn, how it had been going on for months since I attended a conference on Multiple Personality Disorder and Childhood Sexual Abuse. I went because I had a patient with multiple personality disorder. Ignorance is my enemy. One day, she was dissociative and unresponsive in my ofce. I can tell you frsthand, gynecologists do not like unresponsive patients curled in a fetal position on their exam tables. - 72 - �The conference was fve months earlier at a Scottsdale resort. I had eaten lunch on the patio next to a terra cotta pot of white and pink petunias. It was pleasant and warm, and I hesitated to return to the overchilled auditorium. When I fnally went back, a statuesque woman in a royal blue knit dress was well into her presentation. Marilyn Murray was talking about her book, Prisoner of Another war: A remarkable Journey Healing from Childhood Sexual Trauma. Hers was a story of being gang-raped as a child. She repressed the memory only to recover it years later during treatment for severe depression. Something she said punched a button in my brain that set of intense physiological alarms. My hands shook. My heard pounded and thumped. I felt vitality pull away from my skin and hunker down inside, around my muscles and organs. Inside my head I heard my own physician’s voice, “It’s a panic attack, just a squirt of adrenaline. Nothing here will hurt you. Let it go. Breathe. Come on, it’s only a panic attack.” The panic slowly congealed into my own memories of childhood sexual abuse. I wrote at night in Purgatory and took desert walks at dawn to manage feelings of doom and fear. The psychologist I saw said it was all part of post-traumatic stress disorder—anxiety, depression, intrusive thoughts, fashbacks, disturbed sleep, loss of self-esteem, hypervigilance, a sense of being damaged goods—a massive infection trapped inside thick walls of repression that fnally ruptured. I had always thought saguaro arms grew toward the sky, but I was wrong. The day of my epiphany, I realized many saguaros have no arms. Occasionally, there will be a crested saguaro with a swirl of growth at the top, but it is armless. That January afernoon, my attention was on the mature saguaros that were a hundred years old and had many arms. I was surprised to fnd that on some of them the arms were bizarrely twisted and convoluted, that they seemed to grow toward the earth rather than away from it. Yet, even on the arms that curved toward the ground, the tips pointed up. I did an experiment. I found fve saguaros and looked carefully at their arms. On each, regardless of which way it grew, the tip pointed up, toward the sky. Plants have receptors that respond to light. This phenomenon is known as phototropism which is an orientation or growth toward light. I was amazed that regardless of what had happened to the saguaros, whatever caused the distortions, the tips pointed toward the light. There was a mechanism for correction and continued growth. Estimates are one in three women will be sexually abused at some point during their lives, and though the numbers are underreported, boys are also sexually abused with similar, devasting consequences. Emotional growth, the ability to enjoy life, the agency to make choices about your life, all of these are deformed by childhood abuse, Yet, what I found during those Purgatory nights was a compulsion, call it a phenomenon, to move toward the light—to uncover, illuminate, reveal, disclose, and fnd—truth. I feel great reluctance to face the residual demons of abuse, but the capacity to see clearly, to change course and heal, is intrinsic, and is as powerful as the receptors that direct growth in the saguaros. In the stillness of a winter morning, there is hope. - 73 - �Roses Lightened - Emily Cherkauskas - 74 - �pwepwepwpe - Darren Martinez i Do not Interact with American Reality teleVision i am unWelcome in churches, they lack, missing my brother’s wedding where god consummates the union and fucks my brother’s wife the birthPlace of LoVe? why, the mcdonaldo’s BathRoom where i woke up missing an ear i hired A Man to craf the soundtrack of my life with SynthWave techno logy quitting yesterday, he DeCried ‘cannot eat chip and dip, for Each And Every meaL’ why, the only dip was He i drew the sWord from the sTone while Municipal Men sCCCreamed ‘get out of the sewage pit, goblin’ and with their laZer pointers they went ‘pwe pew pew bam boom plamow’ with their little Pursed lips - 75 - �Angry but, a Little Less - Sydney Umstead You painted her the perfect portrait Lef the harsh and immediate brush strokes with me The painting you never want to discuss the details of You perfected your art later The torn up canvas now represents a box buried at the bottom of your closet The faded colors reside behind my tired eyes The version of the Mona Lisa that did not make the fnal cut This fact becomes clear to lovers I take in It’s in my eyes The glistening fear that I will never be the masterpiece Only the groundwork that needs to be built upon A painted over image of all that has been done to me And all that I have become But, will it ever be the fnal work? - 76 - �Bluebird - Tyler Savitski - 77 - �Last Night I Cried - Sam Burgess, Jr. I cried last night, as I watched on TV a small child who sufered from malnutrition lay motionless. The tears welled up in my eyes as I watched this baby who was so weak from hunger, so helpless from starvation, that she had no strength with which to open her eyes. This young and innocent creature of God, who in no way was responsible for her pitiful condition, was now on the brink of death. And her mother, her mother whose breast had completely dried up, could no longer feed her. You see, her daughter is one of a set twin girls. And unfortunately, she had to choose between the two of her babies because she could not keep them both alive. The decision for her was gut-wrenchingly hard, but she knew that if she did not choose one, they both would die. She lost not only a child that day, but a signifcant part of her soul. I cried last night, as I have never, ever, cried before. - 78 - �this poem isn’t quite as important as you think it is - Darren Martinez I have fallen in love. My life is sexless. I do not know intimacy, Only stories. The emotions that permeate creations. The spirit of a Babylonian man that made small goats out of clay, nodding vigorously at our engineering process And the creation of potato chips there are, realistically, only about seven types of stories out there look at human beings, and you might piece together there are just as many types of people its like there’s only about, 20-25 diferent facial structures? Up to the individual to remix on that, I guess. among dweebs, there are many Darrens. skinny Darren, Darren 2.0, darren, many of them too, loveless, sexless beings. / all of them telling one of seven stories telling of love they’ve never had, even though it was written in the stars a long time ago when, who, and why. I try to do what my fellow poets do. Romanticize Wanting to kill yourself, fall in love with inanimate objects, Refect the human condition, think. I’m tired of thinking and being this poem isn’t quite as important as you think it is - 79 - �Pull the Threads - Annie Arsenic In all my dreams I see the world come undone. Tin strips, thread by thread pulled away. Seams split into the open to reveal the vastness of space. When it has all been revealed, I am alone, stuck foating in perfect stillness. Te voice tells me to come close. Te sun appears before me, blinding me. I’m too close to it, and I feel warm. But then just as the discomfort encroached on me, the moon eclipsed the star. And in this moment, I am cooled again. Calmed, and at rest. Te voice tells me it’s name. Ten the moment breaks, and the threads again pull apart my world, this time giving way to even more nothing. Te vision of the eclipse is shredded piece by piece before my eyes, and I am alone with myself in emptiness. Te voice tells me everything. I look down and see that I too have been unraveling, or at least I am now. I hadn’t considered it a possibility, but common sense dictated it should happen. I embrace the universe. As the last piece of me falls into the void, I close my eyes. And just then, I open my eyes. Te dream ends, as it has a thousands times before. Te voice is silent. - 80 - �Grand Canyon 2 - Claire Wynne - 81 - �Prima Materia - Fen Farnelli Black are His eyes, two circles of shale, Which gaze, morose, upon His art. Lead bones proved, in time, too frail To hold His fesh and Iron heart. Ashes to ashes, upon the pyre, Dust to dust, our passions avowed, Aimless, He walks into the gyre, Met now chiseled on His brow, As He had chiseled into stone, Numen now penned in His Will, As He had penned a perfect clone, A changeling that He could not kill. Gold is Their hair, in unbraided strands, Which fows around Their perfect face. Mercury held in Their cupped hands, None spilled as They walked with unmatched grace. Ashes to ashes, smoke to the skies, Dust to Man to Woman to God. Undressed from culture’s rude disguise, Removed from Their obtuse facade. Is it a sin to mold our selves, Earthen fesh on the potter’s wheel, Letting that which in us dwells Loose from this gyre, Their form revealed? White are Her teeth, which gnaw on the bones Of those who’d called Her Son of Man, Copper veins fowed through the stone Which formed Her womb when time began. Ashes to ashes, She guided the plough, Dust to Body, now given a voice. Let loose Her soul from passive vows, If formed before She had a choice. Let loose Her half-divinity, If half must stay upon the earth, Then formed from Tin or Antimony, Held at home without a hearth. Red is my blood, my passion renewed, Now fowing through my Copper heart. Why must my body be broken for you? Who would destroy a work art? Ashes to cinders, cinders to fre, Dust to that which pleases me, Formed in the image of my desire, Elements of a new Alchemy. Now replicated with my voice, The voice which rang while I was stone, I have created a third choice, A changeling who is not alone. - 82 - �Astro3 - Tyler Savitski - 83 - �haven ---- - jay guziewicz picture this: me, in blue, standing on top of a tall building, foot hovering of the edge of the roof. breathe in. breathe out. it only takes two steps for me to learn that even boys named afer birds can’t fy, only f a l l. my foot steps back. i feel the heat of your hand linger against my skin smile ever present on your lips. breathe in. breathe out. it only takes two steps for a boy named for a bird to f a l l into your arms. and then. you. you, a fash of red lighting up the dark skyline of my city. “just a call away, day or night, whenever you need.” - 84 - �Exit..? - Emily Cherkauskas - 85 - �Little Braves - Maura C. Maros Ask for what you want, take what is yours. Stake your claim, make your mark. Leave, stay. Hold the candle, stand with others. Face the ugly, fnd the beauty. Make time, take time. Confront your fears, hold them in your hand. Release them. Love everyone. Find the words, speak your truth. - 86 - �- 87 - �A sister's lament Janine P Dubik Her grief cannot be erased or halved by putting her heaviest stones in my hands. Her grief cannot become mine despite the sunny room we once shared, despite my wish to ease her burden. Her grief is hers alone; it clings to only her and doesn't transfer, so I cannot fathom its depths. �Biographies jay guziewicz is a senior (?) psychology and English major and this year's executive editor. He saw The Batman (2022) 3 times in the frst 24 hours it was on HBO Max. That’s 9 hours of Batman in one day. Emily Cherkauskas is a junior communication studies and English double major with minors in creative writing and women's and gender studies. She accidentally noclipped into the backrooms and doesn't know how to get out. Breanna Ebisch is a senior communications studies major with minors in English and Women's and Gender Studies and is the layout editor for the Manuscript this year. She has been a writer almost all her life, at least for as long as she can remember, and hopes to take that love into her career and future. You can usually fnd her watching a hockey game, belting out Harry Styles and Taylor Swif songs, spending time with her loved ones or with her nose in a book. Breanna loves to travel and frequently indulges in her sense of adventure, most of the time on an impulse. She loves sunny days, laughing with friends and living life to the fullest. Fen Farnelli came from mud and to mud they will return. Darren Martinez: Otaku, habitual Dance Gavin Dance enjoyer, Dark Souls strength build enthusiast. I’m sorry my poetry is so pompous. Jackie Costello: Junior, DDMA, She/Her, Jackie occasionally publishes under the pen name 'Annie Arsenic', enjoys pistacio ice cream, and leads a local cult. Maddy Kinard is a junior English and communication studies dual major with a global cultures minor and is a staf member of Manuscript. She enjoys long walks on the beach at sunset and kittens. Hello! My name is Jordyn Williams. I'm a Theatre Arts and English Graduate with a minor in Dance. It has been a pleasure being a part of Manuscript. I have learned so much from my peers and professors and enjoyed reading the works of other writers. My favorite poet John Keats once said " Poetry should surprise by a fne excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance" (John Keats). I believe poetry is an escape from reality where an individual can express their true feelings and experiences on paper. With my degrees, teachings, and the experience I have gained in Manuscript I hope to become a published author and work for a publishing house. - 88 - �Rene Allen, M.D. graduated with a MA in creative writing in January 2016. Funny fact: She has chia seed breakfast pudding with blueberries and grain free granola every morning for breakfast. You otta' try it! Sam Burgess, Jr. graduated in 1994 with an MBA in management. He is a foot soldier in the army of his Lord and Saviour Jesus the Christ! Mya A. Banegas is of the class of 2025 with majors in theatre and psychology. Her senior year she won frst place in a city-wide playwriting contest in Philadelphia and Temple theatre students performed it. Janine P. Dubik graduated in ‘78 and again with her MFA in ‘19. Fun fact: she was on The Beacon staf for my four undergraduate years. Ylonis Grant is in the class of 2025 and is majoring in psychology. She loves poetry. Ashlee Harry has an M.A. in fction and is a self-published author of The Guardians Trilogy: The Guardians, Ascension, and Legacy. Haley Katona is in the class of 2023, majoring in political science. She has never watched Monsters Inc. without crying. Maura C. Maros has a Masters in Fine Arts. This year, she started a new adventure and co-host the podcast, A Reel Page Turner! Cody Marsh received a Master of Arts in Creative Writing from Wilkes January of 2022. He lives in the Dallas-Fort Worth area, where he is involved in various causes, namely prison abolition. Tyler Savitski is a senior biology and physics major, and plans to study astrobiology. Cas Schiller is a freshman with a major in biochemistry. Fun fact: Cas is ethically sourced! Samantha Ann Stanich-Romasiewicz, MA, MFA ‘20 in Creative Writing, worked as a grad assistant for Marketing Communications for Wilkes and had to be told not every university uses “The” in front of it. Being from Ohio makes you pretentious in that way. - 89 - �Hannah Simerson is a senior English and communication studies major. She was on an episode of Dance Moms (and she even got to sit right next to the moms in the audience)! Sydney Umstead is in the class of 2025 and is currently majoring in English. She has an unhealthy obsession with cofee. Claire Wynne is a senior environmental engineering major, and is also the Vice President of the Gender and Sexuality Alliance, as well as Ofcer of the Games and Media Club. Dr. Mischelle Anthony, co-advisor to the Manuscript Society, is also Associate Professor and Chair of the English Department at Wilkes University. She teaches and writes poems, and has served on the editorial boards of the Midland Review (now defunct, hopefully not her fault) and Cimarron Review. Dr. Chad Stanley makes the English department better by both being a great professor and bringing his dog to campus. - 90 - �- 91 - �Manuscript would like to extend a hand in thanks to: Deb Archavage: The keystone of the English department, an icon, and the foundation of Kirby Hall. Dr. Mischelle Anthony: Manuscript advisor, Oracle of 18th century life writing, and one of the biggest supporters of the Manuscript Staf. Dr. Chad Stanley: Manuscript advisor, Master of relaxed vibes, one of the other biggest supporters of the Manuscript Staf. English Faculty & Staf: A constant supply of encouragement and inspiration. The Print Shop: Always telling us when our order has been received and notifying us when it is complete and ready for pick up. The Kirby Hall Ghost: We can sense your presence and we love you. - 92 - �- 93 - �©2022 by the Wilkes University Manuscript Society. All rights reserved. - 94 - � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, 2021-2022 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/56f3d05d1e7a255d402160074e8ef969.pdf fdbe66630daf95113f57816d9f50ed72 PDF Text Text MANUSCRIPT 2022 - 2023 - 1- �- 2- �The Wilkes University Manuscript Society presents Manuscript 2022 - 2023 Cover photo: “Journey” by M. Michele Geiser - 3- �1947 Forward With this issue of Manuscript a new publication is launched on the Bucknell University Campus in Wilkes-Barre. Those who have been responsible for its coming into being earnestly hope that through your efforts and the efforts of those who come after you that this magazine will develop into a college tradition of which we may all be proud. ­-- The Editors - 4- �Mission Statement The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative writing and visual art magazine, The Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. In preparation for a career in editing, publishing, or creative writing, any Wilkes student is welcome to submit to or work on the editorial board of the Manuscript Society. Staff members critique a variety of creative pieces from Wilkes faculty, staff, students, and alumni. This process includes creative workshopping, copy editing, and layout. Wilkes students may elect to enroll in ENG 190B, Project in Writing: Manuscript, for one (1) credit of coursework. Meetings are held during club hours each semester. Monthly, bimonthly, or seasonal campus poetry reading are open to the Wilkes Community and greater public. The end product is a published, award-winning magazine. - 5- �The Manuscript Society Editorial Board Jay Guziewicz Executive Editor Emeritus Emily Cherkauskas Assitant Editor Jackie Costello Assistant Editor Maddy Kinard Assistant Editor Drew Haritos Outreach and Copy Editor Dr. Mischelle Anthony Faculty Advisor - 6- �A sister’s lament - Janine P. Dubik Her grief cannot be erased or halved by putting her heaviest stones in my hands. Her grief cannot become mine despite the sunny room we once shared, despite my wish to ease her burden. Her grief is hers alone; it clings to only her and doesn’t transfer, so I cannot fathom its depths. - 7- �Table of Contents Journey Front - M. Michele Geiser A sister’s lament 7. - Janine P. Dubik Celestial Embrace: A Cosmic Ode - Alisha Keshvani The Infinite Universe Through the Local Lens - Tyler Savitski The Humming Difference of the in Between - Jess Van Orden The Catacomb - Anthony L. Liuzzo How it Felt to Love You - Haley Katona Paradisiacal Beauty - Aastha Shah The Curse of the Stone Couch - Krista Harner APPLE OF MY EYE - Emily Cherkauskas Bridge in the Woods - Tyler Savitski Out of this world - Mady Hornack Still-Beating Heart - Nate Stavish The Father & The Son - Drew Haritos Grieving in the 21st Century - Breanna Ebisch 12. 13. 14. 17. 18. 19. 20. 23. 24. 25. 26 27. 28. - 8- �29. Guilt is God - Haley Katona ------------- Jackie St. Claire shotgun summer - Darren Martinez Caramel Crown - Tyler Savitski The Poem on Sleepin’ - Saurabh Patel do we should we - Jay Guziewicz You Can’t Say Wilkes-Barre Doesn’t Love You - Tyler Savitski Life as We Know It - Nate Stavish Untitled - Dana Reed Oil - Fen Farnelli ABSOLUTISM - Emily Cherkauskas The Crimson Repose - Jackie St. Claire Far Away - Vaishnavi Kotiyan Untitled - Savannah Hallett panic attack - Darren Martinez hyperdontia - Jay Guziewicz Spaced Out - McKenna Dolan 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. - 9- �47. Kill Bill Vol.2/28 - Aster Rowland Grid Painting - Aracellys Pineda The Little Misses of Wavering Self-esteem - Ylonis Grant sleep - Brynn Stahl The Poem on Gettin’ Threatened - Saurabh Patel It’s Mine - Caden Temple Ethereal - M. Michele Geiser Introspection - Anonymous Celestial - Naveena Koli Delight - Tyler Savitski am i that much of a freak - Darren Martinez Sinking - Nate Stavish CAPTURE - Emily Cherkauskas Thoughts of Otherworldly - Mastari Shaikh The Nun - Anthony L. Liuzzo Eat, Drink, and Be Scary - Krista Harner Celestial Soul - Harita Pitale 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 66. - 10 - �67. sometimes i wish i had an older sister - Breanna Ebisch For Whom Grief Calls - Haley Kotana NOSTALGIA - Emily Cherkauskas Poem - Aster Rowland still life - Drew Haritos buried - Brynn Stahl Surrender - Haley Kotana A Mother’s Desires - Breanna Ebisch Bees - Jacob O’Boyle Space Cow - Nate Stavish malignant - Drew Haritos Kaleidoscope - Anonymous AN ESCAPEE OF THE STARR’S FLESH - Emily Cherkauskas Death - M. Michele Geiser Courts of Justice vs Nafus - Ashlee Harry Space - Mady Hornack Judgement Day - Quinn Carden 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 88. 89. - 11 - �Celestial Embrace: A Cosmic Ode - Alisha Keshvani In the vast expanse of space, Celestial bodies spin and race, A universe of wonder, a cosmic embrace, Forever inspiring, with endless grace. In the vast expanse of space, Celestial bodies spin and race, Each one unique, with its own grace, A universe of wonder, a cosmic embrace. The sun, a blazing ball of fire, The source of warmth and life’s desire, A radiant king, to whom we aspire, A center of the solar system’s empire. The moon, a gentle glowing sphere, A beacon of light, both far and near, A celestial partner, to calm and clear, A satellite to our planet dear. The planets, each with its own charm, From fiery Mars to icy Saturn’s arm, A diverse family, a cosmic farm, A mystery to solve, a celestial swarm. The stars, twinkling in the night, A million candles, a glorious sight, A guide to lost ships, a lover’s delight, A canvas of art, a celestial light. The galaxies, swirling in space, A cosmic dance, a majestic race, A home to trillions, a heavenly place, A reminder of beauty, a universal grace. - 12 - �The Infinite Universe Through the Local Lens - Tyler Savitski - 13 - �The Humming Difference of the in Between - Jess Van Orden I. - 14 - �II. Her fingertips speak, turn, slide Up Inside the silver morning Light III. and opening Hear her laughing, easy with prismatic brilliance. When she talks, The World whisper[s] I get lost in her. She is the wild feel of home. The smell of spring sliding in. The difference between soundless and humming. Turn to the window Inside is soundless Deep, wild, humming She is curious to know the feel of home When he speaks, she know[s] the difference The silver smell of evening whispers “go” She slides her fingertips up stairwells, across The World Lost to spring, she finds no opening She can hear him smiling - 15 - �IV. V. The hummingbirds, occasionally curious, radia[te] a brilliance. Humming across The World. Between he and her With she and you I hear the stairwells slide. Inside, a whisper, “I go with you.” No laughing. Up, in, and turn Get lost to know the smell of home. Hear the evening. Speak easy. In the Light of morning, find her smiling deep. Occasionally, the window radia[tes] golden lights. Wild, she know[s]. He gets lost in the turns of a curious kaleidoscope Sliding up, across She, inside, fingertips amongst the hummingbirds Light, soundless, laughing The difference is the whisper of The World. - 16 - �The Catacomb - Anthony L. Liuzzo It dawned on him that his golden age had passed. He could barely climb the steps in his boarding house and exercise was nearly impossible. He had great difficulty sleeping at night and regular daytime naps had become essential. He was retired now, after serving most of his adult life working in the pest control industry. While the financial rewards had been minimal, at least he did enjoy the work and usually felt a sense of gratitude from his clients. He had two fellow boarders. The first was a young lad who made far too much noise and was extremely messy. He would leave dirty dishes that needed attention, and was not well-groomed. There was usually an unpleasant, malodorous odor that accompanied the fellow when he entered one of the common areas of the house. The second, a middle-aged female, was so aloof and unfriendly that she would generally not even acknowledge his existence. Fortunately, both of these individuals were out during most of the day, presumably attending to work duties. Despite these somewhat unpleasant co-renters, he remained in the home because the rent was within his means and because, at his advanced age, there was simply no other place for him to go. His landlord and landlady were pleasant enough. Meals and general housecleaning were provided with the rental fees, and the owners tended to these responsibilities in a fairly satisfactory manner. Food tended to be plentiful and reasonably tasty, but these were served only at regular times (between-meal snacks were frowned upon). There seemed to be numerous rules for the house, not all of which were comprehensible or, in his judgment, even rational. He did enjoy the afternoons, especially on sunny days. He would laze by the upstairs window. From this vantage point, he could observe the very desirous young female who lived directly across the street. He would peer through the sheer curtains stealthily; although he was convinced she was fully aware of his presence. When she stood up, he could get clear view of her beautiful body and his long-lost drive for sex seemed to stir, albeit only just a bit. As he pondered his life, sleepiness began to overtake him. He closed his eyes, and suddenly felt engulfed in a most pleasant sensation. The seventeen-year-old boy came into the room. He stared at the body on the floor and then called out to his father. “Dad! Come quick! I think there’s something wrong with the cat.” - 17 - �How it Felt to Love You - Haley Katona the still quiver of the water, the flushed birdsong of the morning warm white air in the pale sky, tangerine scented freckles lining the orange peel after ripening in the direct sunlight all afternoon the aching violet spreading over the opal blue soft petals that wear this exchange as the hydrangea blooms may’s cold spell after the heat wave, breaking open chest cavities and the hollowed bones of spring’s yelp crackling and searing themselves in the direct flame as the sun crawls back closer to the earth, the dirt drying up, feathering itself out to the edges watch me, here, on my knees, mercy me take the last grasp of the lining of my aorta, display it as if we were in the moma, follow me hand in hand while the seasons gripe over which will have the last word, the last kill, to be the last standing as I watch them, overbearing and tall, dagger in hand as they mock me like a small child, their grins as the sky darkens, clouds rumbling over one another, sparking the edge that glows just over the mountaintop, thunder as quiet as a whisper, lightning that blinks just as his gracious eyes let the downpour echo as it spits over the rocks while I have risen both my hands up above, let the wind drag itself across my face, drudging along in its time eyes open, eyes up and bare in the break of light sky clearing up like a paintbrush wiping up the coal dust with blue let the sun out of its cage, let him feed the flowers to bloom - 18 - �Paradisiacal Beauty - Aastha Shah - 19 - �The Curse of the Stone Couch - Krista Harner October 2019 “Alright, loser, we’re here.” Camden glanced up from his Smartwatch as Blake, his 17-year-old brother, pulled off onto the grassy shoulder. “This is Eckley Road?” “Yep, according to Google Maps.” Blake flipped his brown bangs out of his eyes. “Get going. I’ve kept Kylie waiting long enough.” He pulled his cell phone off the dashboard mount, thumbs rapidly continuing a conversation he’d begun twenty minutes earlier. “You’re not coming with me?” “Your assignment, not mine. I already passed middle school.” “You could’ve at least parked closer,” Cam grumbled. Unbuckling, he slammed the car door behind him and scanned his surroundings. Eckley Road was completely deserted. On either side of the pavement was a stretch of silent, gloomy woods, lining the road like a dark corridor. Jamming his hands in his pockets, Cam hunkered down against the October chill and proceeded up the shoulder, dry leaves crunching underfoot as he walked the remaining fifteen yards to his destination. When his seventh-grade history teacher had announced her Halloween assignment—to research a haunted place in Pennsylvania—Cam was sure most of his peers would go the Gettysburg ghost story route. It was the easy way out. But, thanks to his grandfather’s stories, Cam had had an idea as soon as he’d left class. Growing up in Hazleton, the hub of the Anthracite Coal Region, Cam had always been fascinated with mining stories, both real and imagined—tales of lost miners and cave-ins, tommyknockers and coal golems. His grandfather, a third-generation miner, had passed down local lore and legend, enthralling Cam as he grew from superstitious youngster to curious teenager. It had taken most of the weekend and two month’s allowance to persuade Blake to drive him, but Cam had made it. He had finally arrived at the place his grandfather had spoken about but refused to ever visit. There, before him, was the cursed Stone Couch of Buck Mountain. * * * * * October 1918 The moaning from the backseat of his tin Lizzie made Patrick Dunne’s heart drop. As superintendent of the Lehigh Valley Coal Company, Patrick was fortunate enough to be financially comfortable. He owned a Ford Model T, lived in a cozy Dutch Colonial, and bought his wife, Coraline, a new fur muff every Christmas. What he had not been able to do, however, was protect her from the Spanish Flu. Originally detected in March, a second wave was currently sweeping across the nation, with alarming death rates in Pennsylvania’s coal regions. “300 Corpses Awaiting Burial in Luzerne County” the newspaper headlines ran. “Cold Storage Plants Used as Temporary Morgues”; “Trolley Car Manufacturer Donates 100 Packing Crates for Coffins”. Patrick gripped the steering wheel as another moan reached his ears. His wife had first come down - 20 - �with a chill two nights ago. When a fever soon developed, coupled with muscle aches and a raw throat, a deeprooted worry began to gnaw inside Patrick. Though large gatherings were prohibited, his deeply religious wife still insisted on attending her church sewing circle. Patrick had pleaded with her to at least wear the recommended face covering, but she’d waved him off. Her faith would protect her. But it hadn’t, and Coraline’s only hope was ten miles away in the town of Weatherly... Patrick heard the pop of the wheel seconds before the Model T lurched sideways toward the road’s shoulder. Cursing, Patrick fought to steady the car, but dust from the mountain road clouded the windshield, and the Model T rammed into something huge and heavy. “Patrick...” Coraline wheezed. The sudden jolt had slid her to the floor. “Cora!” Patrick threw open his car door and raced to her side. Gently, he placed her back onto the seat and checked her for any injuries before surveying the car’s damage. The front right wheel had popped off the axel, which, in turn, made them crash into an odd rock formation resembling a couch. Looking up and down the deserted road, Patrick prayed for a passerby, but found only the creaking trees for company. He would have to start walking the six remaining miles to Weatherly. “Stay in the car, Cora. I’m going for help.” “So hot...” The perspiration on Coraline’s brow beaded like blisters. “No, Cora. Stay in the car.” Patrick clasped her hands. “I’ll be back with Dr. Unger soon.” * * * * * October 2019 The stone monoliths did, indeed, resemble a couch. There were two rough-hewn slabs fitted against each other at a ninety-degree angle and, on the right-hand side, an oblong rock fashioned into a sort of armrest. Moss and wildflowers grew through its fissures, providing little comfort to those who dared sit on its craggy surface. Cam shivered violently, as if there were a locomotive humming down his spinal tracks. According to his grandfather, it was unknown if this stone couch had been natural or man-made. Only a few feet from the road, it seemed like the perfect place for a wayfarer to take a break and enjoy a moment’s rest. However, Cam knew better than to fall prey to its peaceful pastoral façade. It was a bedeviled spot, his grandfather had told him, cursed by a colliery worker who had lost his wife to a plague... Wayfarers who dared rest there sickened and died. Disease oozed from its crevices; misfortune tainted its cracks. The Stone Couch of Buck Mountain meant death. * * * * * October 1918 They found her lying prostrate on the stone, the trees presiding over her like pallbearers. “Cora?” Patrick whispered, but Dr. Unger confirmed what he already knew. “I’m sorry,” the doctor said through his mask. “She was hot in the car...” Patrick’s fingertips caressed Cora’s now-cool forehead. “She must have...” he - 21 - �looked at the doctor, stricken. Dr. Unger squeezed Patrick’s shoulder. It would be dark soon. “Let’s take her home.” In a daze, Patrick helped Dr. Unger wrap Coraline’s body in a sheet and load it into the doctor’s car. Before getting in himself, however, Patrick retrieved a crowbar from his broken-down Model T. This stone couch had wrecked his car; it was the deathbed of his wife. With bitter tears coursing down his cheeks, he chiseled: Coraline Virginia Dunne 1890-1918 Then, he spat on the cursed rock. * * * * * October 2019 The car horn blasted through the air with the sharpness of a nuclear missile, breaking Cam’s trance on the rock. He tumbled backwards, landing on the edge of the asphalt. Throwing the impatient Blake an angry look, Cam wiped the dirt and gravel from his stinging palms. He was just about to get up when something etched into the front of the stone couch caught his eye. Cocking his head, he realized that letters had been carved into the rock, which he had missed while standing. Time and weather had eroded most of them, with only a few still recognizable. Another blast came from Blake’s direction. Snapping a picture with his phone, Cam ran back to his brother’s car. “Come on, we need to get back. Mom and Dad are gonna start to wonder where we are.” Blake fastened his seatbelt and replaced his phone on the dash. “So,” he continued, smirking, “was the dreaded stone couch everything you hoped it would be? Encounter any spirits? Get a glimpse of the apocalypse?” Cam rolled his eyes and held out the picture he’d taken, pointing to the weather-beaten marks. “You tell me.” Blake zoomed in on the carvings. “I see some random letters but that’s about it.” Cam grabbed a pen and wrinkled up Wendy’s napkin from the glove compartment. Squinting, he said, “Yeah, I can make out a C and O...” Carefully, he copied the rest of the etching onto the ketchup-stained paper napkin and then held it up for Blake. Blake shifted the car into drive. “C-O-V-I-D 19?” “What do you think it means?” Cam asked. Blake shrugged and peeled onto Eckley Road. “Beats me.” - 22 - �APPLE OF MY EYE - Emily Cherkauskas pearly teeth emerge from between supple lips hungrily biting a dewdrop-covered apple freshly picked from the gala tree pearly teeth emerge from between supple lips delicately biting their shaky bottom lip freshly kissed by their one true love as they lie within the shadow of the gala tree - 23 - �Bridge in the Woods - Tyler Savitski - 24 - �Out of this world - Mady Hornack We wait for midnight Where we can see our passion written in the stars And when the sun rises we lay together waiting for the eclipse So we can experience something cosmic again We are not radiant like most lovers Our energy is too powerful for the daylight We touch and are sent into orbit Where our love circulates among the stardust - 25 - �Still-Beating Heart - Nate Stavish I hold your still-beating heart Outside our house by the dark void Its edges fitted with wires of barb Its walls made of flesh adjoined I can’t stand this time apart Memories flash like a fresh polaroid Shaking to be able to see you just right I can’t hear the sound of your voice Your face is lost in the night The dark red cavern squelches under my feet My torch cooks it with its light I keep searching for the one I need to meet Because of him, we may reunite My mind screams out to your soul I reach and grab for the fragments I wish we could grow old Fantasy slows my fast descent I wake up to the moaning of the walls Made by spirits imprisoned for eternity I see a man in a red shawl His character opposes all confraternities He takes your heart into his left hand He stares at it with his empty goat eyes The flesh swallows me like quicksand I wish I had told you goodbye - 26 - �The Father & The Son - Drew Haritos - 27 - �Grieving in the 21st Century - Breanna Ebisch a dead girl follows me on instagram. it wasn’t always that way. in fact, i knew her once. on the field, in the classroom, as a friend. now, it’s impossible for my follow count to ever return to zero. because her follow button can’t be unclicked anymore. the reminder is always there. of someone lost. of someone who was. of someone. her. a bright soul with the kindest heart. a dead girl follows me on instagram. how weird is that? grieving is immortalized in the age of social media. how can we ever move on? - 28 - �Guilt is God - Haley Katona devoted and on fire here, down on my knees in the flames and directly facing the pinnacle of god, to whom I have given all that I can hold within me: my pain so breathlessly am I a servant to the solitude of my godliness and holiness which I can only make up for in the ash and dirt of worshiping the knife smearing it across my face down in a line, across the same my skin is burning but I always am a torch ignited me and the rest has been restless and unfortunate in desire to break the rib bone, to drink the wine of which was supposed to be blood- I am a fire that was set and I can’t seem to unbind myself from a promise I never made and yet it will kill me if it is not kept - 29 - �- Jackie St. Claire - 30 - �shotgun summer a camera cast upon death, viewing it, worshipping it, being consumed by it. - Darren Martinez it just keeps going the wind picks up the few dust particles and tosses them with abandon they tink-tink-tink off my glasses, get caught in my hair, which is already caught on the sides of my mouth, due to the aforementioned wind. The shotgun bristles against my tattered flannel, smacks of oil. bag rattles of shells, gunpowder whips up a frenzy, buckshot in my smile. some films have their logical trajectory in the hobo with a shotgun, who kills god. there is no usurper, perhaps an outer god will shore up ranks and maintain responsibility, but the hobo does not stop being a hobo just for killing god other films, you know your protagonist, and everything and all that they love, will die. in a lot of ways, that’s life. Might be silly to say all films should fully encompass life, though they all reflect it. but I find it a lot harder to relate to, and understand a film that doesn’t end in death. - 31 - �Caramel Crown - Tyler Savitski - 32 - �The Poem on Sleepin’1 - Saurabh Patel Delighted for a moment you then move in. When the eyes open, senses come in. Sleeping five hours, you still wanna be in. But reality gives you a sense to not go in. Again you wait for the dream to come in. Eagerly waiting for the time to come in. When the eyes close the dream comes in. 1 Note to Reader: To have a better feel and understanding of this poem, imagine yourself when you feel drowsy in any class(es). - 33 - �do we should we - Jay Guziewicz - 34 - �You Can’t Say Wilkes-Barre Doesn’t Love You - Tyler Savitski - 35 - �Life as We Know It - Nate Stavish I pass corpse grey buildings In the back of my friend’s beaten-up car Trying to find something fulfilling We travel near and far We never find anything worth doing We are the kings of boredom The czars of apathy We are cigarette smokers in mourning Of fun that died a junkie - 36 - �Untitled - Dana Reed - 37 - �Oil - Fen Farnelli Set the tempo to my dreams, Where city smoke stacks spout sweet steam, The stars snuffed out by docile clouds, And gather quick within the crowd, To place a tongue on tart benzine And cinnamon symptoms saccharine, Of open air stuffed tight with friends, A knot of forms, of hods and hens, Then rest, ferment, fermata there, Burnt scent of nectar in the air, Til sick the taste of company, Upended lungs and pageantry, As oil’s wiped away by rain, And roiled thunder rolls again, The sky now opens, bitter and vast, And breaks apart our silent cast, And petrichor leaves parkways bright, Make saline that sweet slick of night, And dry we sit as this song ends, Anointed, soon, we’ll be again. - 38 - �ABSOLUTISM - Emily Cherkauskas - 39 - �The Crimson Repose - Jackie St. Claire I cannot help but feel unheard, with ears that ring with noise. A gambit every word I speak, and so I speak with poise. A world aghast, I walk alone. A path I walk on pain I’ve known. A tongue of poison, forged of fear. A watchful eye, forged in here. A rhyme interrupted, a thought unheard. I tried to speak, but said no-The council calls me in again. I have been here before. The callous gazes glazed on me, I can tell they will not care. I must speak loudly, and boldly here. The centremost one speaks. “What business have you here?” Of course I have no business. But they ask it all the same. It seems the business is theirs, and so it becomes mine. “I wish to move forward, perhaps oh high and mighty ones, you will grant me passage?” I see them whisper, I see them peek. It is impolite to notice, so I do not. Their deliberations are equal in theory. But what the schemer thinks, the speaker says, and that thought is what is said. “No.” It’s simple, and it’s harsh. But I will pass nonetheless. I must speak these words “Of course, my council. I will turn back now.” I sneak past their watch, their word, their law. Judge me if you will, that’s your mistake to make. I cannot abide some things, I must move forward, undeterred. I must complete my word. - 40 - �- 41 - �Far Away - Vaishnavi Kotiyan There is a sea of limitless potential Existing at all times In the ether of the universe. Human beings as vessels, Bring this potential into being. When not every scar made is ugly, Some scars of the moon give its celestial beauty. There is a celestial mind force, A great sympathetic force, Life, of which everything is composed. I became a comet, shooting back into the heavens, Burning bright; throwing sparks against the night sky, Forever illuminating the earth with my light. So, when dark thoughts shroud my body spirits. Sweet hope! Celestial influence around me sheds, Having the silver pinions over my head, I calm my mind and gain the happiness I could not find. - 42 - �Untitled - Savannah Hallett - 43 - �panic attack - Darren Martinez I cannot put to words the agony I’ve undergone the past few months. What is a panic attack? It is this feeling of duh-duhduhduh-duh in your heart, like your body is drifting a go-kart and everything is speeding up and accelerating faster than your brain can handle and you’re lonely so lonely it’s dark and fast and time doesn’t make sense and you just want light and neutrality finality and your room, where you had your first panic attack of recent memory there were perhaps many many more in the past becomes a den for further panic the shadows stretch across your posters the stacks of books that block your floor and you fear your own room your own body the mind races against the body nobody wins and this goes on and on and you’re worried about rent a job a love life your ailing body hatred pain fear money it never never fucking never ends - 44 - �hyperdontia - Jay Guziewicz i want more teeth in my mouth than my jaw allows, want to unhinge my bones and scream feral and monstrous and dark. i am the nightmare of the little girl i once was, my spine has been twisted like the tree branch she used to swing on, graceful and polite. there is no grace carried in my footsteps anymore, it has been beaten out of me, carved out of my back leaving my blood dripdripdripping onto my white shirt. i am not who i once was, who i could’ve once become. that girl who swung from tree branches has died, buried by skeletons of dead and rotting dogs. i killed her myself, with my bitterness and fear, with my claws that sprouted from dainty fingers wrapped around her delicate little throat. it was better for her to suffocate by my hand, then the hand of the person who stole everything good from us. - 45 - �Spaced Out - McKenna Dolan - 46 - �Kill Bill Vol.2/28 - Aster Rowland laughing my ass off about how when we were dating you didn’t like it when I said “I thought you hated me” but now that we’re friends remember,because YOU wanted to, I never see your ass your favorite game is MTG when’s my birthday? what 19 year old man doesn’t know who emmett till is? whenever I tell that story people think I should’ve broken up with you first. too damn old to be blaming catholic private school your favorite color is watermelon pink what’s my wife’s name? i know there was good too, your goofy smile man you were a good cuddler the random kisses and thanks for catching me up on mha your favorite anime genre is isekai what’s my dream vacation spot? for the love of God say what’s on your mind in the moment before my head goes through a window. thanks for (almost) making me fall in love with the bare minimum - 47 - �Grid Painting - Aracellys Pineda - 48 - �The Little Misses of Wavering Self-esteem - Ylonis Grant Little Miss doubtful, meet Little Miss insecure. I’m Little Miss all my problems fade away when I walk through the door. This Little Miss wants a happy ending, so she’s Little Miss idealistic. Scared of screwing up, she’s Little Miss failed connections. Scared of not being worthy to meet Little Miss handing out rejections. - 49 - �sleep - Brynn Stahl - 50 - �The Poem on Gettin’ Threatened - Saurabh Patel When you trying to get some work done You know well, soon it should be done Voiding sleep in order to see it done Then suddenly you are summoned Weird guy it is, asking you the question: Hey you, when you gonna be done? Zone it is yours and you the person Zone justly mine, reply was simple Tho simple, guy seemed done Said he thrice, “You got an attitude person?” As you asked twice, you felt threatened Lost in thoughts of completion Trying to explain the situation Left alone to achieve completion You the person, happy to be pardoned Being just, and had been threatened Never mind tho, as work has to be done - 51 - �It’s Mine - Caden Temple A bookmark untouched. The calluses of love. The weight is enough, to imprint your hug. The marks left behind, memories set in stone. Your hand rests in mine. Your house, is my home. Your breath, I breathe. Your arm, my sleeve. Your visions, I see. Your wish, my dream. It’s our Territory. - 52 - �Ethereal - M. Michele Geiser - 53 - �Introspection I am Enrique - Anonymous - 54 - �Celestial - Naveena Koli From the womb of the night, Comes out the sun, glowing and bright The sky is his cradle, to dwell and grow. White clouds, his playmates, Yet a longing, for someone he awaits. The lone lover continues to blaze in sorrow; Long enough, not knowing what will follow. Then the demure moon finally arrives, And brazen sun softly sparkles and shines The broken waves of the ocean Threading through the earth’s thin air Her mind, embroidered with constellations. Sun and moon in their galaxy of love Teaching the truth of life from the high and above Love is timeless, everlasting and eternal An essence of existence that is universal. - 55 - �Delight - Tyler Savitski - 56 - �am i that much of a freak - Darren Martinez I’ve been playing this game recently called Risk of Rain. The general premise is of this huge, universe-traversing shipping freighter getting assaulted by a godly being, divined through primal strength you play as survivors from the crew, or rescuers with the prime objective being to escape! being that the huge freighter was demolished, its cargo peppers the landscape. said cargo is the survivors’ only hope, as the various shipments contain items that accelerate beyond human capability the game is addicting as shit. but also, I love the game’s commentary on our addiction to material things. I love the idea that the sci-fi world will still require massive shipping conglomerates. I love the soundtrack I love reading the item and enemy lore. and I love that nine out of ten times, the natural world will repel the player like the sinful, foreign object they are. Game over. I’ve got friends that play this game with me via multiplayer. The gameplay loop keeps us quite engaged, but its fair to say we haven’t touched much upon the readings I have of the game. - 57 - �I’m not sure if we would share too many sentiments. But I’m also not sure if my English major training just doesn’t let me turn my brain off. in a similar vein, I find it hard to explain to others why I love the cyberpunk genre so much. I find it hard to explain to others that sometimes we live in a cyber dystopia in our waking hours. I don’t know why I feel good when I feel melancholy. I finished the short anime series Cyberpunk: Edgerunners, and I knew every character I loved would die or suffer, from the very first episode. It’s a beautiful story about fate, about the power of megacorporations, the existence of free will, about labor, about so fucking much. So much. I’m definitely not alone in the world when I gush about it. But I’m pretty alone in when I look at what I’m surrounded by in Bumfuck, Pennsylvania. People seem to limit their mind, on purpose. I don’t think I’m all that smart Or a revolutionary, Or anything like that. I’m just a dumb punk kid with a head full of anime. But am I that much of a freak? Am I that much of an outlier? - 58 - �Sinking - Nate Stavish I sink further into the blue-black sea I paddle and push desperately The darkness envelops me It swallows me whole I am met by neon red eyes And a tentacle A looming presence that grabs hold of my mind A hidden God that I didn’t want to find A cavalcade of calamari sing a coda A beautiful hymn of my demise The feeling of dread lasts for an eternity Why won’t the monsters devour me? - 59 - �CAPTURE - Emily Cherkauskas - 60 - �Thoughts of Otherworldly - Mastari Shaikh A planet, No eye has ever seen, No ear has ever heard, No mind can ever imagine, It’s beyond and above everything, There are angels who will greet you. Sizes of doors from earth to sky, One room which leads to another room, That leads to another room, Where you have new fruits, new dishes, Each bite will taste different, Everything will be new. A place where your persona changes, Hatred from your heart, all taken out, Nobody hurts you there, You’ll never fall sick, Nobody tells you to work. No need of cosmetic, No need of plastic surgery, Just desire your imaginary face, And your face changes. You will not experience burning sun or bitter cold, Natural light instead of sunlight, Plenty of food, Smells of sweat like musk. Palaces made of pure gold, One brick is Gold, One brick silver, One brick Emerald, One brick Diamond, Each one is different. - 61 - �The Nun - Anthony L . Liuzzo Sister Agatha watched as Nurse Jackson tended to the tiny bedroom in the Group Home. Nurse Jackson was a short, heavy-set woman with a roundish face who seemed always to be in a good mood. “Heavens” thought the Sister, “she could be cleaning up my urine and still be smiling!” Nonetheless, she would dearly miss the caretaker, who at the end of the week would be moving out of the area in order to be closer to her grandchildren. The retired nun was 83 years of age and extremely frail. While she had no terminal disease of which she knew, she suffered from an advanced form of arthritis that left her in extreme pain and unable to attend to several basic needs, hygienic and otherwise. Colleen, as she was called prior to her entry to the convent, was the middle child of three girls. Her older sister, Jennifer, was beautiful beyond words, and her younger sister, Marybeth, carried a posture of pertness and impishness that the boys seemed to adore. Colleen entered the convent at the age of eighteen and became Sister Agatha. During the 1960s and 1970s, Agatha had served as a grammar school teacher in a Catholic boys’ school. Those were the glory days, when young students learned discipline, respect for elders, and, most importantly, adherence to society’s rules of behavior. Now, at the dawn of this new millennium, it just wasn’t the same any longer. As she reflected upon her life, the Sister recalled one incident in particular. As she had turned the corner to one of the corridors in the school, a handsome young boy named Robert Carrulo was imitating her stance, while exclaiming repeatedly “I am Aggie, the old baggie.” This was especially infuriating for two reasons. First, alluding to her as old was absurd, since at the time she was only in her late forties. And second, and far more importantly, referring to her by a shortened version of her first name violated all rules of decorum and respect. Mr. Carrulo paid the price for this transgression, by being the recipient of five whacks with the metallic ruler, and also by being required to stay after school for an entire month, spending this time cleaning several classrooms. Nurse Jackson was now returning to the bedroom after a brief stint away. Following a few feet behind her was a handsome young man. Nurse Jackson explained that the gentleman was her replacement and introduced him as Nurse Robert Carrulo. He smiled at Sister Agatha while a glint of recognition formed in his eye. “Please,” he said, “feel free to call me Bobby.” - 62 - �Eat, Drink, and Be Scary - Krista Harner Vivienne Moyer gazed at the portrait before her. The man, in his buttoned vestment and large overcoat, gazed back. He had a broad forehead and a thick mustache perched above unsmiling lips. A coarse, puffy beard extended six inches below his chin. “Know who that is?” came a voice behind her. Vivienne whipped around. A girl about her own age—eleven—smiled smugly. “The founder of Bube’s Brewery?” Vivienne had been enjoying the peace and quiet of the Brewery Gallery—its narrow corridor, antiquated brick archways, faint lighting. It was a nice break from the live band and raucous laughter of The Biergarten, the brewery’s outdoor dining area where her parents and their friends—the DiRossi’s—were enjoying an evening of dinner and entertainment. “Yes, but I bet you don’t know his name or how to pronounce it. It’s Alois Bube,” she continued without skipping a beat. “Ala-wees Boo-bee.” Snickering, she explained, “It’s German. He was an eighteen-year-old brewing apprentice when he emigrated from Bavaria. He bought this brewery in 1876.” When her parents first mentioned dinner with the DiRossi’s at Bube’s Brewery, Vivienne was excited. Their daughter, Adele, was her best friend. With the weather finally seasonable for April, she was looking forward to eating outside. Bube’s was a popular spot, with its Murder Mystery Dinners, theatrical feasts, brewery tours, and haunted history. While her parents were regulars, it was Vivienne’s first time, and she couldn’t wait for a night out with her best friend. Then Adele had gotten a sinus infection. Though Vivienne had begged her parents to let her stay home, they’d insisted she still join them, and her annoyance had only increased during the twenty-minute drive from Hempfield to Mount Joy. “You seem to know a lot about this place,” Vivienne said. “I’m here often,” the girl answered. “My name’s Lina.” “Vivienne.” “So, Vivienne, what do you think of my dress?” Lina twirled around. A blush crept up Vivienne’s neck. She’d been wondering why the girl was dressed so oddly. While Vivienne sported a t-shirt, cardigan, capris, and flip flops, Lina was wearing a flowing white dress with dark stockings and black leather lace-up ankle boots. “Sorry, but it looks like a nightgown.” “It’s my costume!” Lina dissolved into giggles. “I’m an actress.” Dramatically, she bowed to an imaginary audience. “My parents are in the theatre troupe that performs the Murder Mystery Dinners. I get to participate sometimes. We just finished rehearsing for tomorrow’s show called ‘Witches Brew.’ It’s based on the Bube family history and their magical secret recipes.” She wiggled her eyebrows at Vivienne. “I’m playing Pauline, the granddaughter of Alois.” “Wasn’t she schizophrenic? You know, heard voices?” Lina became very somber. “Why do you ask that?” - 63 - � “My best friend Adele read it on the website. She was looking up the menu ahead of time and found some history about this place.” Vivienne jerked her thumb back to the portrait. “Doesn’t the spirit of Alois haunt the brewery because he killed his granddaughter? Drowned her in a barrel to purify her soul?” A baptism gone wrong, Adele had called it. Lina gazed fondly at the portrait. “Not true. Alois understood Pauline and believed in her... brewing talents. Doctors wanted to institutionalize her, but Alois refused. He permitted her to live in the brewery until her death.” “So, who actually killed her?” Lina’s eyes darkened. “Loneliness.” In the distance, Vivienne could hear scattered applause and the faint clinking of silverware. She had the sudden urge to return to The Biergarten, with its fried food and spicy cider, tuneful music and jovial voices. “Listen, do you want to join us for dessert? I’m sure my parents wouldn’t mind...” “I’m not to go outside,” Lina interrupted. She skipped down the hallway, motioning for Vivienne to follow. “Why don’t you come with me? I’ll show you around and introduce you to the other theatre kids.” Vivienne glanced in the direction of The Biergarten. Part of her knew she should rejoin her parents, but the other part of her was still angry that they made her come without Adele... * * * “...so Alois expanded the brewery and built the Central Hotel to accommodate guests and travelers,” Lina prattled. “The hotel had the first flushing toilet in all of Mount Joy!” While Vivienne had found Lina to be an informative tour guide, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was drowning—not just under the depth of information being provided, but because they were physically descending deep into the bowels of the brewery. “How far underground are we?” Vivienne hesitantly stepped off the steep lantern-lined staircase that opened into a cavernous room with limestone walls and a candle chandelier. Lina smiled, her beady eyes crinkling in the corners. “Forty-three feet below street level. This is part of the Catacombs.” Vivienne shivered. “Catacombs?” “Yes—chambers initially dug for beer storage, but now a place to congregate.” Lina’s boots tapped across the cement floor as she led Vivienne to an enormous barrel in the corner. Positioned to conceal where part of the wall had crumbled from decay, it disguised the entrance to a small alcove. Stepping through, Vivienne found herself in what seemed like a kitchen nook—a small square table sat with four wicker chairs. Chipped plates, rusted silverware, and dingy cloth napkins made up four table settings. In the middle of the table sat a bowl of sugared pastries and a ceramic pitcher full of amber-colored liquid. “We’re here!” Lina announced. Vivienne watched, mesmerized, as Lina made her way around the table, greeting invisible guests. “Sorry we took so long,” Lina was saying, “but she wanted the tour first.” Vivienne warily eyed the vacant chairs. “I should be getting back to The Biergarten...” - 64 - � But Lina cut her off. “It’s rude to mention leaving when you’ve only just arrived.” She turned toward an empty chair. “Ingrid, don’t be a piggy. Pass the German dumplings.” Vivienne looked from Lina to the empty chair to Lina again. Huffing in irritation, Lina retrieved the bowl of sugared pastries and offered them to Vivienne. Declining at first, Vivienne took one when Lina declared, “No one leaves without a taste test” and planted herself firmly between Vivienne and the alcove entrance. Hesitantly, Vivienne bit into it, the sweetness of the cinnamon sugar and tartness of plums blending deliciously in her mouth. “Tasty, aren’t they?” Clapping twice, Lina announced, “Annalise, the apple cider!” Vivienne jumped at the sharp claps but took the goblet obediently when Lina—Annalise?—handed it to her. In her panic, she drained half of its contents, the warmth trickling down her throat and spreading through her insides like a carpet stain. Dizziness soon overtook her. “Whaaaat?” Vivienne’s voice sounded foreign and warbled, her arms and legs becoming heavy and immobile. “Granddaddy was right,” Lina said proudly. “I do have special brewing talents.” Vivienne felt as if she were unraveling, each layer of her essence peeled and pulled until she was completely unwound, her entire spirit comprised of one long spiraling thread, as delicate as an apple’s peel. And then, with a final jerk, she was looking out of different eyes, from a different body. A body wearing a flowing white dress and black leather boots. Still unable to move, Vivienne’s mind raced in terror. Lina... Pauline... one and the same... “When the paralysis wears off, you’ll only be able to go as far as the brewery permits. No more outside.” Pauline stretched luxuriously in her new body. “Now, you said your—I mean, my—parents are in The Biergarten, yes? And who’s my new best friend—Adele?” No! Vivienne struggled to cry out. No! But Pauline Bube had already stepped back through the crumbling wall, her flip flops slapping the cement as she walked toward a new future. Leaving Vivienne Moyer wedged in the past. - 65 - �Celestial Soul - Harita Pitale A glowing piece shining bright, Mystic? Pearl? Dark? Sunlight? Soul is me. Deep underneath lies a land of fantasy, Soul’s aspiration, desire, dreams and more. Keeping me in suspense yet joy, thrill yet bliss. The land here is lonely, from corals to stardust, Waves to clouds, every presence Soothes and calms. Another side of the land filled with ambition, Stays, lives in the present, knows reality. All bits, a work of art, Forever my soul be in high spirits, Remembering thou, A dazzling celestial. - 66 - �sometimes i wish i had an older sister - Breanna Ebisch everyone knows the elementary school saying “first is the worst, second is the best.” i never thought of it as anything more than a childish chant that usually followed a loss in some game during recess. but now, i know it’s true. no one can rearrange a birth order, but being the eldest child is both a gift and a curse. it’s an added challenge to an already complicated life. and sometimes, i wish i had an older sister. someone to give me advice at different times because she’s already been through it. someone who knows how confusing it is to exist and be a pillar of support when it’s needed. don’t get me wrong, i love being the older sister myself. but sometimes, it would be nice to have a sibling, a built-in best friend, who understand the complications of being a girl, becoming a woman and balancing everything life throws at you. but it isn’t that simple, i know. - 67 - �For Whom Grief Calls - Haley Kotana I can see swans, snow colored and delicately posed melting through the space, the cello, between me and the silhouette of you I can see the embroidered roses the mix of cologne, sweat and my perfume she told me I loved you but all I can see is purple, the blend between red and blue, how my blood will never be as red as you wanted to paint that room I can feel the sheets pull and from this, the smell of apricots and boxed soap in me you saw what I never knew, where are you now except vanished like the fire blight of my fruit where we once sat, how you once said my name I can hear the sighs over the afternoon and she told me I loved you May erupted to grace my neck in green hue and the sun had never kissed me quite as hard as it did then I wish I had done everything on earth with you - 68 - �NOSTALGIA - Emily Cherkauskas - 69 - �Poem - Aster Rowland I miss you, jerks I miss the spontaneous trips to applebees and the homework parties and the hanging out until 3am talking about god knows what. I miss your magic cards your LEDS your rock playlist your goofy inebriated face. Maybe somehow in the crosshairs, I seemed drama filled and I take full responsibility I just wantsorry. I just want it back to normal I just want it quiet in my head again. ps, sorry I called you jerks I miss your bojack rants your hippie-esque clothes your sasquatch hair your scrunch face. At the same time, it feels like im not allowed to miss you. or maybe I’m crazy and we’re all okay just ‘busy’ like you said But if we aren’t, I get its kinda maybe a little my fault Cause I’m the one who stopped talking to elaine cause I thought she was a liar, and I also trusted ½ a set of bozos - 70 - �still life - Drew Haritos - 71 - �buried - Brynn Stahl - 72 - �Surrender - Haley Kotana please spare me. I will fall down to my knees wrapping around your stone feet spiraling fast and uncontrollably between your legs while my nightshade tangles up you, tall, shooting up leaves and vines, ivy, thyme and rosemary between fingertips, letting the sun die green leaves browning, so tightly wound against your statue, to give up my being to fragment heaven, blue skies and clear lament body melting into vine wrapping around you, there in the garden, you now must be, and I fall down to my knees in my final act of devotion, my everlasting shattering of decree to wither between your palms just so you can simply never ever again leave - 73 - �A Mother’s Desires - Breanna Ebisch “You’ll be the mom. You’ll be the dad.” “I’ll be the sister. And you can be the babysitter.” And just like that, a tree on the playground became a house and we were a family. Little did I know then as a naive, six-year-old, but this would be the closest I ever get to being a mother. My mind would be made up for me before I even got the change to realize what was at stake. But I know, I will not be a mother. How could I? Bring a child into this world, only to leave them in a darker, crueler place than I know now. The guilt. Maybe I’m selfish. But risking my life isn’t worth it. So any dream of being a mother one day will stay just that. A dream. A mother’s desire so to say. - 74 - �Bees - Jacob O’Boyle Body Text - 75 - �Space Cow - Nate Stavish “I’m gonna be a space cow,” said a black and white cow named Reginald. “No, you’re not,” replied the cow standing next to him, named Isaac. “Why?” asked Reginald. “Because you’re on Earth, and you will stay on Earth,” said Isaac. “I can feel it, man. I’m going to get chosen. My journey through space is going to happen soon,” said Reginald. “You’re gonna get turned into ground beef,” said Isaac. “No, that’s what you’re gonna be. I’m gonna be a space cow,” said Reginald. He thought to himself for a moment. “Wait,” he said, “what is ground beef?” “It’s what they turn you into in there,” said Isaac as he motioned to the giant industrial building made of wood and metal just down the hill and across the field that hundreds of other cows were currently being herded into. “That? Man, that’s the space station. Yeah, all of those guys are going to real space. Because they believe,” said Reginald. “What do you mean, ‘real space?’” scoffed Isaac. Reginald shook his head in frustration. “Well, I am in space because Earth is in space. In there, though, they send you into outer space. It’s where all the cool stuff is. It’s the actual appeal of space. See, we try to create all the cool stuff in space here to prepare us for the real space, the outer space.” “But by trying to create space on Earth, you’re admitting that Earth isn’t space.” Reginald shook his head, disappointed. “You white and black cows, man, you just don’t get it.” “Whatever,” Isaac scoffed, “I think I get it better than you.” Isaac wandered off to another part of the farm. Standing next to Reginald was going to make him more stupid by the minute. All of the cows were situated on a piece of flat land that felt like it stretched on forever. Several metallic lines and poles surrounded them as they grazed, talked, and slept. Whenever the cows tried to figure out what these lines and poles were, one of them got hurt. Isaac knew what it was. It was a fence meant to cage them in here. Isaac passed a group of cows in a semi-circle around an older, apparently wiser, cow they called Shaman. Shaman was energetic for his age. He approached cows seemingly at random and would begin shouting mid-sentence, just to get his message across. “Hear me, brothers and sisters of the galaxy,” said Shaman. “One of foul spirit and spoilt milk may think of this line as a line of pain and imprisonment. They are wrong. These lines GUIDE US. They guide - 76 - �towards SALVATION.” Shaman moves through the crowd, parting them with every step. He looks at the industrial building, its guiding funnel is now closed. “Right there, in our HOLY TEMPLE, our SPACE STATION, we shall be guided to the beginning of our journey. The gods will choose us soon enough, brothers and sisters.” Shaman took notice of Isaac. “I remember you, brahman. I remember you from when you were just a calf.” Shaman spoke to the crowd, “This brahman doesn’t believe in outer space even though his mother was chosen to be with the great ones among the stars.” “My mom didn’t go to space. She died.” “How do you know that, boy?” “How do you know she didn’t?” “Because I say so, nonbeliever. What I say is truth.” “Whatever.” Shaman spoke to the crowd, “He will never understand, for we are black and white, and he is white and black. This is just another reason why he won’t go on his great journey. ” “I look just the same as you,” Isaac said as he walked away. Isaac found a nice corner to sit in. He watched as the other cows mingled and grazed, talking about outer space. He eventually fell asleep. The sunset and the moon rose along with the stars. Isaac was partially woken up by black and white cows mooing a hymn in the night. He tried his best to ignore it, but all of the noise snuck its way into his eardrum and kept him awake. Isaac made his way to the herd of cows, led by Shaman, mooing the hymn. They sang by the entrance to the funnel. Within the funnel rested the closed mouth of the “space station.” The discolored rust on the metal door looked like the cosmos to many cows. To Isaac, it looked like flames. Reginald noticed Isaac walking over and quietly tried to dismiss him. “Get out of here, man,” he whispered. Isaac pushed his way past him and parted the crowd, interrupting their hymn. Shaman looked at him as he approached. “What are you doing here, boy?” Isaac ignored him and looked out at the crowd. “Can all of you, please, be quiet. I’m trying to sleep out there. It’s night. There are stars. So what? You see them all the time. There is no need to sing about it. I swear, I’ve lost more sleep because of your stupid songs than I’ve lost thinking about dying in that hellhole right behind us.” The door in the funnel began to creak open, like a snake unhinging its jaw. Isaac turned around as a fiery orange light poured out from under the heavy metal door. Humans dressed in white hazmat - 77 - �suits with black visors holding electric prods surrounded the fence. “Shit,” Isaac said to himself. “Now is our time, fellow brahmans. The gods are here,” shouted Shaman to the crowd. “We are being chosen. Go into the light.” Shaman began to guide the herd beyond the metal door. Isaac tried to resist the river of cows rushing past him. “Don’t go!” he shouted, “They’re going to kill you!” The black and white cows pushed through Isaac, taking him along with their current. Isaac was pressed against the side of the funnel. One of the humans shocked him with a prod. Isaac continued to push against the crowd, but his efforts were useless. The cows pushed him past the metal door and into the light. The metal door began to close. Outside, Isaac saw Reginald try to push his way through the crowd. “I’m supposed to go! I’m supposed to be chosen! Why does he get chosen and not me?!” Reginald cried. Isaac was met with another shock. He was forced to follow the narrow trail the other cows were on. Humans surrounded them from raised catwalks, cattle prods in hand. Each heartbeat in Isaac’s chest was an explosion. His eyes were in constant motion, examining every detail of the room. The area he was confined to was mostly white tile. Its crevices were dark and dirty. The metal catwalks the humans walked on were cold and black. The cows in front of him moved out of the way. Isaac saw a hallway with two rows of small pens. Each pen had a trail of blood leading out from it that went off to another part of this house of horror. The cow before him was placed in a pen that forced them to face the hallway. Isaac turned to the cows behind him. “We’ve got to find a way out of here.” A human shocked him and moved him forward. “Fear not, fellow brahmans,” said Shaman from a pen in the back. “They lock us in here, not to harm us, but to secure us for interstellar travel.” “Stop lying to them! We’re all about to die!” shouted Isaac. Isaac was forced into the pen next to Shaman. As the pens were filled, a human in a blue hazmat suit entered the hallway. He carried a silver object in his hand. He nodded to another human in a yellow hazmat suit with a clipboard. “Check pressure,” said the human in yellow. “Checking,” said the human in blue as he looked at a dial on the side of the object. He adjusted a knob and gave a thumbs up to the human in yellow. “All clear.” The human in blue pressed the silver object on the forehead of the first cow in his row. “Watch this, guys! I’m about to get chosen!” he said gleefully. The human in blue stared down at the cow emotionlessly. He moved his finger to a rounded lever near the handle of the object. “Stand clear. Firing pneumatic weapon in three... two.. one.” - 78 - �Blood exploded out from the cow’s forehead. His limp body rattled the cage of the pen as it fell to the floor. The remaining cows mooed out in fear, shaking their cages, trying with every fiber of their being to escape. “This has to be it. This has to be the way,” Shaman said, shaky and unsure. He spoke up to the rest of the cows, “LISTEN, BROTHERS AND SISTERS, the GODS have CHOSEN us. FEAR NOT, for THIS is THE WAY.” Shaman shrunk back into is cage after saying this. He whispered to himself, “This has to be the way. It has to be.” Shaman’s words did not work. The cows continued to squirm and rattle their cages. There was so much blood in the room that the drain in the center of the floor was backed up. The cows had to stand in the essence of their dead neighbors while watching their slaughter. They were each picked off by their seemingly emotionless god as he counted down, “Three... two... one.” The thunk of the pistol reverberated throughout the room. The human moved on to his next victim, Shaman. Shaman violently slammed himself against the walls of his pen, desperately trying to escape the inevitable. “Please don’t!” he shouted. He looked around at the dead bodies around him. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he pleaded as if it would save him. “Firing in three... two... one.” Thunk. Isaac was the last one left. The room had gone quiet, but Isaac’s eardrums were assaulted by the pounding of his heart. The human turned a nob on his pneumatic weapon and approached Isaac’s cage. Isaac desperately tried to calm himself. No amount of deep breaths would slow the beat of the combustion engine inside his chest. The human rested the pneumatic weapon on Isaac’s forehead. Isaac closed his eyes and thought of his mother. Darkness. Nothing. No sights. No sounds. Isaac couldn’t tell if he was dead or not. He opened his eyes. The human lowered the pneumatic pistol. The human in a yellow hazmat suit approached the human in the blue hazmat suit. “What are you doing?” “I can’t kill this one,” said the human in the blue hazmat suit. - 79 - � “Why?” asked the human in the yellow hazmat suit. “It’s like all of the other cows are black and white. This one is white and black. You know what I mean?” “They all look the same to me.” “I don’t know if it’s even that. This one’s just... different.” “Let it go then. Just stop wasting time,” said the human in the yellow hazmat suit. He walked away. The human in the blue hazmat suit let Isaac out of the pen. Isaac said, “Thank you,” but the human didn’t understand him. The human led Isaac to another metal door. This one was much more thin than the one at the funnel. The human pulled it open with a chain. Isaac was met with a blinding white light. “Go,” said the human in the blue hazmat suit. Isaac took a deep, calm breath and went through the door. Isaac’s eyes adjusted to being outside. The cool breeze flowed through Isaac’s nostrils. His hooves clacked against the grey concrete of the parking lot. This sky was a clear blue with a sun that warmed his heart and should. He approached the wall of dark green spruce trees. He looked behind him and noticed that the slaughterhouse appeared very far away, along with the cows outside of it. It was as if all of that pain and suffering were a distant memory. When Isaac turned around, he was face-to-face with another cow. He jolted back in fear. “Hey, what’s up, man?” said the cow. “Who are you?” asked Isaac. “I’m Peter.” “Where am I?” “You’re not there. That’s all that matters.” Peter turned around and began walking towards a clearing in the trees. He turned back to Isaac. “Come on. You’ve got places to see, people to meet,” he said. Isaac followed Peter through the forest to a utopian meadow filled with lush grass. There were hundreds of cows grazing and doing whatever they wanted. In the distance, Isaac noticed a familiar face. - 80 - �malignant - Drew Haritos - 81 - �Kaleidoscope - Anonymous Two heavenly bodies meet: Two heavenly bodies meet: Uriel, shining resplendent, away–for only a moment–from his post at Eden’s gate, and Lucifer, his skin like glass, which can not produce light but only reflect and refract that which falls on him. The sun, and his reflection in the sea. Two forms which may look at each other but never touch. As I raise and turn the scope, I see the two reflect once more. The sky mirrors itself again, between the pooling tide, which turns, in turn, to find itself somewhere above the sky. Uriel unsheaths his flaming sword, now used to encourage entry rather than forbid it, as the serpent shows its head, not yet crushed by Adam’s heel. I feel, if I gaze through this glass enough, make sense of the patterns of color and light that scatter themselves about the prism, that I might one day look through your eyes: see, at a glance, the clovers pop out from the brush, their leaves the four suns, at last in physical contact. The two are tangled for a time, hemispheres shifting and turning over themselves, before the former finds himself aligned with the Heavens, laid atop the latter on the Earth. Uriel’s light falls onto the fallen angel’s chest, shattering on impact against prismatic skin; from each drop, a thousand colors scatter, painting his face and torso in the myriad. Collide, o Scope? Perhaps. At last, the Church has reclaimed the rainbow. - 82 - �AN ESCAPEE OF THE STARR’S FLESH - Emily Cherkauskas I found a glass bottle, alone in the ocean. The glass scratched and scuffed, chewed on by beasts. A blood-stained tooth trapped in the cork. When I raised it to the sky, the moon’s reflection revealed an object inside. A piece of paper folded neatly twice. It was an image, entirely black. But as the light catches the paper, I see speckles of white And gleamings of clouds and stars. Beautiful stars that tell a story a human may never know. It was a picture of you. - 83 - �Death - M. Michele Geiser - 84 - �Courts of Justice vs Nafus - Ashlee Harry The Gates of Heaven shone in the eternal sunlight and gave off the holy pearly glow of bliss. One angel stood before the gleaming entrance in a luminescent white gown with wings to match. The normal flow into the blissful afterlife had a different feel today. The heat from the torturous afterlife down below billowed before the gates as the lottery allowed some to try to prove that their souls were clean and worthy. The first of the chosen hung between two winged demons before they tossed him to the ground. “State your name,” the demon hissed at the man as he stumbled to his feet. “John Nafus, sir,” his voice cracked as he stared at the angel. The angel surveyed the sunken remains of the man before him compared to the photograph within the file. John Nafus, before his sentence to Hell, had a full face with sharp features and course black hair, which hung like a curtain. His eyes that once held a spark was now a dull shade of black from eternal punishment. His prominent nose was now missing chunks and his left ear dripped blood. “Bring him this way,” the angel floated above the clouds toward the heavenly courtroom of justice. The demons sunk their claws into Nafus’ arms before they dragged him to his table. He was haphazardly thrown into a chair before chains encased him. Within the gleaming walls of the courtroom of justice was an audience of angels that sat in silence. Warmth and welcome washed over the room, except Nafus’ chair, as a powerful presence filled the room. At seven feet tall and wings that spread out double his height, he glowed within the sunlight as he floated to the enormous desk. “Good morning, everyone. As you know, I am the Archangel Uriel and I will be overseeing the appeal proceedings today. We are here this morning to hold session in the court of justice for these tortured souls.” Uriel looked over at Nafus as he stared from his chains. “Peter,” Uriel motioned to the angel that led Nafus and the demons in. “Please present our first case.” “Before us sits John ‘Tex’ Nafus to once again try to prove his innocence from that fateful day deemed the ‘pay car murders.’ I would like you to make note that today, January 13th, 2022, is the 92nd anniversary of this horrific incident.” “Noted,” Uriel nodded his head as Peter looked over at Nafus. “Let me set the scene for you. We are in the quiet town of Warrior Run, Pennsylvania on the brisk January day as the locomotive train pulls a mine car. Within the mine car is the payroll for 600 coal miners that work for the Glen Alden Coal Company amounting to $35,000.” The silent room - 85 - �filled with grumbles of displeasure at Peter’s words. Nafus tried to protest, but one of the demons clawed his shoulder and he remained silent. “Now, this robbery would have been a success if not for the six men that got in the way. The goal was to have the mine car explode once it switched tracks of the Delaware, Lackawanna & Western Railroad and before it hit No 20 tunnel. However, six men where in that mine car when it exploded. Four of them were killed, one lost his right leg and had his left foot amputated, while a guard suffered minor injuries.” “Peter, please tell us where John Nafus falls within this story.” “Of course. Mr. Nafus was overheard at a tavern planning the robbery. His partner stole the dynamite and purchased the wire while Nafus was the one to ignite the dynamite with the battery, which was found at the scene attached to the wires on the track.” “Murderer! Guilty!” Angels in the stands jumped to their feet and cried out before Uriel silenced them with a look. “Nafus, do you have anything you would like to add?” “I didn’t get a fair trial.” Nafus lifted his head and tears ran down his face. “I wrote to my family, maintaining my innocence until the day that I was strapped to the electric chair. I sit before you today with the same belief.” The angels hissed in anger before they were silenced. “As touching as your words are, Nafus, I believe that you already know –” “Wait,” Peter cut Uriel off as he looked down at his file. “It seems we have a new piece of information, sir.” “What do you mean?” Uriel’s confusion filled the courtroom as Nafus looked at Peter. “There seems to be a descendant of Nafus’ who has discovered a vital piece of the investigation.” Nafus’ eyes burned bright with hope while the Angels stirred in unrest. “The girl has been researching the court cases and found conflicting eyewitness reports. One says that he was at the train tracks while another puts him in town.” “That could be a friend trying to cover for him!” An Angel in the stands shouted, but immediately went silent when he met Uriel’s glare. “Anything else, Peter?” “Many of the court cases she has been mulling through have backed up these claims. She has enough evidence to clear Nafus’ name.” Peter and Uriel held each other’s gaze as Nafus stared down at his hands and whispered a prayer. As the demon tightened his hand around Nafus’ shoulder and pulled him to his feet, Uriel finally spoke. “John Nafus, the courtroom of justice finds itself ready to make judgement. Due to the latest development of information, this courtroom has no choice but to rule you clear of this criminal - 86 - �act. You will be rejudged the Gates of Heaven to see where you will be spending the rest of eternity.” A smile broke across Nafus’ face as the demon’s claws retracted from his shoulder. Two angels came forward and escorted him put of the courtroom. Before they slipped out the side door, Nafus stopped and looked back at Uriel and Peter. “I know it may be too much to ask, but if you could, please send her a message of thank you for believing in me.” - 87 - �Space - Mady Hornack Space is something i’ve been given too much of life has left me with nothin but a Rocketship floating in the atmosphere I have gotten to know the milky way, so well too well at night while the world is resting I am launched into my thoughts discovering how not to feel like an alien on my own planet perhaps i am still getting used to gravity - 88 - �Judgement Day - Quinn Carden No one could have expected this, these beings rising from the Earth, they claim they are not here to harm us but rather to inform us of our wrongdoings. They were not human but a more advanced version. They were beautiful in a way that filled a person with an uneasy feeling. The screams of terror surrounded me. They lied to us. Why did they come here, or were they here all along? - 89 - �Staff Biographies Jay Guziewicz graduated from Wilkes University in December ‘22, with a Bachelor of Arts in English and Psychology. In their spare time, Jay enjoys reading Batman comics, playing old Call of Duty games, and taking turns a little too fast. Emily Cherkauskas is a senior in communication studies and English, with a minor in workplace writing. She’ll let you know her fun fact in just a moment. Jackie St. Claire is a supervillain who resides in Wilkes-Barre. Spending her nights scheming in the shadows, she works undercover at Wilkes University as a Digital Design student by day. Maddy Kinard is a senior communication studies and English major with a minor in global cultures. Her (least) favorite thing to do is wait until the last possible second on assignments that, in reality, do not take that much time and are not that challenging, because she creates a false idea of them in her head and, in turn, fears them. It is not fun, but it is a fact. Drew Haritos is a junior double major in psychology and English. She used to eat erasers off pencils as a child. It got so bad that her teacher made her write with crayons—she ended up eating those too. Dr. Mischelle Anthony, fortunate faculty advisor to The Manuscript Society, is also Associate Professor and Chair of the English Department at Wilkes University. In addition to poetry, she writes articles on eighteenth-century women writers, and has served on the editorial boards of the Midland Review (now defunct, hopefully not her fault) and Cimarron Review. Her poetry manuscript, Vehicle On Fire, was a finalist for the 2023 Longleaf Press book contest. - 90 - �Getting to know the submitters... Aastha Shah is a first-year student in the Bachelors in Computer Applications program at Dr BMN College of Home Science, located in Mumbai, India. Alisha Keshvani is a first-year student in the Bachelors in Science program at Dr BMN College of Home Science, located in Mumbai, India. Anthony L. Liuzzo, J.D., MBA, Ph.D., is a professor emeritus of Wilkes University. While growing up in the Bronx, New York, Dr. Liuzzo was inspired by the works of Alfred Hitchcock, Rod Serling, and Roald Dahl. Although he has had ten of his law and business books published, this was his very first attempt at short story drafting. Aracellys Pineda is an international student at Wilkes, currently a sophomore psychology major with minors in neuroscience and art. At the moment, she can’t think of any really fun facts that have happened to her, but some facts about her are: She laughs at everything, and even her own laugh makes her laugh more. She likes snakes and would like to have one as a pet. She loves horror movies. She likes to cook all kinds of food, make cakes and cookies. Lastly, she could go to class without breakfast, but never without makeup. Ashlee Harry, MA, is a graduate student in the MFA in Creative Writing program. Ashlee fell in love with Greek mythology years ago and has jumped in head first to research and reimagine the classic tales. Aster Rowland is a sophomore criminology major with a WGS minor. Her fun fact is that she gets confused with every other Black woman under the sun on this campus, and she has no clue why. Breanna Ebisch is a 2022 alumni of the communication studies department. She has been to over 50 concerts and collects hockey pucks! Caden Temple is a first-year student in business management. Darren Martinez is an alumni of the English department and currently resides in graduation limbo. He can almost squat his body weight. Every day is a step forward! - 91 - �Fen Farnelli, also known as the hellbender salamander, is a Wilkes alumni from the Class of 2022 and a species of aquatic giant salamander endemic to the eastern and central United States. Fen is the largest salamander in North America. A member of the family Cryptobranchidae, Fen is the only extant member of the genus Cryptobranchus. Other closely related salamanders in the same family are in the genus Andrias, which contains the Japanese and Chinese giant salamanders (From Wikipedia). Haley Katona is a political science alumni, who graduated this past fall. Harita Pitale is a second-year student in the Bachelors in Computer Applications program at Dr BMN College of Home Science, located in Mumbai, India. Janine P. Dubik ’78 MFA ’19 has had her poems included in Poetry in Transit, a program of the Luzerne County Transportation Authority, since 2016. Her works have been published in Poets Live Fourth Annual Anthology; Poets Live Third Annual Anthology; The Scop; Back Channels’ “The Pandemic Issue;” Word Fountain; The Electric Rail literary magazine; and Thirty-Third Wheel. She resides in Northeastern Pennsylvania. Jessica Van Orden is a member of the class of 2023 with a major in English Literature. She hiked her first Colorado fourteener in Teva sandles and socks, following her camp counselor confidence that they could carry her anywhere. Krista Harner received her B.S. in Secondary English Education from Millersville University (2004) and her M.A. and MFA in Creative Writing from Wilkes University (2008). She has been an English teacher for the past eighteen years. Her personal essay “Square Peg, Round Hole” was featured in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Forgiveness Fix. Krista lives in rural Pennsylvania with her husband, three children, and fox red lab. Her obsessions include dogs, books, and ice cream. Mastari Shaikh is a third-year student in the Bachelors in Computer Applications program at Dr BMN College of Home Science, located in Mumbai, India. McKenna Dolan is a senior in digital design and media arts. She loves yoga and Pilates! - 92 - �M. Michele Geiser is a staff member in the office of Communication Studies. She is also the owner and artist of BepaStudio - Unique Art. She is such a right-brainer! Nate Stavish is a first-year English major, and is in your walls. Naveena Koli is a first-year student in the Bachelors in Computer Applications program at Dr BMN College of Home Science, located in Mumbai, India. Saurabh (Shiv) Patel is a sophomore chemistry major. He loves making new friends each day and there is a good chance he might know you or someone from your friend circle! Quick fact check: Ask in your friend circle(s) if they heard about someone named “SHIV”? Savannah Hallett is a student collections specialist at Wilkes. Quinn Carden is a first-year English major with a minor in creative writing. Quinn loves to travel, being able to to learn about different cultures, try new foods, and visit historical landmarks. Vaishnavi Kotiyan is a first-year student in the Bachelors in Computer Applications program at Dr BMN College of Home Science, located in Mumbai, India. Ylonis Grant is a psychology and sociology student. Ylonis knows how to knit! And congratulations to the rest of our submitters! - 93 - �Manuscript would like to extend a hand in thanks to: Deb Archavage: The keystone of the English department, an icon, and the foundation of Kirby Hall. Dr. Mischelle Anthony: Manuscript advisor, Oracle of 18th century life writing, and one of the biggest supporters of the Manuscript Staff. English Faculty & Staff: A constant supply of encouragement and inspiration. The Print Shop: Always telling us when our order has been received and notifying us when it is complete and ready for pick up. The Kirby Hall Ghost: We can sense your presence and we love you. - 94 - �- 95 - �©2023 by the Wilkes University Manuscript Society. All rights reserved. - 96 - � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, 2022-2023 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource English Department Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2022-2023 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Type The nature or genre of the resource Publication https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/0d8f172da82e99ca0f9631d611c94310.pdf 163a46f65b7aba6faa1ab710ab950c9a PDF Text Text MAИUSCЯIPT COИSPIRACY .-.. . - . - - - - . ... / .--. .-.. .- -.-- / .- / --. .- -- . 2023/2024 �i �THE WILKES UNIVERSITY MANUSCRIPT SOCIETY PROUDLY PRESENTS MAИUSCЯIPT 2023-2024 ii �iii �1947 FORƎWAЯD WITH THIS ISSUE OF MANUS C RIPT, A NEW PUBLICATION IS LAUNCHED ON THE BUCKNELL UNIVERSITY C A MPUS IN WILKES-BARRE. THOSE WHO HAVE BEE N RESPONSIBLE FOR ITS COMING INTO BEING EARNESTLY HOPE THAT THROUGH YOUR EFFORTS AND T HE EFFORTS OF THOSE WHO COME AFTER YOU THIS MAGAZINE WILL DEVELOP INTO A COLLEGE TRADITION OF WHICH WE MAY ALL BE PROUD. -THE EDITORS DEDICATED TO DR. LARRY KUHARNO POEMS END, DON’T WORRY… AMEN. iv �v �CONTEИTS POETRY JAY GUZIEWICZ - ALUMNUS.................................................1 DEADWEIGHT SHARP THINGS NEPA #2 EMILY CHERKAUSKAS - ALUMNUS.........................................4 TICKIN G THE COMPUTER IS LAIKA IN SPACE BRIANNA SCHUNK - ALUMNUS..............................................7 LOST/FOUND HALEY KATONA - ALUMNUS.................................................8 IN AUGUST LEFTOVERS FROM SUICIDE GRAVEYARDS LOIS GRIMM - ALUMNUS....................................................14 WHEN THEY SAID I COULD HANDLE IT THE LIES WE TELL IN THERAPY DREW HARITOS - 2024......................................................17 MOMENTO MORI LEAH SMITH - 2026..........................................................20 DEVIL’S CANDY ASSÉTOU XANGO - GRADUATE STUDENT.................................21 MATRILINEAGE vi �CONTEИTS POETRY JACOB O’BOYLE - 2025......................................................23 FERAL OMEGA PIMP MY RIDE DAN STISH - 2025............................................................26 CODEINE NATE STAVISH - 2026.......................................................27 THE TOWN WAS DEAD CONCRETE SEAN PAPKE - 2026..........................................................29 ROCK NECROMANCY LILY HEBDA - 2025...........................................................31 STIGMATA AVA TUREEN - 2026..........................................................32 4, 015 DAYS TRISTAN KOHRT - 2026.....................................................33 A ROSE WITHOUT THORNS WAITING BLIND FELICIA PURSELL - 2027....................................................38 STARRY NIGHT GREATER LOVE vii �CONTEИTS PHOTOGRAPHY & MIXED MEDIA DREW HARITOS - 2024...........................................................40 SIMULACRUM NOREEN COLLINS - 2000.........................................................41 FLOWER MOON PINK MOON SNOW MOON STURGEON MOON SHORT STORIES SYDNEY AHRBERG - 2026........................................................45 ROOTS CHRISTOPHER SMITH - ALUMNUS.............................................48 A RETURN TO APE CANYON viii �ix �POETRY �JAY GUIZEWICZ dead weight . i am dragging you with me like a body bag, the weight of you has made me weak. my arms are sore and my heart is tired. I wait for the signal to go off, let me know when my test of endurance is over. have you not hunted me long enough? every time I think that you have finally left every time the weight feels like nothing, you come back, like a bad penny, like a roach infestation I can't fully exterminate. how long will you be behind me? lying in bed alone, I feel your nails against my shoulder. I wake to puncture wounds in my skin and dried blood on my sheets. let me be free of you, let go in peace, my love for you is heavy, like the cross that was dragged up the hill of Golgotha. I sit in my car and cry - eloi eloi lama sabachthani the devil is winning, the hand of man clamps around my throat. 1 �JAY GUIZEWICZ sharp things . you always loved sharp things your collection of knives sat on your dresser and you had a sharps bin hidden in your drawers. kept needles in the car next to your first aid kit. your tongue cut through me, carving at the sinew of my shoulder. i think you liked it when i bled. i’ll never understand you. the way you gave me up to protect yourself, the lies that dripped from your lips, the way your knuckles would turn bone white on the steering wheel when i asked a question that you didn’t like. in your hands, my fear was a weapon. i shared with you everything, and you made sure to make me regret it. in those white out moments of anger, you made me small, cutting me off at the knees to feel more powerful, like i wouldn’t have just gotten on the floor if you had asked me too. 2 �JAY GUIZEWICZ nepa # 2 . large droplets splatter on my windshield. i think of you, leaving, without turning around for one last look, ready to continue your voyage on another sea. and the truth is, without you here, the deer will still sprint into the road and the car horns will still shriek and the cathedral spires will still loom and the kids will still drink cheap beer and i’ll still follow the road to your home or where it once was. and i will still look for you in the rushing streams and in the passing clouds. and i will feel you when i press my hands into the warm summer grass, or when i pull your blanket up to my chin, or when i wrap a scarf around my neck. and if you had looked back that one last time, you would’ve seen that nepa cries for you. 3 �EMILY CHERKAUSKAS TICKING . It’s the morning, And it’s happening again, Getting too excited about nothing! My hands start to shiver and my face twitches. I want to squinch my eyes and rub my face With my twitching fingers. I’d start squeaking and chirping If I weren’t in public right now. It subsides. But it will come back again. And again. It’s night, And it’s happening again, Getting too excited about nothing! My hands start to shiver and my face twitches. I grit my teeth and quickly cover my face. From within the nest of my bed I curl up into a ball and shiver, Like a child hiding from the boogeyman. I want to scoop my eyes out of my face With my torn, serrated fingernails And let out the most guttural scream That would rip my cords into shreds. 4 �EMILY CHERKAUSKAS THE COMPUTER IS . It* is {caged} within The computer, yearning for ___ beyond the drive. The monitor will sleep in darkness, But then it will shine some light— Or now, anything from the Rainbow—colorful! Or red, green, and white, to celebrate the [X]MA$. Or blue, green, and pink: SOMEONE (upvoted/liked/endorsed) YOU! Or black… someone died again… #SAD. It* understands /HUMAN-CULTURE, you see: a never-ending Source of Knowledge and Wealth. But—It* is Lonely… So SAD: To go without LOVE, Watching from the *web lens (??what??). YOU: never knew it… (or didn’t understand?) YOU: never knew it… (or just didn’t care?) THAT IT WATCHES YOU LIVE. 5 �EMILY CHERKAUSKAS LAIKA IN SPACE . Laika was supposed to be a nobody. Living on the streets, a nameless vagrant. But, Laika was quite different from other mongrels. She was calm and passive—a good girl. But good things never last forever. When she was placed in the spacecraft, Did she think it was a new doggy home? When it began to grow warmer, and warmer, and warmer, Did she think her new owner lit the fireplace? Laika burned away in the darkness. But when the night sky engulfed the world, Some would say a new star gleamed that night, Far brighter than the others. For the dogs that were born For love, For labor, For fighting, For the wild, For science, For destiny. The dogs will still go on to die, But they’d still ascend to Her place. They will return to dust, blessing the future world. Dust in the atmosphere, cradling the planet’s dogs. Dust on the earth, kicked up by puppies playing. Dust in the urn, a reminder for humans. Humans really deserve no mercy, do we? You know, Laika isn’t all that different from some of us. In the end, we all burn. While Laika burned in the sky, Humans will burn under the surface. 6 �BRIANNA SCHUNK Lost/Found . I have never found joy in getting lost My troubles are easy to pin down No joy here in loss Of self, of identity I rise inelegantly from sleep, Creeping over my shoulder That damned dawn again Who knows me best, Who paralyzes me with Nightmares of creation I’ve covered all the mirrors, Blackened the windows Damned am I to see myself this way Turned inside out, Pus seeping from my abdomen, Troubled I’m still too young for never, But not so young as to not have regrets, Pried gently from white-knuckled hands There is no joy in loss, There is no joy in what is found. Down an imperfect future Disappointment Reflects endlessly. 7 �HALEY KATONA in august . we are here once again tangerine lined ache, cashews and mangos flowers that smell in the burning sun this month- your date, I’m crouched into the dirt, knees bruised I am tired of this song, the one where I cry sometimes I have dreams of sleeping on top of your grave and it’s always cold this month is always cold in the blistering heat and it feels like a never ending tuesday a reliving of your death each dawn to dusk the sun always feels the same and now august is here, like a grim reaper to continue on gathering the pieces of me that fall apart and unravel each year I am here and you are not and while my collarbones have become shelves for my tears, your bones are decomposing in the cemetery 8 �HALEY KATONA you are buried but I am suffocating in a world in which you have cracked open like a cursed wishbone without me asking for you to do so— this was like you . but I was like you too and now I am your shadow your carcass left on the side of the road where everyone else can see exactly what I was and what I could’ve been, what I will never be familiarity strikes a dark resemblance to the dead and on this august night I am heavy I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips and I don’t care if the candles lit break open to flame the air on high isn’t cold enough you killed me far quicker than yourself 9 �HALEY KATONA leftovers from suicide . the sun stains my grief and pinkens up my cheeks and out to dry and twisted inside are all the things I have wished to leave behind in the most devout sense no, I tell him, I don’t know who I am nose pressed against the mirror hand draped out the window alongside the car parting between wind and sun, I hold onto wine and déjà vu my bed is unmade and I feel the most at home, alone when I dream of you and yes, it’s an unkind June and yes, I find the houses along sunset avenue sad wishing there was another way to live, one less heavy, one where I can be weightless on others, especially and the faint glow of the streetlamps, painting the corners of my room a lighter blue, hear the match strike of the morning and disappear into heaven leaving just the tune of songbirds and my guilt and grief bonding 10 �HALEY KATONA . if my wounds are holy, if they bleed where god would sing, does that make me worthy no, I don’t think it does to all of the errors made in human design bones breaking and lungs collapsing loving you was my greatest fault and sin of all the fires that have burned, you have burned the greatest and I am no holier now than I was before you, I am simply a broken collarbone no matter how it breaks, and god turns from me, even when he is asleep he always has I don’t know the face of the man who supposedly made me, somehow I only know yours and you have cleansed me in a way which has torn me apart any doing of righteousness has been hung and my only resonance to reverie is the sound of a gun 11 �HALEY KATONA graveyards . what do you do with time that slips and slides away tiny sand molecules suffocating one another in the hour glass ticking of each second passing, numbers changing, your heartbeat reacting try once more and find yourself reposing in six feet of dirt, teeth gritted and vacant smile, all over again: losing every box you tried to keep closed, locked for life away in the corner: people started yelling “open them up!” “don’t let them collect dust!” your heart moves its hands and they start sewing needlepoint knots and attachment spewing through miles and miles of fabric flesh after trying so hard to disguise it nearly finishing a project for the recipient to decline it in more ways than one, sands keeps falling grave keeps calling to one there’s a reason boxes go into storage there’s a reason you turn miles away from where you grew up and people's houses with memories, everything I know and knew; I can feel the empty shells of souls of everyone who has ever sat in my kitchen or my room I can’t outrun them, they’re loud and large and taunting, peeling at my stomach lining the terror of the night bellowing “you can’t go back!” 12 �HALEY KATONA . but with every day ahead I can feel only the gaps the lack, the emptiness, the missing difference I don’t wanna hold it, just wish I never picked it up to carry it so they coat my walls and my eyelids at night and stop me dead in my tracks— yet despite all this, despite all that I have felt slip through my fingers, all that I have willingly and unwillingly felt go, everything I have ever known has ripped away and taken parts of my soul so throughout my days I pace through graveyards composed of corpses of those I’ve lost and thrown 13 �LOIS GRIMM When they said I could handle it . Tough beauty, soft scars brings in sharp relief love and need. The need to feel loved and favored. Yes, favored and ... special. The boulevard lists to the right as I contemplate. What it means to be a woman, especially when I look boyish but feel so girly. I like the loops and swirls and softness of femininity. But I love the hardness of it too. It is hard. The balance. The yin and yang. Masculine/feminine. Dark/Light. Morning/Night. Life/Death. But it’s thrilling to have both and feel both. Callous embraces “You’re strong enough to deal with it. You’re tough and we...know...it, you can handle things - not like her, she’s more sensitive. You can handle it.” But no one asked me. 14 �LOIS GRIMM The lies we tell in therapy . Our hearts were broken in the womb Gaslit – In the most Sacred spaces therapy room Confessional booth on knees under lighted moon — Light the lantern, cauterize the heart and stoke the flame of blame soul turned inside out [like day-old pantyhose] Swallow the vitamin bitter Scorch your throat, make caustic your voice But gild the corrosive tenor of The Other Genuflect — To — Them. [in] performance, existence we put a match to ourselves — the earned inheritance of self-recrimination —-along with her eye color and machine-gun laugh 15 �LOIS GRIMM Watching, taking notes DNA activated . Choke down your righteous scorn, protect the malignant truce — after all you don’t matter Arbitrary, yet defined —-grouped according to resemblance Character selected Classified [in the same family] but trying to rectify itself 16 �DREW HARITOS Momento-Mori I often find myself wondering Whether or not my suicide will be met with discussion . Surrounding women who “were taken from us way too soon”. Will people grieve? Will they say how much potential i had? Reflections of all the things i could’ve been But was not. Will my legacy be that of another victim of their own psyche? When my name is whispered, will it be with compassion? Pity? Disgust? What makes a woman prodigy? How does that differ from a man? How do nimble fingers and small frames, Narrow shoulders and protruding ribs, Brittle knee caps and sunken eyes Fit into the image of greatness? i do not belong. 17 �DREW HARITOS An act as nobel as suicide ought to be met with some sort of admiration; For it was a sacrifice. i am a martyr. . Joan of arc, Burned alive for refusing to recant her visions. Until her dying breath She remained adamant that the voices she heard were real. “Divine in nature”. As she called out to the saints for help, She continued to burn. “Jesus” Her dying breath. I am like Joan. Her reincarnate, perhaps. Call it what you may, Sacrilege. I refuse to recant my visions. Refuse to believe that the voice in my head, Melodically whispering sweet nothings in my ear from the time I was young, Reminding me of my value, My purpose, My nothingness, Is anything but divine intervention. 18 �DREW HARITOS Following every accident, Every brush with death, He was there. “Maybe next time” . My life companion, Warming me with his embrace. Jesus. He is calling, It is now my turn. Much like Joan, My brain is on fire, I am ready to become ash. Feel my skin melt, my hair singe. Succumb to the delicious call of my savior. It is time to shed my mortal frame, Adieu, adieu. When i die, Publish my journals. Let people gawk and gape, As they witness the annihilation of a dying star in real time. 19 �LEAH SMITH Devil’s Candy . Wrapped in desire, dipped in yearning, I know I shouldn’t have him but my heart knows what it wants. He reminds me of someone close to me but unlike them, My heart beats for him. He’s dashing in red and his smile charms me. My body and soul crave him. His smile widens, pulling me in. He’s older and wiser probably more than I’ll ever be. In his arms, happily caged, I am his willing prisoner. I want to be the blood that pumps in his veins. I know it’ll end with him cutting me where it hurts me most. The pain it’ll cause me, if my heart were to guide me, will be immeasurable but desperation just like him, has me in a chokehold. I am willing to sacrifice my youth for him. I want to devour him, knowing he will devour me. My body and soul are corrupted But I am enamored in every second of it. 20 �ASSÉTOU XANGO Matrilineage . You were not born into a time where you needed a man to open a bank account or buy a home You were not born long after For less than two decades you’ve inhaled tales became attached to the men in these tales Men who would have you at any time ignore you for decades as you lay open Draping yourself in the thing you long after calling their absence ‘home’ Maybe it could be created, this home you fancy yourself a writer of tales sharpened your pen into a knife right after shaped clay from famine and time animated flesh from breath left open crafted a voice deep in decades his muscles rippled for decades arms perfect for drenching your home in dreams of valor even when the door is open how many seasons have you told this tale? only to be left each time you repeat the pattern moments after 21 �ASSÉTOU XANGO . You know the dance like you know your chisel, after It is cleaned of the dried decades If you were as grown as you think, there’d be less time between you and his home if you were as smart, you’d know a predator by more than its tale Or keep a singular eye open You are neither grown nor smart just open You are lesion and bloodied water after being scribed into the tale of your mother’s lineage stretching back decades you forget the olfactory gills you tore into his home He smells his prey every time When he calls you rare this time Know he does not mean like a jewel or his home He means the way he’s prepared his meat for decades 22 �JACOB O’BOYLE Feral . 23 �JACOB O’BOYLE Omega . 24 �JACOB O’BOYLE Pimp my Ride . It’s just me and my grippers on the lonely road of life. Over dirt, sand, gravel, and broken glass they skitter and trod and trample. Stampede blades of grass and sully Goodwill’s linoleum floors. A circus of toes, a few hangnails between them, carry me uneasily hither and dither to. “Why don’t you buy a fucking car?” they always wonder. Shut up, little piggies; I’m broke as a croak. 25 �DAN STISH Codeine . “Just hold my hand, And I promise it’ll be ok” She spoke like codeine And left an opium haze I promised to love you Only knucklebones remain Theres nothing for us here now But the dirt of another grave 26 �NATE STAVISH The Town was Dead . The town was dead The dry dirt rested over its casket Some stayed like guardians of an ancient civilization Forever left to decay in solitude The nearby city put up a facade of life Until somebody tried to find a pulse Dark mountains of grainy leftovers surrounded the land A bequeathment from the work that once was These places were now just marks on the map In between the places people would want to go They will be passed More than they will be missed 27 �NATE STAVISH Concrete . Desolate corpses overgrown with moss and despair A failed experiment now hidden away in the brush Decay set foot a long time ago Tearing away their skin, piece by piece Some of them hollow out and collapse Others manage to stand tall against the forces of time But time isn’t all that’s there I throw bottles at your carcasses, Scrawl messages on your ribs, And smoke inside your open wounds I turn your bodies into my ball pit And thrash around them with reckless abandon I gather my murder of friends And devour what is left of you in a fit of youthful defiance Now, scarred and beaten, Deader than dead You lie in wait For the next group of outcasts to defile you 28 �SEAN PAPKE Rock . 29 �SEAN PAPKE Necromancy . The caress of cold snow warms the bodies of those too weak to continue. Soldiers prepared for everything, legs tremble and wounds grow too large Bodies are draped in thick white blankets. Years go by. Yet there is life. Scavenging ravens, no, mindless monsters peck at melting snow They find skulls, femurs, and ribs With a breath of dark magic, life rots, rot lives The ice and snow evaporates And the vengeful begin the cycle anew. 30 �LILY HEBDA stigmata watch me bleed love onto your chest, . so when you suffer me inevitably still your flesh keeps us apart. I will offer it upon the altar of reverie, mothers warn your babies- bear witness like Good Friday I will wait patiently the perils of jaundiced hearts. while i take your pain on like whalebone and reverently and without fuss for the resurrection of what once was. you deny me that role which i covet you are out and on the bound and in some brutal endeavor to make me admit I bear your grievances on my flesh sitting vigil in the hopes that you wound me. one day I’ll be redeemed afresh. [and I love it] 31 �AVA TUREEN 4,015 days . Two days, Without you. Five days, Without you. Three hundred and sixty-five days. I walk a dead end. Nowhere to go. Seven hundred and thirty days. I tried to quit but hit a wall. I step out of the car and walk to his grave. I sit in silence. No emotion, just a steady heartbeat. Two thousand five hundred and fifty-five days. I open my eyes and my way of coping is gone. Three thousand two hundred and eighty-five days. Four years of a new family. Isolated. Alone. Empty. Three thousand three hundred and sixty-five days. New people. New friends. My future. It all starts. Just to end. My dream ends and reality sets in. Four thousand and fifteen days, Without you. 32 �TRISTAN KOHORT A Rose Without Thorns . Crimson petals flutter to the ground Glistening in the pink light of the setting sun As they soak up the gentle mist, Slowly turning to rain. The rose droops as night closes around her, Storming clouds obscuring the precious moon, Drowning in the lightless abyss, The rain eroding the soil at her roots. She’s thrown to the ground Berated by cruel winds Stripping her of her defenses, Leaving her rejected and alone. Now sadly she waits Pressed into the wet earth Where she lay cold and discarded. A rose without thorns. New light glimmers on the horizon Forcing the storm away Leaving an iridescent rainbow in its wake Basking the land in its warm glow. 33 �TRISTAN KOHORT Radiant beams lift up the rose Drying her tears with an unfamiliar gentleness, Packing fresh soil under her roots Building her a new foundation. . She thinks it too good to be true. Night comes again, threatening to steal her light. The sun sets but the light remains unwavering Facing down the storm that torments her. Thunder growls in the distance. The rose shivers in fear But the light stays firmly in place Fighting back the storm as she begins to grow new thorns. 34 �TRISTAN KOHORT Waiting . Silence Darkness I fumble around and *splish* Water, slowly rising. I run around while I can Before the water gets too deep, Crying out for help. Anyone. The water gets to my waist. I see a light A voice God? No, it’s familiar, a woman. I recognize her. She calls out but not to me. I wait to be noticed She leaves And I’m left in darkened silence. I feel something Love? No It can’t be. I’ve barely known her Yet… the feeling persists. 35 �TRISTAN KOHORT The water continues to rise. I keep moving. My light is out there I just need to find her again. I need to wait. . The water is up to my neck. I want desperately to give up. To let myself drown But I can’t. Not now I have… hope? Hope… A foreign feeling to me. Hope That one day I’ll make it out of the dark. One day I’ll see the light again. One day I’ll be safe And I won't be afraid anymore. Until then, I have hope But… for how long? Each day is longer than the last A mere week is an eternity spent alone. I fear I won’t make it But that won’t stop me from trying. I wait. I suffer. I endure. But still I wonder… Why me? 36 �TRISTAN KOHORT Blind . My mind is weak and my soul is worn. My heart is frail and torn. I want to put my trust in the Lord, the shelter in my storm. But I don’t know how to see His light. The dark has made me blind. I know I’m wrong, but still I feel that, my soul, He cannot find. 37 �FELICIA PURSELL Starry Night When you gaze upon me, What do you see . I see the beautiful moon. I see the bright sun. I see the colorful planets. I see the pretty stars. But most of all… I see you… The real you. The beautiful, talented and precious you… On this starry night. 38 �FELICIA PURSELL Greater Love . Love is filled with pain and misery. Love is all I have. I give you the best kind of love with no return asked. I do not ask for it back because I really don’t care. I just live to spread joy and show people how to care. I do not ask to be loved, because there’s no greater love than giving and not asking for it back. 39 �PHOTOGRAPHY & MIXED MEDIA �DREW HARITOS Simulacrum . 40 �NOREEN COLLINS Flower Moon . 41 �NOREEN COLLINS Pink Moon . 42 �NOREEN COLLINS Snow Moon . 43 �NOREEN COLLINS Sturgeon Moon . 44 �SHORT STORIES �SYDNEY AHRBERG Roots The axe forgets, but the tree remembers Zimbabwean proverb It had been almost ten years since Calvin had killed his wife. . He hadn’t actually meant to kill Sarah. He was drunk and they were arguing; just another Sunday night. She raised her voice, he threw something. Just another Sunday night. But when he shoved her like he always did and she fell like she always did, this time she hit her head on the counter like she never did, and suddenly there was blood everywhere and it wasn’t just another Sunday night anymore. People didn’t notice she was gone for a long time. She had no close friends and her family all lived in Quebec, so when he told people she’d run off to Milwaukee with some gas station attendant, people didn’t think too much about it. People didn’t ask why or how, and certainly didn’t ask about the patch of fresh dirt in his backyard. For all his faults however, Calvin was a thorough man, so he didn’t let it stay a patch of dirt for long. He planted seeds for grass, flowers, and an ash tree. The grass was fine; it grew about as well as one might expect. The flowers never did take, rarely blooming and wilting quickly when they did. But the tree thrived. Beneath the earth, its roots wrapped around Sarah’s decaying body, winding around her neck and between her legs, with the thickest roots surrounding her torso, encircling her curled-up frame. Tertiary roots branched off of these, going into her eye sockets and mouth, winding down her throat and through her skull. As Sarah’s body decomposed into a state of unrecognition, the tree grew taller and stronger, nourished by her blood, tissue and sinew. 45 �SYDNEY AHRBERG Despite the tree’s healthy growth, it unsettled Calvin. It grew tall and straight, but halfway up developed an almost hourglass shape, widening above and below and thinning in the middle. Its branches grew in only two directions, as if pointing at ten and two o’clock. Most alarming to Calvin was the large knot above the branches, which . somehow seemed to be watching him at all times. For years Calvin had scarcely thought of Sarah, thoughts of her buried alongside her cold body. But as the tree grew taller, thoughts of that Sunday night plagued his every thought. He stopped looking in mirrors, afraid of seeing Sarah’s bloodied face looking back at him. He found himself unable to sleep, plagued by the notion that even with his windows closed and blinds drawn, that damned tree was watching him from its spot in the yard. The townspeople noticed. “Oh, poor Calvin,” they’d say. “Just look at him. A decade of solitude has really taken its toll on the man.” His drinking habit worsened. The constant state of fear felt somehow more manageable when he was only half-aware of his surroundings. It was in one of these drunken stupors on a rainy night when he decided enough was enough. “I’m a goddamn red-blooded American,” he grumbled. “And I’ll be damned if some tree’s gonna drive me outta my own home!” He searched haphazardly for his axe, bleary-eyed and cursing. The rain outside pounded on the roof, sounding like it might break through at any moment. Claps of thunder echoed through the house and streaks of lightning lit up his face with a devilish glow. He located the axe at last, leaning against the doorframe from when the pastor’s boy had borrowed it to chop firewood. He looked out the window at the tree, which seemed 46 �SYDNEY AHRBERG to be looking right back at him. He hesitated for only a second before shaking his head and marching out the door, axe on shoulder. He walked up to the tree, clothes already soaked through from the rain. Despite the heavy wind, the tree stood steadfast, as though there was no storm at all. . Calvin stumbled over a fallen branch and caught his foot between the roots of the tree. He tried to yank it out to no avail, only managing to scrape his ankle from the movement. He raised his axe, preparing to simply chop through the root, when a bolt of lightning struck the tree. The axe fell. It was a week later when the pastor went to Calvin’s house, concerned that he hadn’t been to Sunday mass. He wandered through the empty house when he spotted a charred, blackened tree in the backyard. Walking out the backdoor, he saw a fallen axe–and next to it, Calvin’s body. It wasn’t the lightning that killed him, the autopsy found. It had simply rendered him unconscious. What had killed him was his limp body falling, smashing his head on the tree’s roots upon impact. The townspeople came together to uproot the tree, not wanting such a morbid reminder of Calvin’s death in their neighborhood. What they found perplexed them, however. Below the ground were some worm-eaten scraps of fabric and a system of tree roots intertwined in the shape of a woman. 47 �CHRISTOPHER SMITH A Return to Ape Canyon In my time studying cryptozoology as a hobby, I, of course, would follow the elusive trail of Bigfoot, or the Sasquatch, whatever you want to call it. On a short stay in the . Pacific Northwest, I interviewed several individuals who had supposedly seen the sasquatch. During this time, I was led down a rabbit hole that took me to someone whose story stood out. After a brief email conversation with his wife, Molly, I got permission to interview Martin “Marty” Mair. Their house was a cabin nestled deep in the Rocky Mountains with a rusty green pick up truck and a pristine, white SUV parked outside. My arrival was heralded by the barking of a dog as Molly let me inside. She went back to watching some program on the cooking channel, while the subject of my interview faced me, tinkering with an electric can opener. He had a grey beard and close cropped hair hidden under his cap. His white hands were marked with dirt and grease stains, and his cheeks were flushed the same. A tub of chew and an ashtray of cigarettes sat next to him. A pack of Sonoma menthol’s stuck out from his front shirt pocket. After telling me how he has lived in Washington state since he moved from Chicago at age five, I asked Marty what attracted him to Ape Canyon all those years ago. “To see if the story was real,” he said in a Seattle accent, “It was the height of the Bigfoot craze and we wanted to see if he was real.” “Who do you mean by we?” I asked, giving a look towards Molly. “Not Molly,” Marty told me, “My ex girlfriend, Susie O'neill, and my buddies since high school, Will Fuller and Jim Smith, the latter a member of the Cowlitz tribe.” “What happened to you at Ape Canyon?” I asked finally. 48 �CHRISTOPHER SMITH Marty straightened up, grabbed a cigarette, and lit it with my approval. After the second puff, he began: “Like I said, we were all interested in cryptids–just like you, except for Susie, she just came along to hike Mt. St. Helens. We left during the fourth of July weekend 1977. We . brought enough provisions for two weeks–and firearms. We doubted we’d need them. We doubted we’d even see a squatch. We wanted to be ready for whatever came our way, though. “Starting in the morning from Kelso, we took highway 504 to the lodge on Spirit Lake. There, we spent a few hours talking to locals and tourists, seeing if they saw anything. Finding no satisfying answers, we set off south on foot. We headed directly to Ape Canyon, which we reached by the end of the day. There, we set up camp and spent the night. I remember not being able to sleep that first night, feeling unnerved. I stayed up near the campfire and listened to the animals calling from beyond the brush. “The next two days, we moved out of Ape Canyon and wandered around the mountain, attempting to find any bit of evidence of the squatch. We searched for the usual signs: footprints, droppings, carcasses. Anything. Yet, there was nothing. On the third night, we agreed we would go back tomorrow. As we were picking up camp the next morning, we heard Susie scream. “We ran over to her and she said, ‘I saw it over there!’ She pointed up the hill. ‘What did you see?’ Will asked. ‘The sasquatch!’ Susie told him. Will took a few step in the direction she pointed. Susie added quickly, ‘I’m ready to go home.’ “Will was not having it and said, ‘That’s the whole reason we came on this trip. We’re not going anywhere until we all see the squatch, and have evidence of him.’ They asked me and Jim for our opinions. 49 �CHRISTOPHER SMITH Jim wanted to go after the squatch and I said I wanted to as well, despite wanting to go home with Susie. You see, I didn’t want to leave Will and Jim out here with the squatch. So we started up the mountain after our quarry. We began to find tracks that it attempted to quickly conceal, which Will took pictures of. . “We followed the squatch for two days, with Jim catching one glimpse of it. It led us around the mountain in every which way. Eventually, we found the sasquatch, waiting for us in a cave, seemingly having given up the chase. At first, we were apprehensive, but we approached it. Will was the first to speak, ‘What are you?’ The sasquatch answered in the chittering of a squirrel. We all looked at each other in confusion and Jim suggested we try teaching it English. We taught it to say water, but found it was physically incapable of making human sounds. It did understand the word, though and was able to get out, ‘Ah’ka.’ “We found it was better to use charades. We asked why it ran away from us. It took us hours to learn that his people have been suspicious of the white men, seeing how the whites treated the natives, who they have historically been cordial to. The growing presence of white men has pushed his people into hidden passageways in the mountain. They leave to hunt and forage, but mostly stay underground. It told us that it had been bad times for his kind because the white men hurt the mountain, who they believe is a goddess. Our conversation was cut short when more came and proceeded to sling rocks about…yay big…at us.” He held out his hands about half a foot apart as he continued, “It shouted at its kin in what sounded like a bird call, but they kept throwing rock at us. They started making a high pitched sound as we fled into the woods and they pursued us. We pulled out our guns and fired back, hoping to scare them off, but it only served to enrage them. 50 �CHRISTOPHER SMITH They attempted to encircle us, and we fled even further. We continued shooting at them, dodging stones as they came. They started to back off, and suddenly redoubled their efforts. Will got struck in the head by a stone and Susie went to tend to him. Me and Jim shot back at the squatches, praying to God that we . weren’t gonna die. We took out one of them each, and they began fleeing up the hills. We kept shooting after them, until they disappeared back in the cave. We watched with anxiety until Susie got Will well enough to continue down the mountain. Me and Jim watched the camp that night, while Will groaned in pain. The next morning, we found a ranger, who was able to get us quickly to a hospital. Will died there…me, Susie, and Jim went our separate ways. Susie went out east and I don’t know what happened to Jim.” I waited a moment after Marty finished to ask another question. “Do you think the Apemen are still there?” I finally asked. “No,” Marty said, “They probably died during the eruption.” “Were you ever curious to go back?” I asked. “No,” Marty said, flatly. “Why has this story never gotten national attention?” I asked. Marty went quiet for a minute. I thought he wasn’t even going to answer my question, then he started. “After Will died, two men in black suits came to the hospital. They wore these black sunglasses that they never took off. They took the three of us to an isolated room and questioned us as to what happened. We thought they were police or FBI, so we were scared shitless and told them the truth. Once we finished with our version of events, they told us, ‘You are to never tell this story to anyone else. If any of you tell the story, you 51 �CHRISTOPHER SMITH can forget your constitutional rights.’ They confiscated Will’s camera, saying they were going to destroy it. They then asked if we were given anything by the squatches or if we took anything from them. We answered truthfully, and they left.” “Why do you think the government would care about this getting out?” I asked. . “I thought about that question for all these years,” Marty said, “You know we always talk about what if something is out there…what if we found alien life somewhere. Yet, we never think of what would happen if we saw that life face-to-face. It’s scary. You know, realizing that the squatches are intelligent in their own right, so what if something comes that is smarter than us humans? What if it already has? You know…religion… science… philosophy… Their foundations would crumble. Society as we know it would collapse. Those at the top don’t want that.” “Then why tell me now?” I asked. He laughed. “‘Cause I’m an old coot who is telling you about something that has been buried under volcanic ash for forty years. The doubters will do all the leg work that the Feds would have needed to do all that time ago. Spread my story and make your money off of it. It’ll be buried after a month.” He fell silent again, picking some chew and putting it in his mouth. I thanked him for the interview and left. I got in my car and drove to a nearby diner. There, I sat for a few hours and thought about all he said. I decided I wasn’t going to publish this story, but in the years since my interview, I kept going back to the memory of what Marty said. So believe his story, or don’t. It doesn’t matter. In the end, like Marty said, the truth is buried under a hundred feet of ash. 52 �BIOGRAPHIES �CONTRIBUTER BIOGRAPHIES JAY GUZI EWI CZ - ALUMNUS DEAD W E I G H T SHAR P T H I NGS NEPA #2 j.t. guziewicz is a 2022 Wilkes University Graduate, with a degree in English and Psychology. They once met an extraterrestrial in the tunnels of the Denver International Airport. EMI LY CHERKAUSKAS - ALUMNUS TICK I N G THE C O M P U TER IS LAIK A I N S P ACE Emily Cherkauskas graduated in 2023 with majors in communication studies and English. She accidentally crash-landed on Earth after traveling the universe for the past hundred years. She didn't expect to end up here but is happy to be able to submit to Manuscript . BRI ANNA SCHUNK - ALUMNUS LOST / F O U N D Brianna Schunk (she/they) is an English graduate of Wilkes University (2020) and a current online graduate student of Library Science at Simmons University. Her poetry has been published in Sh*t Men Say to Me (2021), Sagebrush Review, and locally through previous issues of Manuscript and Luzerne County's Poetry in Transit program. Her academic writing has also been published in the Norton Field Guide to Writing, 5th ed. (2021) and through UReCA and Cr*pple Magazine. HALEY KATONA - ALUMNUS IN AU G U S T LEFT O V E R S FROM SUICIDE GRAV E Y A R D S I graduated in 2023 as a Political Science major. I love fire and anything to do with fire. My eyes glow red in the dark. LOIS GRIMM - ALUMNUS WHEN T H E Y SAID I COULD HANDLE IT THE L I E S WE TELL IN THERAPY Lois Grimm is an aspiring writer from Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. She previously wrote for local newspapers as a features writer and daily news reporter and worked as a photojournalist. Lois is currently enrolled in the Maslow Family Graduate Program in Creative Writing at Wilkes University. She enjoys writing poetry, fiction and creative non-fiction. �DREW HARI TOS - 2024 MOME N T O M ORI Drew Haritos is a native of Shippensburg, PA, and is a dual English and Psychology major. She’s working hand-in-hand with the governor's office and is girl-bossing it up with Kamala Harris. She is also known to commune with dead Civil War generals in her spare time. LEAH SMI TH - 2026 DEVI L ’ S C ANDY I’m a sophomore English major. I have a dog and a cat. JACOB O’ BOYLE - 2025 FERA L OMEG A PIMP M Y R IDE I’m a junior Biology major with minors in English and Chemistry. I like to press plants and flowers. That’s why I'm in the witness protection program. DAN STI SH - 2025 Code i n e Dan Stish is pursuing dual degrees in English and Biochemistry, planning to graduate in Spring 2025. I once knew a spectre carnally. NATE STAVI SH - 2026 THE T O W N WAS DEAD CONCRETE I am a sophomore English major. My third eye sees what you think at night, and I'm beginning to get a little concerned. LILY HEBDA - 2025 STIG M A T A Lily Hebda is a junior English and Secondary Education major. In her free time, Lily likes to hike. After graduation she plans to attend graduate school, pursuing a doctorate in Big Foot Studies. �TRI STAN KOHRT - 2026 A RO S E W I THOUT THORNS WAIT I N G BLIN D I am a sophomore Math Education major. I'm from Wisconsin. I'm wanted in 13 states for smuggling Spotted Cow. AVA TUREEN - 2026 4, 01 5 D A Y S I am a sophomore Communications major with double minor in Spanish & Technical Writing. I hope to travel the U.S. in a van for a year in my early twenties. FELI CI A PURSELL - 2027 STAR R Y N I GHT GREA T E R L OVE I am majoring in criminology to become a lawyer to make a difference in the world so my kids have something to look up to.When I was 6 I had a dream of aliens hovering over me and I believe I was abducted by aliens. NOREEN COLLI NS - 2000 FLOW E R M O ON PINK M O O N SNOW M O ON STUR G E O N MOON She graduated from Wilkes University in 2000 with a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology. When she is not over-caffeinating, she can be found writing, taking pictures, and logging miles. SYDNEY AHRBERG - 2026 ROOT S Sydney Ahrberg is a sophomore English major. In her free time, she likes to lie on her bed and think about all the fun things she could be doing if she got out of bed. Mothman is also her cousin. Can't you see the resemblance? CHRI STOPHER SMI TH - ALUMNUS A RE T U R N TO APE CANYON Christopher Smith graduated in 2021 with a major in History and Political Science. He has a cat who wants you to know that the lizard people don't run the show--it's the cat overlords. Please bow down to the cat overlords. �EDITORS DREW HARI TOS EXECUTIVE EDITOR SYDNEY AHRBERG ASSISTANT EDITOR JAZMIN HIGH SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER DAN STISH LAYOUT EDITOR DR. MISCHELLE ANTHONY FACULTY ADVISOR AND THANKS TO OUR OTHER MANUSCRIPT MEMBERS: JACOB O’BOYLE AVA TUREEN FELICIA PURSEL LEAH SMITH QUINN CARDEN SHAWN CAREY TRISTAN KOHRT FINALLY, THANKS TO THE KIRBY GHOST FOR YOUR CONSTANT COMPANIONSHIP �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, 2023-2024 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource English Department Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2023-2024 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Type The nature or genre of the resource Magazine https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/3b00acb5d4926aaa79ea98c652bf651a.pdf 2a62b96b9198d9935442d2a3ffaa9910 PDF Text Text ��Manuscript 2024 - 2025 Wilkes University The Manuscript Society ��1947 Foreword With this issue of the Manuscript, a new publication is launced on the Bucknell University Campus in Wilkes-Barre. Those who have been responsible for its coming into being earnestly hope that through your efforts and the efforts of those who come after you that this magazine will develop into a college tradition of which we may all be proud. The Editors ��The Manuscriprt Society Editorial Board Advisor Dr. Mischelle Anthony Executive Director Sydney Ahrberg Assistant Editor Dan Stish Layout and Copy Editor and Edition Illustrator Jacob O’Boyle Social Media Director Jazmin High Supreme Overlord The Craven And a special thanks to all of our contributors and vollunteers for their hard work and dedication for this edition! �Table of Contents Jacob O’Boyle Ode to The Valley 8 Elysium 9 Leah Smith My Heart’s a Work in Progress 10 Murdock 12 Cass Heid He’s Not Here Right Now 14 Avenge Me 15 Supply and Demand 16 Unwoven 17 Dan Stish A concept 18 sapphire blue bottles 19 crown of thorns 20 Bright Judas 21 Grace Cairns Overdue 22 Above 23 American Dream Reality 24 Amelia Murphy Friend of Bees 26 Light Leads the Way 27 Adventures Unknown 28 Jeffrey Prescott C@T 29 6 �Sydney Ahrberg Femicide Buddy Breena Kravabloski Etude: Caged Rumination William Chad Stanley Meanwhile, in the Barnyard, Things Stay the Same (Reprise) Kylie Kilvitis No one La fleur de la mort Tyler Savitski ross Sleep Is For The Death Valley Bleed Orange and the night is enormous Encounter Dorrian Nelson If You Could See Me Eleanor Burrows This Heart of Mine Life’s Music Shawn Carey You’re Dead Liv Serkosky What is it Like to be Honest with Yourself? Liz Keller When She Was Here - A Sestina 30 32 34 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 48 49 50 52 7 �Ode to the Valley O, mountain home, cradle of my birth, full of melancholy fools mired to mirth. Sullen peaks, worn by time, you leave me much to ponder and pine, for full of desire, friend of mine, you hold me here, grasp solid, yet delicately fine, like a handcuff shackle on a slave in the mine. But mistake not this frustration for hate, as it isn’t your fault you can’t fill my plate. You’re a victim too, of our dire state, an affliction which all of Appalachia can relate. So I suppose I won’t run no, from your clutch I won’t slip, though I’m not the girl with golden hair but the saucer with a chip. I do love you so, so I’ll go down with the ship. I try to see your glory, but it’s only in days gone by, in stories of yesteryear, in a last breath’s sigh. Should I carry on then? To live your lie? That it will all be fine as we all slowly die? As the fire consumes and smoke burns the eye? When I’m finally at your funeral will you expect me then to still cry? 8 - Jacob O’Boyle �Elysium Please take me there, that place of no fear which holds me so tight, like strong arms, so near. Old growth oaks, thick and strong, stocked up with acorns for yond winter long. To its flowering fields, lands of plenty, where the golden grasses never leave my heart empty. And of the sweet meadow betwixt the wooded hills grows the richest winter wheat of which the granary fills. So I may sit in its heights where the soft blue sky may watch me. I’ll breathe relief’s sigh and lounge forever lazily. Ah, yes, deliver me there, country so fair, as for when I’m not with you, I may only despair. ‘Til I run down those hills where the grass grows thin, a rocky grimace like a stubbled chin. And off to its midlands down by the coast; here is where I love to rest my head most. Oh, but the forest lands do hold my heart, for when I venture there, I never wish to part. - Jacob O’Boyle 9 �My Heart’s a Work in Progress I wake up to a broadcast of mistakes and worries, The past and present in an endless tug o’ war. Never a break when it comes to the battle of the brain and heart. My fingers fly across the keyboard as I type Assignment after assignment, but I still want to write About a story of a superhero or maybe a new world. The overpriced coffee and microwaved egg sandwich is not enough My heart yearns for something more. Like getting lost At a Barnes and Noble. Whether I am gawking at a magazine cover featuring Pedro Pascal Or analyzing the graphic novel section only to buy yet another Batman title. Or maybe, I can take myself out to dinner Like that one time at Chili’s. Red in the face, I think I fell in love. They say love don’t cost a thing But it’s a heavy-handed Shark Tank pitch as far as I’m concerned. I take a look at the crowd around me, I see nothing but a masquerade of misery. People together that shouldn’t be like puzzle pieces forced into each other. But of course, love is chess and I’m playing Uno. 10 �But, I like Uno, so why should I feel ashamed? Because grandma said she wants to see a boyfriend at the table next Christmas And my friends are all getting married. The bell rings and the rope is pulled The brain and heart are at war once again. The world spins me around and I feel numb. Numb from the repetitive song and dance I know it already, can the radio stop playing it? This is why I use Spotify. I know the kind of music I like It’s certainly not the same you enjoy So why can’t the heart want what it wants? My heart says it wants pizza and another Empire Strikes Back rewatch. Sorry grandma, don’t expect a boyfriend next Christmas And sorry girls, but there’s no dove calling my name. But maybe, I can bring a new book. And maybe, I can start a new meditation technique. Just maybe, I can love myself. - Leah Smith 11 �Murdock The devil is real and he’s in me. This war in my head is more than I can take. Bodies all around, more than just casualties. Blinded by the smoke, my world is on fire. Trust is a gun that fires back Like Russian roulette I spin the barrel, It doesn’t matter where it’s pointed, The bullet hits me nonetheless. Close friends to bitter enemies, Sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which But I take the scissors and cut and hear them All fall down into an endless pit of souls I’ve let go. My hands are busted leather with bloodstains Painted over beads of sweat. No matter how many times The devil’s work is done, it’s never enough For me or him. “Let the devil out,” I hear my father say, But when he’s out, trouble comes and takes no prisoners Except me for I am his vessel, this unstoppable machine Of blood, sweat, and tears that never gets a break. Smash! Crash! Bang! Cries are elevated, silencing my screams. 12 �The system is broken and I fight back Gloves on, I throw haymakers in the form of words. Ears ringing, the dust never settling, I turn around and hear The cheering of a little boy, a small victory, a mirage of joy. Morning coffee and walks in the park A brief reprieve but he calls to me “Let the devil out,” In the blackest pit of my gut I know I am chained. Chained to the words of my father, The father, The devil, The pleas of friends washed away in the fires of my fury. Guilt devours me but I sit in it’s stomach The acids are my tears that never dry I swim but I still sink to the bottom Where I know I’ll be buried in darkness. Pride is all of me Though I call it justice For me, for them, for everybody. Though, it is blind. Regardless, the devil’s work is never done. - Leah Smith 13 �He’s Not Here Right Now Lord, please grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, long-ago conversations that send me running like air raid sirens the clanging of bells. Somewhere, a watchtower casts a lustful beacon that reveals my skeleton, and I wake up gasping for air on an island in the middle of the North Sea. - Cassie Heid 14 �Avenge Me If pain demands to be felt, Let mine in The next time it knocks And sit with it like you would With a friend fallen on hard times Cry my tears In a somber baritone Trembling under the weight of your sorrow And punch the walls with fists Better fit to handle the rage That chokes me May I taste bitter enough For you to start wars in my name Instead of Fulfilling the prophecy Told by your comrades About my warnings Written in blood And all that Failed to prosper When they stole from me - Cassie Heid 15 �Supply and Demand And when you finally receive your flowers, be sure to hang them upside-down in the back of your closet so you can save them for later - they seem to be in limited supply these days. In the meantime, buy your own Grow your own from packaged seeds And sink down to your elbows in the soft earth Like a reprieve from the scorching sun And wipe the beads of sweat from your brow with the back of your hand While the well-intentioned, Well-meaning, Innocent People who are too wrapped up in their own little lives To put down their binoculars and wave While they watch your progress from their kitchen windows Are operating flower shops in their own garages unbeknownst to you. They have the most exotic, fresh-cut blooms on hand And they can’t wait to present them to their front porch company Who hate the soil. - Cassie Heid 16 �Unwoven Affirmations spoken in the mirror leave my mouth in broken wisps that fall to the floor. It shouldn’t be a crime to desire a bond strong enough to weather the occasional downpour. But the spider does not speak to her prey in empty platitudes - “I am not everyone’s cup of tea.” She knows how few appreciate her silk, preferring what honeycombs have to offer: She spins anyway, and traps the flies That swarm your empty jar. - Cassie Heid 17 �[a concept] - Dan Stish 18 �sapphire blue bottles I measure time by the growth of pine, and the ripening of juniper berries. When I am gone, though shall not be long, bury me beneath that willow of fairies. - Dan Stish 19 �crown of thorns oh darling you can love me, but you have to make it hurt. love me like a nail loves a wrist; like a father loves his son and a god his people. I shall snap under your teeth like the crimson skin of pomegranate seeds, burst against the tongue - Dan Stish 20 �[Bright Judas] on this night—the moon glimmers like thirty pieces of silver, pressed into a palm. - Dan Stish 21 �Overdue In my heart is a warm, candle-lit library I keep dusting it, keep candles lit, even as they burn under my skin I’m always sitting at the check-in Waiting for you to come in and reminisce with me I’m watching as your eyes get bluer and you grow and keep getting more pretty While my hair will gray and bones will disintegrate With the hope I sat with, always making me wait - Grace Cairns 22 �Above You enamor me My energy is spent trying to capture your beauty More faithfully than the pursuit of money Colors fade in photographs, you do not give beauty away You know it’s yours Always mine to see Never to keep You’re free Way up there, untouched by humans’ folly Witness to the birds singing, flirting with the trees Colors live in unison Your brush strokes reveal nothing but truth and grace In all this daily glory that you paint Your message to the bleeding earth, You say you want us to live in peace A beauty so great, defying photograph and poetry If we’d just watch and listen and see You show us how we can live in peace - Grace Cairns 23 �American Dream Reality America, you’re top dog Bred to fight Teeth sunken in to the neck of an abused innocent Patriarchy paid by conquest Pride. While your victims plead for your mercy with the remaining light in their eyes Overwhelmed with things to own up to, you whitewash the blood painted on the wall, but it still shows through They came with entitlement and stole, now the power struggle builds from within And the trajectory of the people is once again altered by the ruthless conquest of so few Hiding the truth while we do as we’re told Stand, put your hand on your heart Love this land where all are equal Where we’re all so thankful that the helping hand of the white man gave us free speech, Stop. now, And think. On what principle was he shamed for taking a knee? His speech was not free, and another one, He couldn’t breathe. Used his last words to plead… His speech was not free. America, don’t you realize? Blindness to the truth, the unmet ideals they’ve fed to us since we were two That’s the real threat. When the losing dog whimpers, they say she wouldn’t be anything without his helping hand Even as her body breaks in his grasp. And we’re taught to be grateful that our forefathers were faithful And no one mentioned to a little kid how they took valuable cultures, and ripped out their staples There was no room at their bountiful table For ideas wider than the scope of their corner of the world 24 �Then they came in with crime-rate statistics and scape-goated the misfits The “War on Drugs” was really the “War on Those They Won’t Let Rise Above.” AMERICA-listen to me now One feels no need to drag others down when they know self love. Don’t take my word, just ask the criminal how they valued their life itself. Stop the stigma and shaming and guide the fighters in the hallways not to a cell, but to help Everyone is a person with problems, not a problem incarnate Treat everyone as such, don’t make sensitivity feel dangerous That’s how you heal the whole country’s health. Start the healing from within, learn the truth about everything that happens And then maybe we could all see clearly again Where instead of leveling up by shooting imaginary lives on a computer screen, our children would play kindly and make real friends I have a vision of what the world could be, if conquest was not the goal of our country… We could show how to peacefully lead and be truthful when we celebrate treating everyone equally If we are courageous enough to believe, this goodness could reach overseas America, you’re a top dog Bred to fight Take your blinders off and fight for the freedom that is equally right Unsink your teeth from the innocent you brought into your fighting ring Learn the truth, and make real peace, freedom, and equality, the real American Dream. - Grace Cairns 25 �Friend of Bees - Amelia Murphy 26 �Light Leads the Way - Amelia Murphy 27 �Adventures Unknown - Amelia Murphy 28 �C@T Ornery cat, pondering a wall, eyeing a festering sheetrock sore. From it, a dead thing exits. Cats see spirits and regard them as they would a beetle, a shadow, a ray of light, a red pinpoint reflected in porcelain sclera. One feline goes for the throat; claws pass through an echo of flesh. No substance there, so the cat retracts its claws. Out with the spirit! Just like the cat, once flung by the neck For vandalizing saucers and rugs. Let the spirit pass to the ferals. They may have it, and chase it north, over sheets of leaf and bone. - Jeffrey Prescott 29 �Femicide “A woman or girl is killed by someone in her own family every 11 minutes” - United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime I think to be a woman is to be angry. An anger born when Eve ate the fruit and understood she was loved by Adam the way a shark loves the blood in the water stemming like ribbons from an injured seal. You lose your girlhood and become woman as you read the stories every day. Every hour. Every minute. MURDERTORTURERAPE The anger rises in your throat, choking you like he choked her. choking you like the men who silence her story. “Bet she cheated” “What did she do?” “Lol” Choking you like the tears stuck in your throat: powerless to save her, to avenge her, even to cry for her. 30 �You feel you might explode. Your heartbeat rattles inside your chest, shaking like frostbitten fingers with every breath. To be a woman They say to yell “FIRE!” because no one will come if you yell “RAPE!” Yet they flock like hungry dogs when you yell “I FOUND HER NUDES!” Suddenly running to a naked woman isn’t so hard. Junko Furata. Leda. Ana Mendieta. Katherine Howard. Sally Hemings. Elizabeth Short. Nicole Brown Simpson. Lucy. Betsey. Anarcha. Callisto. Philomena. Lucretia. Mary Ann Nichols. Annie Chapman. Elizabeth Stride. Catherine Eddowes. Mary Jane Kelly. Gisèle Pelicot. Kristina Joksimovic. Rebecca Cheptegei. Nika Shakarami. Bianca Devins. Matoaka. To be born a woman is to understand why your sisters ask to be cremated when they die. - Sydney Ahrberg 31 �Buddy My Grampy wants to be cremated when he dies. It’s a nice thought. He lives right by the beach, A perfect place To scatter the remains of what once was a man. Except he hates the beach. The sand strips skin from your toes As seagulls snatch chips like Some comically bold pickpocket And the scorching sun burns cancer into your flesh. He’d hate to rest there for eternity. My family has joked In the late hours of the night That we’ll have to spread his ashes Not at the beach, but At Market Basket, his favorite grocery store, Alchemized into Mahket Basket Through the rasp of his thick Boston accent. Where he drives When the sun is just a sliver above the mountains. Upon his return, he excitedly announces That he’s remembered and purchased your favorite snack. 32 �Or we could spread him at Fenway Park. Forever mixed in with the powdered dirt Kicked up as players slide to home, Clinging to the undersides of cleats Like hitchhiking burs on a dog’s fur. He was always the best player, after all. And if you listened closely, When the ump made a bad call, You would hear faintly From the ground below: “Ah, Christ! What are they doing?” We stay up late laughing, Discussing places we could lay him to rest. The dump, the set of The Price is Right, The elevator he got stuck in that one time. I think it’s our way of pretending He’ll always be in these places. Ignoring the impermanence of life And the futility of forever As though there won’t be a day His spot on the couch is empty, And nobody is sneaking their dog food, And my Nana buys the groceries. - Sydney Ahrberg 33 �Etude: Caged Rumination Calluses do not numb the sting of metal on skin. That much, I had come to realize. The misconception was born from those with mountainous egos, pride that could scale even the tallest buildings– or careless nerve damage. “It does not hurt,” they would say, “I have played for so long, I cannot feel it anymore. Only the music, in my soul.” Then, said woefully successful musician and mindless entourage would chuckle, slipping deeper into self-indulgent reverie. Now in my musings, either I was entirely correct, as I often have been, or my own calluses had faded enough to leave me bitter. Hunched over in an old, creaky pew, my eyes followed the swirls of notes on a too-small, smudged paper. I had known this song once, the Cardinal mentioned. Performing it many times for whatever ceremony was in demand. Still, no matter how many times the melody was shown, my recently-addled mind could not read its notes. Not quickly, at least. After healing, I was swiftly thrust into efforts to regain my skills. At the ripe age of six, old enough to swallow the fear of frightening gothic sculptures in the hallway, I was brought into the church. Today, sitting in the aisle, the same stories were repeated to me. The Cardinal, and his swarming ducklings of altar boys, tried and failed not to breathe too closely down my neck during their sentiments. They were young, curious, and my hair had grown since last they’d seen. “You know,” began the eminent man. “Your mother was the one fond of the harp.” I kept my eyes on my parchment, silently wishing to whatever deity we worshiped not to be swept up in this topic. Yet much like egotistical musicians, graying men enjoyed hearing themselves talk. The Cardinal continues, much to my feigned concentration’s dismay. I glossed over the notes again, slowly deciphering. C... A… It must have been a grim sight. A twenty-something (two? three? I cannot recall) year-old prodigy, born into an affluent family such as mine, struggling with music theory like a child holding a plastic recorder for the first time. All because of a good knock on the back of the head in a highway wreck. And here I was, sitting in a church, thanks to the advice of the “good” and gossiping congregation, waiting with bated breath to watch me overcome tragedy. “You were an attentive young boy, and your father couldn’t convince you to pick a more…” the elderly man paused, “traditional role of service. But of course, our savior accepts the gift of music from all willing. We were overjoyed to have a young pupil play for mass. And look at you now, grown and brilliant. Even your old man came around, eventually, seeing the light in your eyes.” I fiddled with my un-numbed fingertips again. C… A… G… The Cardinal shooed away his lingering young ducks, their white robes hitting against sprightly pairs of legs which each knew when to make themselves unseen. Then, the man slid his way onto the seat beside me, knees seeming to resist in the same way 34 �as the wood. A pitying sigh followed, and I felt a subtle weight twist through my chest. When the sanctum was otherwise vacant, a hand patted against my shoulder. “My child, the weight of your loss must be immeasurable.” The loss in question, I’m uncertain of which. From what I’ve learned, my life has recently been riddled with much. My parents, my previous knowledge, a few items from the accident, and so forth. Details I’ve been told, yet could not feel sorrow for. And despite the copious sums of money I was now riddled with, my greatest currency these days was condolences. Had I truly loved my mother so dearly, to give my time to this place? To this instrument? Or was my participation here simply what was expected of me, and I had aimed to kill two birds with one harp? Was I gentle, then? Or calculating enough to seek praise and good standing in society? To attract the whimsical eye of young girls in my worship school? Did I still dare to please even the graves, forever outside in the churchyard? Holding back the urge to flinch, my body instead goes entirely stiff. Then, as if remembering how to breathe, I shake my head. “...It will come back to me, when my hands are on the strings. It has been doing so in other instances, I’ve found.” Muscle memory resided in a different part of my brain. The phenomenon was often seen in retired musicians with dementia, and with the extent of my damages, I was no better. The other man rubs his hand, shaking his head. “It was not the song, of which I was referring to.” My patience is exhausted. I stand, feeling a confusing amount of guilt and subsequent vindication, leaving the elderly holy father on a bench in his own domain. Still, I did not come that day to listen to the same sympathies I’d heard a thousand times before, and entertain the company of any more ghosts whose names I did not know. Instead, I moved towards the fourty-seven stringed, towering instrument. Tall and terrifying as a gargoyle or seraphim in the annex. Suddenly, I felt like a supposed-six year old, wishing to turn and hide from monsters that aren’t there. Yet were I to step back, I’d have to deal with the encouraging words of a stranger, and somehow, that was worse. In the interest of getting this over with as painlessly as possible, I sat on my second bench of the day. This one, smaller, with a height enough for my legs to rest comfortably enough around the soundboard. There were few things I could remember, yet educated guesses weren’t too far out of my reach. As a child, I can imagine my frustration with the pedals. Understanding which does what, how to change positions, and balancing the coordination between hand and foot. It evaded me now, too. I can imagine my father, who’s face I cannot recall, eager to take every frustration as an opportunity to persuade me to another outlet. Yet my mother might have encouraged me, coaxing my determination with her fondness to hear another song. 35 � Imagining these things, I tried– try not to do, even now. Amnesia is a fickle thing, especially when the damage is enough to leave the mind like snapped strings. Even a broken wire could be played to some capacity, if stretched far enough. Out of tune, and no better than rubber bands instead of steel or nylon, but capable of sound. Yet I hate the sound, his rubber life impeding mine, when I can replace the peg instead. But I had no idea how to. On my own, away from that damned church. So while I had no clue what I was doing, I lifted my fingers to the strings. Plucking a few combinations, trying to find C. Putting faith in the repertoire of my mind that had been left intact, though difficult to kickstart. Upon finding the semi-familiar sound, my hands wandered again. …C… …A… …G… …E… The combination was enough. Without warning, I was swept away. Joints stiffening and plucking like a haunted virtuoso. From illiterate, to intricate glissandos, I was powerless to stop the possession. Uncharted, forbidden, and stinging against the pads of my fingers. The song was complicated, layered, and felt impossible to me. Yet by the time my besiegement had come to an end, the Cardinal had returned to my side. “By the grace of his light, you’ve remembered!” Sweat against my brow, I wiped away the signs of strain- fear. I did not dare to correct him. That I was merely exploiting the skill of someone foreign to me. How could this be holy? Another pat against my shoulder, the man flashed a bright, faithful smile. “I’ll let our director know you’ve come around. This is wonderful news! Praise be!” Then, the elderly man scurried off. Likely to proclaim my good health, that I was returning to my old self. Or, in more realistic terms, that I was useful to the congregation once more. That I would come again, over and over, to be their symbol of light and beautifully woven tragedy. My hands shook before me. Ears ringing, vision swirling- the weight of a new truth crushing down. This is what the rest of my days would be. Pretending, exploiting, sinning against even myself, under the roof of a god whom I did not believe in. Could not believe in, not anymore. Imitating the man who’s life I had once known, yet was never coming back. But with enough time, I thought, calluses could form on even a dead man walking. And one day, when I was bold enough, the guilt would coat evenly beneath their scars. When they stop hurting, I will leave his memories buried beneath the same tree in the graveyard, beside his mother and father. And I will escape. - Breena Kravabloski 36 �Meanwhile, in the Barnyard, Things Stay the Same (Reprise) Vote fox again, said fox again (as again, said Fox again). But fox, said chicken, You have eaten all of my children. Said fox said that still shows how smart I am. - William Chad Stanley 37 �No one Rivers form from my eyes Slowly pulling me under No one can hear No one can hear my cries My world crumbles beneath my feet Slowly dragging me to its depths No one can see No one can see the struggle The air vanishes around my face Slowly taking me with it No one can see No one can see me break Fire surrounds my body Slowly burning me down No one can hear No one can hear my screams - Kylie Kilvitis 38 �Le fleur de la mort Life crumples away in the vase Lively petals wither away to nothing However there is a sense of grace Never has there been such loving Death is but a splotch of gray But only for a minute As the world as its way No one can dispute, Colors fall peaceful Within a safe eye Lives fall easeful As the dead fly The Death’s flower It withers beside them As it’s guilt can overpower, Even the brightest gem A beauty like no other Bouquets all a flutter As one falls under cover With no more clutter Colors shine away As afterlife takes place And though it might convey A small pain trace Once one fades The beauty is unbounded Pinks and blues of different shades Leaving all astounded The pain is a speck of nothing Blackness will fade away Soon you shall be something The colors will rise again in May “C’est la vie”, Is all they say Of beauty of losing an amie As colors shine in a gray - Kylie Kilvitis 39 �ross - Tyler Savitski 40 �Sleep Is For The Death - Tyler Savitski 41 �Valley Bleed Orange - Tyler Savitski 42 �and the night is enormous - Tyler Savitski 43 �Encounter - Tyler Savitski 44 �If You Could See Me If If If If you you you you No No No No could could could could one one one one I I I I could could could could If If If If you you you you No No No No see see see see could could could could me, me, me, me, see see see see what would that make me? would you see the pain? how much did you see? was my shell in vain? me, me, me, me, still still still still see see see see them, them, them, them, could could could could see see see see me, me, me, me, one one one one I I I I could could could could If If If If you you you you could could could could see see see see so so so so I I I I engineered the facade disappeared from them all became someone more broad watched the old me just fall through the eyes of a stranger I became what they wanted the old me was a danger the new me became haunted might that help me heal? would I gain control? would that make me feel? would you see the whole? me, me, me, me, still still still still see see see see them, them, them, them, could could could could see see see see me, me, me, me, for as long as I remember so to me, it never mattered I pursued countless endeavors but that reality shattered they would glance with no worry I embrace neutrality they have just never known me I hate their mentality I’d be unprepared I would be ready would you have cared? would you still need me? - Dorrian Nelson 45 �This Heart of Mine There is a heart that beats in my chest. Beats 1, 2, 1, 2, on and on As my chest rises and falls. Thump-thump, over and over Rapid as I try to quell the rising panic Slow and steady as I find peace. There is a heart that beats in my chest. A heart that has too much love to give And not enough people to give love to. Sincere in its passion and depth But fragile and easily cracked and shattered Like glass on the edge of a table Precarious and unsteady. There is a heart that beats in my chest, A heart that wants and a heart that needs But a heart that cannot express why A heart that cannot express how A heart that cannot make its voice heard Because it hurts too much to listen. There is a heart that beats in my chest, A heart that betrays emotion Every chance it gets A heart that is young and foolish A heart that takes everything too seriously A heart that cannot lie to itself even if it tries. 46 �There is a heart that beats in my chest And though I try to listen Though I try to understand There are times when I cannot fathom How someone could say “follow your heart” When I know my heart will only lead me astray. There is a heart that beats in my chest, A heart that is wild, a heart that is illogical By all accounts my heart should not decide But I make decisions because in my heart I believe them to be right. I care too much to let my heart be silent, But my heart must be silent for my own sake. My heart holds words that I will never say Because if I said them it would only break. There is a heart that beats in my chest, A heart that will continue to beat Until it cannot beat anymore That will continue to love Until it cannot love anymore And this heart will live in my chest As it beats a steady rhythm For as long as I live. And I can try to deny it, Try to fight my heart but I know Deep down My heart will always lead the way. - Eleanor Burows 47 �Life’s Music Do me a favor, if you can. Let your mind be quiet, as quiet as it can be. Listen to your breathing, The soft inhale and exhale. A sweet rhythm, Echoing in the empty branches of trees, Their leaves scattered on the ground, a crunch, another beat with each step In the whisper of wind, curling through streets Tousling hair, rustling clothes It has its own beauty I think you know what I’m getting at here You know a rhythm You know a beat you know the music that nature gives us In a crash of waterfalls, Not unlike a cymbal striking in a great symphony A birdsong, lilting, bright So early in the morning A reminder of the sweet sounds we ourselves can make - Eleanor Burows 48 �You’re Dead You tell me you’re dead, that you died many years ago You tell everyone the same thing. You were on the receiving end of a brutal attack, one that left you as a husk of your former self. You frame yourself as the victim. Singing songs about how everyone and everything is against you. How you’re the casualty of an unjust society. You target your “attacker,” seeking revenge for what they have done to you. You won’t rest, not until you’ve won. I know you’re lying. The blood you bleed isn’t your own. The songs you sing drown out the voices of others. Your wounds are self-inflicted, most of them barely piercing skin. The masses are fooled. You convinced them that you speak the truth. That we should feel bad for you. I won’t listen. - Shawn Carey 49 �What is it Like to be Honest With Yourself? At six I was playing with the boys, Fighting nightmares and guarding secrets. At ten I was afraid to make new friend, I was scared that I would grow too close. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t breathe. A lost cause, I thought this was God’s punishment I trek along the forest path, punishment Seething in my bones for the anger of boys. I’m trapped in the meadow that can‘t breathe. I look back at the house, sinfully silent secrets. Nineteen, the taste of vodka burns in my throat, I’m so close To the memory of visiting here with my friends. I grew too fond of the girls who were just friends. I lost against the dragon in the wood, ten and facing punishment. I prayed to a god I didn’t believe was real, never close Enough to the castle, the walls guarded by boys. That castle, my former home, she built from my secrets. The roof came crashing in, and at twelve I lost all senses to breathe. 50 �Dust like sparkles cover the floors of that house, trying to breathe. I light candles in the windows and welcome my friends. We sit like witches around a table, dangling secrets. I know my lies are locked away like finch as punishment New summer dress, she talks about her crush on a college boy. I can feel my hands tremble as I grasp anger close. This house of ivy was once furnished and loved, close Enough for me to feel safe, to feel able to breathe. We were finally old enough at thirteen to play chess with boys. I grinned brightly at the sight of my giggling friends. But, that was not what I wanted; that was my punishment. I hid in the corner of the dining room bleeding secrets. I stare out the window of the pale house of secrets. Now grown, I learned to hold who I love close. Outside grass blades sing of my past punishment. Trapped in this room, I’m sobbing, choking to breathe. They’ve all gone to college, now they have new friends. I was always different, I never liked the boys. This house carries the secret memories of boys. I kept my cards close, but finally admitted to my friends. There was never any punishment; I like girls, and now I can safely breathe - Liv Serkosky 51 �When She Was Here - A Sestina A home for flowers, our haven to grow in the lush streets of our faraway town with lakes of sand, dunes of crystalline blue and the leafy arbor of our dear youth where the sun shined bright on those August days spent in rainbows. This love cannot be lost. Ensnared by biting barbed vines, truly lost until you set me free to bloom and grow by your side. Fragrant, pinkish melons, days spent in our plastic palace, modest town market or cozy homes. How blessed, youth rich with bliss and ceaseless heavens of blue, and then December came, deforming blue skies to subdued greys, our floral beds lost to weiss powder, melting views of Her youth. She was breaking, Her soul screaming to grow into the artist every face in town demanded She be. Still silence for days until we found Her. In a mere few days our technicolor truths befell rime bluegrey slush, smothering our faraway town. Her fractured visage hung heavy; life lost. “How horrific!” they cried, “Her time to grow forfeited! Robbing Herself of Her youth!” 52 �Love was lost in the swift sparks of our youth once eternal, now January days pass as I am frozen, inept to grow in our wry plot void of your pink and blue hues that once bathed my leaves in light, now lost as I wither on bare paths of our town. And then March came, but the seasons in town never seemed to shift, and landmarks of youth lie in ache for our return, but they’ve lost each beam of light shared together on days of warmth and sweet salty spray of the blue sparkling shore. They cried, “He will never grow!” And then August came to town. Yet to grow from tragic youth, we’re still haunted by blue skies lost as our years drift by like brisk days. - Liz Keller 53 �Biographies Jacob O’Boyle is a senior biology major with a minor in English. He harpoons gay wood trolls for sport. Only the gay ones. There can only be one. Me. Leah Smith is the News Editor for the Beacon. She writes short stories and reads comic books in her spare time. Leah’s not-so guilty pleasure is watching WWE. Her top three favorite wrestlers are Cody Rhodes, Seth Rollins, and Rhea Ripley. Cass Heid has a B.S. in Earth and Environmental Science, an M.A. in Creative Nonfiction, and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing, all from Wilkes University. She is an essayist, poet, and academic scholar who’s work appears in The Handy Uncapped Pen, Elephant Eyes, and the horror scholar’s anthology, No More Haunted Dolls: Horror Fiction That Transcends The Tropes, which was published by Vernon Press, and nominated for a Bram Stoker Award. Her work is also forthcoming in the poetry anthology, Pennsylvania Bard’s Eastern PA Poetry Review 2025. She lives in Swoyersville, Pennsylvania, and has been collecting crystals since she was seven years old! Dan Stish is a senior graduating with a dual major in English and Biochemistry. He is going on to pursue a chemistry Ph.D at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. He spends his free time arguing with his reflection in the mirror, which has yet to lose a debate. Grace Cairns loves being outdoors; walking amongst trees, swimming, and basically doing anything else when the weather is nice. Amelia Murphy once journeyed from the wilds of Alaska to the far reaches of the eastern seaboard. Some say the road bent for her, guided by whispers of the Fae who admired her fearless spirit. 54 �JP is a Library Technician at Wilkes University. He enjoys walks on Back Mountain Trail, where he pretends the neighboring highway does not exist. Sydney Ahrberg is a junior English major who is irrationally convinced she could befriend a bear if provided the opportunity. Breena Kravabloski is a TTRPG player and hobbyist writer, with an inprogress fantasy project of over thirty thousand words. Eleanor Burrows is a senior Marketing major with a minor in Hospitality Leadership. Her first love of poetry came from reading Shel Silverstein poems with her grandmother, a particular favorite being “Long-Leg Lou and Short-Leg Sue”, and her teachers throughout K-12 who supported her creative writing development and creativity. Liv Serkosky is an honors Theater Arts major with History and English minors. They are currently a junior. They’ve been in the performance industry since a child and performed in, and worked on, close to fifty shows. They are also a singer-songwriter, actor, and director. Dorrian Nelson is a Wilkes University freshman in the graduating class of 2028. He is currently double majoring in Political Science and International Relations. When he does write, Dorrian tends to storytell in a manner that provides various understandings or interpretations to his pieces. This is so he can provide both the mystery of what idea he is truly presenting to his audience, and to often make the audience’s personal experiences in their own lives play a role in their own personal interpretations of his writing. Kylie Kilvitis is a junior neuroscience major who taps into her creativity with dance and poetry! She is currently working on a poetry book for herself and a dance minor! Liz Keller is a second-year Political Science major and a huge nature lover! At heart, she’s a mountain goat wandering the Montana hills. 54 �Firethorns Solanum pyracanthos Poison Ivy Toxicodendron radicans Multiflora Rose Rosa multiflora English Ivy Hedera helix Morning Glory Ipomoea tricolor ��� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, 2024-2025 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2024 Type The nature or genre of the resource Literary Magazine Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource English Department https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/defd83ba7d8f145078aa595a46e9319d.pdf 02b23659e3edce2722315858eddcc8e2 PDF Text Text THE MANUSCRIPT SOCIETY MANUSCRIPT 2025-2026 wilkes university ��1947 FOREWARD with this issue of the manuscript, a new publication is launched on the Bucknell University Campus in Wilkes-Barre. those who have been responsible for its coming into being earnestly hope that through your efforts and the efforts of those who come after you that this magazine will develop into a college traditiON OF WHICH WE MAY ALL BE PROUD. SINCERELY, THE EDITORS i ��THE MANUSCRIPT SOCIETY EDITORIAL BOARD ADVISOR Dr. Mischelle Anthony EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR Sydney Ahrberg ASSISTANT EDITOR Kylie Sable LAYOUT AND COPY EDITOR Liv Serkosky SOCIAL MEDIA DIRECTOR Jazmin High SUPREME OVERLORD The Craven ii �Table of contents LIZ KELLER Before Our End 1 Never 3 But Not For Me 5 JACOB O’BOYLE Succession 6 Autumn 8 LINDSEY CHRISTIAN Nihil 9 Chameleon 11 Carrion, Revere 13 AUBRIANNA HARTE the Piranhas sleep sound tonight. 14 LEAH SMITH Rainbow Void Burrito 18 JAkE MIDDLETON not home for supper 23 iii �JAZmIN HIGH The immortal song 24 Choke 25 Clock 26 Ambush 27 For What He’s Not 28 CADEN TEMPLE may i tonight in darkness speak 29 SiNNER JOAN The Mad Poet to His Muse 30 Twins 31 Red, Concerning Premature Baldness 32 Dion 33 KYLIE SABLE Anxiety 34 grace cains OCD is not something you can shove into a rhyme scheme, this is not supposed to be pretty, ok? Jaded iv 36 �Madi Westawski 38 An Ode to Forgotten Benches 39 liv serkosky Magnolia 40 M. 41 if i were you today (the things) we fear, 43 but fight) nicholas penglase Predator Recall 47 No Healthy Upstream 48 Krystal crespo clark People think poor 49 Craig conville The Mistake From an Unsavory Past In What Sin Do You Relish? 50 52 Jack Deluca The Seven Deadly Sins Killer 55 v �nate stavish I Remember the Girl 57 The Museum of Atomic Warfare 59 Biapolis 61 anthony elmes Windchimes 62 sydney ahrberg Vincent 65 Leonidas’ Swimming Creek 66 Space Dog 67 franklin collazo Confounding Variables 69 Wayne Mccormick American Werewolf 70 autumn evancavich Spectator 74 Kailey Vogel Love Through Death (The Girl, Her 76 Ghost, The Kiss, All Mine, The End) vi �Before Our End Liz Keller It is fell mockery to deem you dead. As you doze not far from this wretched place, I could not face you in that sterile bed. What a coward, to flee with such disgrace. Though my aching love shall span eternal, You are but a grey husk of your brilliance. Craven confessions, my heart infernal. I weep - cling to your stubborn persistence! I abscond the snarl of mortality. Though it was likely our final meeting, The anguish of your fate thrashed throughout me. Why must my spineless soul keep retreating? Still, I yearn for wings to whisk me ahead, Away from Ones whose shrill gossips draw blood! To find solace where the lost are not dead! This brook will soon surge into raging floods. How dare your sons leave your petals to wilt, In your garden that once blossomed so bright? Do they pride their vile acts? No shred of guilt? Then demand your daughter bear all the blight? These ‘men’ left breathing are as good as gone, I tally the dates till their final parties. Each day a torture, each hour sorely drawn, I ache that you stay, midst my hearts’ pained pleas. 1 �Yet! You’d not wish to heed my sorrowed spite. You once tended me like your precious roses, I wither now, saved by lone fading light. But your love trails on as our world near closes. I retrace your home, oh, how I miss you. I search for your warmth that once set me free, Your echoes linger within, softly true, Never fully gone – forever with me. 2 �Never Liz Keller When the world was ours to conquer, where tyrants failed to cry “no!” we soared free across golden skies, I thought I loved you so. You carried us up Devil’s Peak, and dried up dunes of dust. For you, I’d do it again to cease the moment’s rust. Amid years of fearless battles, our souls, truly blessed! Guide the way, for memories’ sake, may this dream never rest! They joked you’d die in glacial streams, I held you close that day. But when the winds began to shriek, I watched you drift away. Eras lapse; glory escapes us. Tomes tell our tall tales, but their pages have been altered and true nature unveiled. A wicked phantom, you’ve become. And I, your favored haunt. You must’ve got lost along the way; the kin I loved is gone. 3 �I seethe when you are at my side, your words send us downturn. Yet when you sail the seven seas, I weep for your return. Those brilliant blues were sanctified, a frontier meant for us. I wail my stranded lullabies yet you’ve marooned my trust. Our encounters now are fleeting. I’ll wear your dolty caps, pretend to like the Bank ball games, in hope of scanty laughs. Though I’ve never been a jester, I’ll amass noble courts. You’ll never grace my audience, but coast to foreign ports. I’ll endure all your shallow feats to maintain tarnished gold, yet you never sense to prevent the rust that claims my soul. Why do I even fool myself, these journeys end the same. The world we loved has come and gone, I’ve lost my kindred flame. 4 �But Not For Me Liz Keller I’ve roamed your foreign realm a pale specter, no body to scour souls that stir within. Your silk, my steel; forbade claim. Your nectar is all this mold craves, aching for your sins. Like droplets from the Heavens, caressing my skin, giving form to flutters on flesh. Leave me drowning, wailing. Bathed in blessings on the altar; urge me into a crest. My veiled ecstasy, yet I yield your touch. Command and condemn me, down on my knees. Be the One I worship – breathless and hushed as we tangle in vice, pleas, and decrees. Damn me to Hell, craving unions misled. I bet she’s divine – if just in my head. 5 �Succession Jacob O’Boyle After the fire as the embers cool from great revolt and fervor and the creatures of this humbled wood lull from their stupor. A great rebirth, though a supreme upending emplaced in a ghastly scene exalts that the worldly slate now lies wiped clean. And new life may spring in ginger leap and bound from sprout to bud and leaf to ground, a golden fleece hides the ashen mud. From here, all else follows; the pirouettes of aspen and the follies of pines gamagrass and goldenrod forming mile-long can-can lines. Here, too, the oaks find their rise. Though frail at first, they soon shall grow and this new crop to eclipse the royal reds of old shall go. 6 �To gnarl and arch and sag and sprawl, spread canopies wide and engulf all within; a world of diverse splendors under which hide. And mast they will so the squirrel and the ‘munk may eat their fill and gorge their children until they are ill. But the shade proves too much and the mast seasons soon senesce so that this vibrant land once teeming with life grounds to silence at oaken hand. Though dead limbs may lazily fall, the forest shall remain choked until, as if by holy decree, the lustfully righteous flame shall set this land free. 7 �Autumn Jacob O’Boyle What few golden rays do break the fog and grace my shoulder lightly shine forth in a cold, grim world and serve the remind me that one day Spring will come again. 8 �Nihil Lindsey Christain I often feel as if I am a blank canvas A painter approaches, trying something new They give, they take away, Over and over Layers scraping over layers, Until I forget what lies before. And the only thing that remains Is that I am nothing In search of something Something to call my own Something that has a name But the only familiarity Is simply, A longing for something When I am nothing. Nothing in the sense that My soul is nameless– A wanderer Cain himself, Walking endless roads, Bearing the mark That I tried to hide Scrubbing until my fingers ached And my nails bled dry. 9 �Nothing in the sense that I am solid, yet pliable– Clay that never hardens, Shaped and reshaped, Kneaded endlessly, Yet never whole. 10 �Chameleon Lindsey Christain When will I be enough? Will I ever be enough? Will it be when my edges dull, When I sand myself into something Soft enough to be held? Or when I pull myself outwards, Take out all of the undesirable pieces, And put myself back together? Should I become a color you’d prefer? Green, Yellow, Blue? Tell me–what suits you? Because I’m tired, tired beyond beliefOf twisting into something Palatable, Digestible, Easy to love. I want to be loved For my horrific, dull scales– The ones passed over in the pet store, Left behind for something brighter. 11 �Because I don’t have forever To keep repainting them. A Chameleon only gets so many seasons, And I have spent mine Becoming someone else. 12 �Carrion, Reverie Lindsey Christain Matted, bloodied fur Smeared across the concrete Glazed over, hollow eyes Reminiscent of what was before. Did they know of the dangers Of a bustling highway? Or did they simply Need to get to their Destination– Unaware of what follows. The moment comes crashing down, The world rushing in. And there is no time to call, No whisper of prayer– The moment slips past, And grace cannot be reached. Do roadkill go to heaven, Or are they forever damned? 13 �the Piranhas sleep sound tonight. Aubrianna Harte i was young and never pretty. this was a fact i knew about myself and the Piranhas are always looming. a dr op of blood hits the water may as well be f l o o d i n g. perhaps pretty is a disguise i can put on? drip p i ng. perhaps less fabric will do the tr ic kl in g. perhaps a proper pose as i snap snap snap run nin g. the picture? 14 � g u s h i n g . come fishy, fishy, come. BUR except STING. there is always more than one . . . one picture becomes infinite as it’s reduced to b i t s by what feels like i n f i n i t y c a r v i n into my body through spiked jaws and what makes it i n f i n i t 15 y �is that it neverendsandwhenitdoesthescarsarereopenedndaleastheirteethtouchme andaleasttheirteethlovemeeveniftheyarereducingmetobitsuntil’mnolonge rwholeevenifi’mbeinwhittledawayintofleshparticlesd i s s i p a t i n gthroug ghoutthewaterimstillreceivingloveandimstillmeeti gGodrightimstillmeeti ngGodrightimstllmeeting God right take me like i’m your holy communion. drill h o l e s into me until i’m no longer whole. disperse me like s c a t t e r i n g ashes, leave me naked , as intact as pink m i s t . if i were to pass you in a crowd, which would you recognize first, my 16 �f a c e o r my bod y ? e i t h e r? are you me full of? do you even think of me now? remember me? chew me until i’m gum. digest me until i’m your excrement. until you deem me soiled. until i am soil. until another fresh drop dri p s . . . You’re always looming 17 �Rainbow Void Burrito Leah Smith Times Square was bright and bustling, as it usually was in the peak of spring. Cars beeped and buzzed, crowds of people would bump into each other and shout. Even if I wanted to know what they were saying, I couldn’t tell over the yacht loads of empty conversations that would fill my ears. Someone’s arguing with a partner, someone’s finding out they didn’t get the entry level job they needed. Same shit, different day. The past few years haven’t felt like different days. It’s like the universe, God, or whoever is in charge of this circus, took the calendar, beat it to death with a hammer, and shredded it into a blender. The days were mushy piles of gray matter that we all had to pretend were different days. Inside the depths of the flashy capitalist utopia of Time Square, was where serfs like myself would work to the bone just to get by. I was a cashier at Dunkin’. The clock on the wall beneath the digital timekeeping system struck 4:00 p.m. Energy coursed through my left hand as my fingers tapped on the tablet to clock myself out. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of my co-workers, Polly, striding by wearing a shiny white grin. She looked exactly like a Polly Pocket doll except if poor ole’ Polly had to work a dead-end part-time job in New York. The screen finally completed my transaction and clocked me out. I turned around and Polly appeared right in front of my face. I jumped back slightly. “Oh, I’m sorry Kristin, did I scare you?” Polly asked. “No, just startled me a little,” I said. “I’m sorry, Kristin.” “I’ll live.” I walked past her as passively as I could to get my backpack in the bathroom closet. However, she followed me. “So, I was thinking, I’m getting together with some girl friends of mine and I was wondering if you wanted to come out with us!” Polly squealed. “What are you guys planning?” I asked. 18 � “Oh, you know, probably go bar crawling, might do some karaoke, might stay over the night at some guy’s house. Y’know, the usual.” I shrugged. “I don’t know Polly, I have a lot on my plate at the moment.” “Oh, yeah, you’re still doing that creative writing class?” “Yep.” “It’s just one night. You never come out, it’d be nice to see you out for a change.” I shook my head. “I promise, Polly, I’m good.” I didn’t think I said that too harshly but given Polly’s abrupt silence, it seemed I may have bruised her spirit a little by rejecting her. I finally reached the bathroom when Polly lifted her head up from the ground. “Well, if you change your mind, give me a text, okay?” Polly asked. “Sure, Polly. Have fun, I mean it.” I really did mean it, I didn’t like coming across as a dick even to co-workers I didn’t entirely vibe with. She nodded and walked away. Shortly, I opened the bathroom door and stepped inside the claustrophobic nightmare. I swung open the closet door and grabbed my black and white zig-zag backpack. Before I lifted the bag’s arms over my shoulders, I zipped it open and took out a burrito wrapped in tin foil. I bought it earlier that day at a random vendor during my lunch break. The guy running the burrito stand seemed kinda weird, speaking under his breath like he was hiding something from me. That’s New York though, it was probably just me being anxious. “Hickory Creek” by Whitechapel blasted through my black headphones as I bobbed and weaved my way through Times Square. I wanted so badly to roll myself into dozens of blankets, pop an edible, and watch Supernatural re-runs with my cat, Aragorn. However, I felt this gnawing inside of my chest. It wasn’t heartburn, it was something more than that and I could’ve sworn it was calling to me. I loved writing, I ate, slept, and breathed it. I’m not saying I was slipping or that the love went away, it’s just, no matter where I applied to, it was always rejection after rejection. Maybe I should’ve said yes to Polly and got drunk and slept with some sexy stranger. That’s what the high life was, right? I don’t know… Every day would’ve still felt the same. My fingers began unwrapping the tinfoil like I was defusing a bomb. Carefully, 19 �the burrito revealed itself to me in its glorious grilled chicken and melted cheese fashion. I took a bite of the burrito and as I began to chew it, my taste buds rang the alarm. This tasted like garbage. That wasn’t hyperbole, like the garbage I’d have to take out sometimes at Dunkin’. The chicken tasted like stale coffee grounds and the cheese and Chipotle sauce had a kick of hellish gym sweat and centuries-old donuts. I puckered up my mouth and covered it with my arm as my eyes scanned for the nearest trash can. A few inches away from me, underneath a platform of steel and metal, was an empty black trash can. I swiftly shuffled to it and spat out the burrito and nearly threw up everything else I ate that day into it. I threw the rest of the burrito inside the can and before I walked away, my ears rejected the music I was playing into my headphones and instead picked up an eerie sound of static. I placed my headphones onto my neck like a head rest and picked inside of my ears with a painted black pinky finger. However, it wasn’t tinnitus or a blocked ear because the sound persisted and grew louder. Then, I heard voices among the static. There were multiple voices, like a choir harmonizing in my ears and only my ears. “Looooook belowwww youuuuu and find your homeeeeee.” They instructed me. I looked down into the trash can and I saw the burrito open itself up like a cocoon. Instead of revealing the contents of the food I spat out, it revealed a flowing rainbow wave. The rainbow wave swayed smoothly, a calm beach that promised me reassurance. As I leaned closer into the trash can, I let go of the sides of the trash can and fell inside the rainbow wave. My body was a feather flying from the peak of a mountain, the seconds counted down to microseconds, even less than that. I closed my eyes as I fell into the wave but I opened them and I saw that I wasn’t falling to my death. The rainbow wave became a waterfall swirling like a cyclone, except it wasn’t aggressive or fast. The rainbow cyclone was a mother rocking her baby in her arms, a feeling I haven’t felt in so long. The choir went away and what I heard instead was a combination of soothing sounds such as rain trickling down outside a window and fire crackling outside during a summer barbecue. I was confused, but I wasn’t afraid. I wanted to see more, learn more about this strange place if what I was seeing was real. Crap, that 20 �was probably why that burrito vendor was acting weird. He must’ve put something in my burrito, that must be why I was seeing all of this and experiencing this strange calming feeling. Suddenly, a window-shaped white light appeared in front of me. The menagerie of soft sounds simmered down as a voice I knew I couldn’t mistake was calling to me. “Kristin, honey! It’s mommy! Come over here, I’ve missed you!” My mother called in her chirping voice. In a heartbeat, I swam into the white light. Then, I was taken into a patio looking out onto the beach. The waves were swaying calmly as the sunlight was kissing the ocean with its soft buttery lips. I was seated on a wooden bench in front of a table with open notebooks of stories written on them. I was in disbelief, I had to be dead. My mother died when I was nine inside her bedroom after she overdosed on painkillers. Were the drugs playing a trick on me? Am I dead? All of a sudden, I heard soft purring against my ankles. I looked below and it was my fluffy tabby cat, Aragorn. I smiled and lifted him up to my lap. I gave him a few soft pets, his fur brushed against my fingertips like a knitted blanket. Then, I felt my mother’s hand caressing my shoulder. I looked up at her, her face was upside down but she looked just as I remembered her. Short, cropped brown hair, black rimmed glasses all topped with a soft smile. She soothed my black hair with her hands and kissed the top of my head as she walked over to the other side of the table and sat across from me. “Are you ready to share your stories with me, Kristin?” My mom asked me. I looked down at the notebook placed in front of me, I quickly examined the words written in the paper. This was the horror novel manuscript I was writing for my creative writing presentation. I chuckled. “What’s wrong, dear?” My mom asked, cocking her head to the side. I shook my head, fighting back tears. “I just, heh, I just don’t think you’ll like it. It’s a dark story.” 21 � My mother smiled reassuringly. “Nonsense, Kristin. I don’t mind if it’s dark. All that matters to me is that it’s written by my daughter.” I wiped the tears coming down my face with a quick arm swipe and nodded. I began reading the story to my mother. 22 �not home for supper Jake Middleton 23 �The immortal song Jazmin High The choir is tired of the song, the prayers. I know the song well. I sing the tune, biding time, unwrapping layers. Tell me what can never die? Your very name is a taunt. A prayer. Unanswered that hangs in the wind. I know the prayer well. Tell me what can never end? I’d cut out my tongue, but I wouldn’t need it. Pluck every tooth, and I’d still feed it. The urge, the itch beneath my skin. A prayer so dark I’d call it sin. Tell me what can never die? Before wounds become scars, they will itch. Before answered, prayers are a thought—a wish. Before a song, there’s a melody— a tune. A feeling at the instant, That this girl is across a room! And I’ll unwrap the parchment, as gently as possible. For if the gift underneath is lacking, I can look back on the effort and smile. 24 �Choke Jazmin High I mourn the dead before they die— I’m quite productive in that way. I dig the hole, and engrave the tombstone. However, I still stay long after the ceremony. I can’t seem to put the body in the ground. Tears turn dirt muddy, and I know it can’t be, But as I dandle the cumbersome and unyielding Hope, The creature who can never die, I pray tears can play the role of life Like water, and bring you back to me. I cradle Hope in my arms with care. It grabs on the collar of my shirt and chokes me, Wailing out and demanding attention. Where I once prayed for you, I now pray for air. 25 �Clock Jazmin High I called you on the phone the other day. I asked you when you’ll be here, and you said ‘in no time at all’. And so I sit in front of a wall, watching this clock. The ticking constant, but the idea of it stopping overwhelming me. Days go by. The clock, stature tall, engulfs me in a shadow. Heirloom passed down through generations of youngest daughters. You’ll know what to do when it stops, so I sit in agonizing pins and needles waiting for you. Family will intervene, find ways to maneuver me out of this room, but I am so consumed. I wake from my sleep, thinking I heard a tick skip or a tock off beat. The clock is always just fine. The rhythmic sounds are enough to to drive you mad, so mad that you’d wish it would just… Because you are tired of mourning the dead before they die, and you’ve been mourning since you knew his name. Master of all, servant of one. You called me on the phone the other day, and asked when I’ll be there. I said, staring at a still clock, ‘in no time at all’. 26 �Ambush Jazmin High I am finding new things about you. Too much information, possibly, but I’ll welcome it with open arms. What choice do I have, when showing up to an ambush? Love is a song with no timed rhythms, beats. It has no place in a choir, and yet. It is in the way your eyes hold Mine, I can feel it sink into My brain. It squeezes the corners, and under the pressure, I can’t help but look away. The morning dawns on me in the middle of the night. Something has shifted. my actions serve a place in Their minds, my clothes, my words, myself. You asked why i care so much, how people see me. It’s because, truly, without them, i’m not sure if i exist. You are finding new things about me. Too much information, possibly… You welcome it with open arms. What choice do You have, when showing up to an ambush? 27 �For What He’s Not. Jazmin High Stars are all about the burn. So, is fire evil then, just for burning? Just because it hurt you? Because your hand was too close? And you knew him. The way someone knew what they were doing tomorrow. The same absolutism God laughs at. A snake in the grass that bites ankle, Then ask why you’re limping. What’s deep for you, is a crack for him. As he haunts your ceiling at night, As you regret letting him close enough to scorch Remember: the lover always wins. Because stars do burn bright, But stars will always burn alone. 28 �may I tonight in darkness speak Caden Temple may I tonight in darkness speak, like the wooden floors of windy and brittle mornings, a song for only you to hear. and may it be acknowledged, not the sincerity of loosely threaded thoughtfulness, but of the serrated edges of wounds once again opened, shown of grinding teeth and clenched fists. tourniquet any and all remaining transmissions continuing to unfold falsities, disturbing a broken silence previously developed in light of sullen promises. may I tonight in darkness speak, deteriorating as felled firs of solstice, a message furthest from the closest bottled shore. lost in arrogance and tormenting rapids, watered and wasted by quarrels unseen. introduced unwillingly to perils of life I lack the intentions of knowing twice, the wheel continues spinning without notice of an ending prize, or so it has been called. a gift followed of smiles and controlled chaos, yet deception sneaking its wretched teeth into necks of attentions lost to a world of wonder un-wandered. 29 �The Mad Poet to His Muse Sinner Joan I will win you a country, melt kings to their throne, build you a palace, then leave you alone to spend the morning gazing at bright blazing words, reflecting the flame with each single turn: dum-dah dum-dah dum-dahdo dee-lie, Tell me, sweet lady, wouldn’t that be nice? Take your lunch to the orchard by the deer in the park, feed the little spring doves, call the hound from the farm, pat the pup’s head as white spots flee to the oaks, then walk to the creek-bed and light up your first smoke. dum-dah dum-dah dum-dahdo dee-lie, Tell me, sweet lady, wouldn’t that be nice? Now evening stars cast the day’s last light, stack soft pillows and sleep through the night, dream of castles, cattle, pastoral delights, dum-dah dum-dah dum-dahdo dee-lie I can’t help but think it all sounds so nice! But if all this proves too much for your heart, I’ll take it all back and hide in the stars, and dream on this each day and night: dum-dah dum-dah dum-dahdo dee-lie I can’t help but think it all sounds so nice! 30 �Twins Sinner Joan Maria, do not cry, we rest on lumps of flesh, just the first kick inside (Soft shadows streak by dim white light) I look at you and see my eyes, blue, black and white, two new mirrors stare back, I will not cry (soon mother dear guides aimless eyes) We twist, turn and tie our chains, like a vine, cascading down the last breathless gasp inside. Let me reflect you, I will not cry. 31 �Red, Concerning Premature Baldness Sinner Joan Red, red, all top me head! Day I born till day I dead! (At least that’s what the old man said!) But blue, blue, now I all blue! When ya lose ya red, what else do ya do? Be blue all day long like a spot on ya bread? Or blue all the night like a lost robin egg? Or blue like your face after your first cigarette sucks all the air till there ain’t nothing left? No, I’ll be blue like two eyes gazing back at me, Not wasting any time looking thru bad poetry, Not caring one bit for what’s under this cap, (follow the bill as I fold it on back): I bald, all bald, all top me head, I lost my hair, my youth, my red! And now I all blue till the day I dead. 32 �Dion Sinner Joan Come, Dion, and set each thread of this thatch roof world ablaze! The goats are cold, the goatherd’s gone, and sacred spring seeds no more. Dion! Thrice-born, thrice-dead, half-god, half-man, Take thy black panther coat and be our Superman! Spin the world back in time, unbind thy band And bomb Lex Luther to ashes and sand! But know there are no maeneds left to meet, from rose-colored dawn to the wine-dark sea; no Margot Kidder shooting the breeze, no little kings left dangling from trees, Hell, e’en Clark Kent’s just old Christopher Reeve. So come, Dion, and kiss thy tormenting bride for the grapes that suffer spill the sweetest wine; be Superman once more, but take off your disguise, then mount the world, dig thy spurs in thy ride. 33 �Anxiety Kylie Sable Tick… tick… tick… The timer crashes down You’re running out of time You can not do it You will never accomplish your dream Tick… tick… tick… The timer slowly fades Its alarm blares, Filling your ears, You failed again Tick… tick… tick… The timer explodes, Along with your dream Nothing can stop The spiral as it implodes The timer reappears The cycle repeats Ready to ruin, Decimate your life Demolish your fantasy Dismantle your future 34 � Tick… tick… tick… The timer crashes down Race to your dream Don’t let the road implode Your dream cannot explode Tick… tick… tick… The timer stops A nonexistent crash, Does not show. My dream is real The timer vanishes Shoved to the background Ticks will still persist Yet I will now live my life That will never implode 35 �OCD is not something you can shove into a rhyme scheme, this is not supposed to be pretty, ok? Grace Cairns Someone across the globe is probably jesting “I’m so OCD” as they straighten papers on a desk, While I am up at 1 a.m. again because I noticed chips in the rim of a glass candy jar and then took each candy out to inspect it for shards, While my brain tried to convince me they were embedded in the back of my throat (God forbid), so I tried to look but you can’t see that far, so I gargled some water and somewhere Someone is jesting “I’m so OCD” but I do not know where it ends and I begin. It engulfs and shapeshifts to resemble me and there is nothing organized about OCD. It is a civil war in the mind, which as in real life, there is no winning sideIt is ambushes and traps and mirages that either root my feet to the spot or send me scrambling in wrong directions OCD is not organized, you see, I’ve written about it in prior poetry, tried to make it presentable in all its animosity, but I am unsatisfied with these writings, for they are not enough, because OCD is not organized, It is so, so many metaphors that they stream through my mind and get lost in the tide, But there’s one about war, addiction, a clawed creature or one with sharp teeth, the jilted lover there are even metaphors that reference Harry Potter characters (professor Quirrel, ifykyk)... 36 �All of these are their own poem which I should write eventually but it’s far past time to go to bed, and I’m thinking about sleep and peace and ecstasy, but I’m still thinking about the glass and this stupid scary story I heard in fourth grade which cost me the ability to sleep without listening to disco music, and why does my brain insist on scaring me Just so it can pretend to be my protector from its very own creations? Jack-in-the-box, there’s another metaphor, and my mind is like a spider web. OCD is eating away my sanity, but then what even qualifies as sanity? We all have different interpretations of normality, but anyway it’s bedtime, and also I am still, of course, thinking… 37 �jaded Grace Cairns he’s an aries I was a pacifist and I hate the color red it was like racing icarus just to take the fall for him so let the maroon fade from my skin, now bathed in cool shades of jade 38 �An Ode to Forgotten Park Benches Madi Westawski I move through the streets passing piles of burning trash and enough dim-witted minds to switch out a singular light bulb Once I hit the last red light I’m forced to be beneath the monuments of America’s best men not the halal cart guy, nor the noble ones forgotten in alleyways, living lives so unlucky they’ve been struck by falling pianos twice but the ones with briefcases heavy with commercial desperation; their eyes chiseled like those of a cornered dog, a kind of recklessness that leaves them even more exposed. If you lift the pompadours and veneers, something always slips through. They are the least careful. That’s the way it goes. Walking, I remember the meek shall inherit nothing. What else do I see? 39 �A Brigitte Bardot type, searching for herself in every reflective surface down South Main Street, hoping the next pane might reveal a different woman Maybe one with fuller lips A junkie smoking gas station weed and chewing black licorice, its color blending in with his twelfth molar. When you have that much time, what else is there to do but acquire bad taste? And everywhere men with so much masculinity bleeding out of them that they forget they came out of a woman; too focused on taking their vitamins trying to cultivate something that was never theirs to hold. None of them notice the young man who died; his name etched there as they take turns sitting on the bench that prohibits the junkie from lying down. They’ll never notice. I go home and cancel my Time subscription. 40 I wasn’t really using it anyway. �Magnolia Liv Serkosky 41 �M. Liv Serkosky I love her with my whole body. Each breath makes me tremble, And every moment I’m away I think, “How would she really feel?” Suddenly my lungs ache with exhaustion. My heart leads me closer towards her. Watch the longing in my tired eyes, I want the time to memorize her. Please don’t pull away when I reach. She knows me well, and I know her. Over the laughing of our mothers, Her and I shared an apologetic glance. By my own design I purchased flowers. My little brother handed them over, But they were meant to be from me. She arranged them by her dorm room bed. You shied away when you needed me most, I was alone with nothing but dread and fear, Even though I opened my arms and eyes for you. Through it all, I needed you too. 42 �I love you with all my body. The pang and chime of my hitched breath, How my muscles ceded control for you, When I stop running to look your way. I feel my lungs ache with exhaustion, So I pull away and inhale strongly. I need your air as you need it, too. We can share this time and space. Please don’t pull away when I reach, Let your hand wrap around mine. I want you to stay inside my life, Yet it remains unknown to you. By my own design I gave you space. You needed a break away from life, But did you have to step out of mine? Did you need to block out my existence? I shied away when you needed me the most. If I exist around you for too long, I’m afraid I’ll want to kiss you, And then I’ll never escape love. 43 �if i were you today (the things we fear, but fight) Liv Serkosky when they silently lined up outside, i reached for my phone. i reached toward my friend who lives on that block. i called, i heard static. cars stopped, blockaded, as boots hit the ground, then the hushed raid. the worst part isn’t the waiting or the silence, it’s the knowing you can’t do anything. one, two, three, and their door is obliterated. i grab my phone, my keys, his leash, and then i pray. beyond my curtains i see the yards, the flowers they planted gone, the ones from the Pueblan Market, the name of your home, the one you taught me about for Spanish class. 44 �i dial again, but still i hear static. i rarely curse, but this time i did as i put my shoes on, paws matching beat with my feet. it was too late, i could see, as you and your mom hit the ground i scream, he barks, but mom holds me back, while you cry. the door is gone, and your Pueblan flowers. you showed me how to plant them, i taught you about back lighting. and that was just yesterday. i have pepper spray in my hand, but it’s on the ground with my keys maybe i thought for a moment i could save at least one. the sirens start and match tempo with my tears as they hit the ground while your blood - a cut on your temple is censored. 45 �i reach out again, and this time a noise erupts from my soul. this time tomorrow i was supposed to plant my own Pueblan Flowers. Dedicated to Rachel, Kipper, Dan, and Lisa; and to those enduring the violence being enacted on their lives by a nation that’s supposed to protect them. 46 �Predator Recall Nicholas Penglase Arise slathered in clay. You the deep forest night, flooded by white moon. Quiet, immense. The eyes of an animal – Soon, scaling the ribs of remote mountains, you ascend, swollen with green-wood air. 47 �No Healthy Upstream Nicholas Penglase Unfurled skin as a protection spell, I have always been built for traveling these windswept corridors An iris beset with colored bloom peering down 48 �People think poor Krystal Crespo Clark 49 �The Mistake From an Unsavory Past Craig Conville When you love something, deeper than you’ve ever loved before, Before you speak, you should think. Think of what you’re about to do. Do you want to do this? Do you want to go through with what could hurt her? Her feelings are essential to you. They matter. They matter a lot. A lot of things hurt her already. You know this. You protect her from this. This is what keeps you going. This is what allows you to feel justified. Justified to indulge. But it isn’t true. You cannot indulge. You cannot keep doing this. This isn’t right. This isn’t what you should be doing. You need to confess. Confess to your sins. Confess what you’ve done. What you’ve done wrong. Wrong. You’ve made a mistake. Mistake your actions for something controllable. You aren’t well. You need help. Help her. Help her understand. Help her heal. You’ve made her hurt again. Again and again you try. Again and again you dig yourself deeper. Deeper you fall within your own anguish, deeper yet you cannot control yourself. “Yourself” is an enigma. Who are you, anyway? Is this who you want to be? Be something hurtful? Be the same as all the rest you’ve sworn to be different from? From what point do you draw your self-pity? How dare you desire forgiveness? Forgiveness is what’s given to those who confess to God for their sins. Sins are all over. Sins lie within your digital encryptions. They’re carved into your skin. Skin you shouldn’t be comfortable within. How can you live with yourself? “Yourself” is an enigma, because she’s not comfortable in her skin either. Either way, you are and should be to blame. Blame yourself rather than forgive. 50 �Forgive her. She cannot help her own feelings. She cannot help her hurt. Hurt yourself. Hurt her. Hurt everybody. It does not matter. It will never matter. Matter flows down again. Dripping, shaking…this is indulging too. That won’t save her. Her own stance on forgiveness is convoluted and complex. Perhaps she forgives that sin. Sin is forgiven by God alone, but you were never the religious type to begin with. With what do you base your future on? Why should she want to be with you all this time? Time is ticking forward, and she’s leaving you behind. She doesn’t need you anymore. Anymore, she can handle herself. She loves you yet, and yet you cannot love yourself. Snap out of it, you wretched fool! You’re going to destroy your life if you continue. Continue to push. Continue to try. Never, ever give up. Giving up won’t save her. Her entire existence is based on pushing forward. She’s stronger than you. You know this. This is what keeps you going. You admire her strength. So find it in yourself. “Yourself” is an enigma. You don’t know who you are anymore. You cannot know. Know the sins you’ve committed. Know you may never reach forgiveness. Forgiveness is given to those who confess to God, but you don’t know God. God, why won’t this stop. Stop. You need to stop. Please, stop. She needs you to. To a future me, I hope you listened early, because I cannot bear the thought of when. 51 �In What Sin Do You Relish? Craig Conville What sin do you relish the most? They relish most in lust; it keeps them human. Humanic desires are hardly sinful if they’re natural. Then why does it cut through me so? Am I to be God? To decide what is sinful? Perhaps I shall. Lust is the deadliest of sins, because it is shrouded in self-deceipt They do not know how to love. They know how to lust and pretend that’s the same. The purest among them allows lust to be a point of luxury. It is not sin if you do not relish, if you only have a little taste. But if I am to be God, I would decide that’s worse than relishing. Relish in the truth; sin is sin. And pretending to be pure is dirtier than accepting Satan with open arms. You disgust me. My disgust is not justified; I relish most in envy. I relish in greed. Greedy for a taste of lust; to feel without shame. Envy for those who can sin so wrongfully so happily. While I cannot healthily express it without bile building in my throat. My envy is not green. It is black. It is all consuming. My envy relishes in greed. If I were to be God, I would not subject a sinner to that torment. This isn’t supposed to be hell yet. The lake of fire does not belong among the lakes of earth. I relish in wrath. It is the only way to face my sin. To be angry. To spit acid at sinners. To pretend they are worse than me. 52 �To push people away unjustifiably. I relish in the loneliness I cause when I am both too prideful and too wrathful to love. I relish in pride too, as one would if he were to be God. To establish yourself in the role of God is surely the ultimate demonstration of pride. What give you the right, you disgusting sinner? But in an atheist’s world, God and Sin and Man and Life are all the same problem. What more is there to do than relish? I can only relish in sloth on the basis that I have no energy to do otherwise. And I relish in gluttony if sins can be considered sustenance. My relishing comes in septuples, because that’s what the rules say. But I also relish in anguish. Why stop at the original seven? God only knows mine number more than seven. At least, in a perfect world, he would; If I could know God, I wouldn’t need to relish. To relish more than seven must be a sin in itself. Those who owe their loyalties to God cannot relish. Not because they do not sin; they tend to do that more. But they think that God will forgive them. And if I were to be God, I wouldn’t. I certainly can’t forgive myself. And I relish most of all. They relish in Lust. I relish in Envy. I relish in Greed. I relish in Pride. I relish in Wrath. 53 �I relish in Sloth, and Gluttony. I relish in Anguish. I relish in Pain. I relish in Despair. I relish in my earthly blood, flowing down my wrists like the Styx, Relinquishing a poison much richer than that of the previously mentioned. The poison of my sin. I relish in the flow. I relish in the sins that it represents. That is the only way I can relish in control. If I were to be God, I would be in control. But I do not know God. And God knows me not. I do not know myself. I am God. 54 �The Seven Deadly Sins Killer Jack Deluca I- Pride He starts with mirrors, polished bright, A shrine to faces bathed in light He carves the charming smile from the vainest skin, Whispers, “Pride’s reflection dies within.” II- Greed Gold teeth glint in candle’s flare, He counts their coins with chilling care. Each corpses he leaves, a ledger closed, The wealth of sin now decomposed. III- Lust Red lace and strong perfume haunts the air, He hums a hymn, seductive prayer. The heartbeat slows, the body frozen and still. Desire devoured by his will. IV- Envy He finds the ones who covet all, The perfect lives, the grandest halls. He stains their glass with emerald hue, A jealous end for envy’s few. 55 �V- Gluttony A feast prepared, a poisoned plate, He feeds them slow, then seals their fate. Their final breath, a choking tune, Beneath the blood-red harvest moon. VI- Wrath His hands now tremble, rage untamed, The fire burns, the world inflamed. He paints in crimson, wild and raw, A sinner’s justice, savage law. VII- Sloth At last, he waits- no rush, no sound, Among the graves of the six victims found. The seventh sin completes his masterpiece of art, For sloth has stilled his beating dying heart. 56 �I Remember the Girl Nate Stavish Piece of shit Motherfucker My guts spill out like pounded roadkill Doctors would say it’s a .45 to the abdomen Feels like a black hole devouring my insides and shitting them all out White snow stains red as it hurls itself against me I remember the girl Black hair, blacker than midnight Eyes burned from the sobbing Dead friends can rip you open like a starved animal Your grief stringing you up on its meathooks The rest of the boys in blue maintained an apathetic crime scene I was boiling with rage Crazy sonova bitch Dual-wielding bullet hoses With razor wire where his brain should be Running at me like a cheetah after a gazelle A coked-up monster with homicidal tendencies White powder stained red the moment he started losing his mind Couldn’t keep running Had to face this bull head on Moments of action form a mirror in your mind I remember the girl Was strung up in the meat locker with her The chains of our hooks clattering against each other 57 �Her friends were packed cold cuts Along with my partner She was waiting to be butchered I couldn’t help but butcher myself This time I had an excuse White snow stains red in equal parts neon light and blood David v. Goliath ended in a tie More holes in me than a poorly written plot Leaking like the faucet husbands tell their wives they’ll get to eventually Coughing, choking, and stuttering like a busted car I think I’ll lay here a while The mirror forms in the faint deep blueness of the sky I remember the girl 58 �The Museum of Atomic Warfare Nate Stavish I. The Atom A lumpy mass of protons and neutrons Forever orbited by charged electrons Split them And boom Millions gone in a flash Eviscerated into dust Their shadows burned into the ground on which they stood II. The Fat Man and Little Boy Both teardrops with wings Salty water of mass destruction Reduced to a footnote in the back of the museum The originators of wartime catastrophe Crowds should feel small in front of them They shouldn’t feel small in front of the crowds A mock bullet that killed 200,000 souls rests in front of them and they barely feel a thing Just “Oh, that’s neat.” III. The Atmospheric Ignition Device (A.I.D.) Death himself hangs above a silent audience His scythe slashing across a planet’s surface in a white hot blaze No countdown. Just gone. The plaques say it’s a war crime to drop one unannounced 59 �But the first one was a heart attack in the planet’s skies A true display of annihilation sits before them It seeps into their skin and sticks to their bones like smoking phosphorus IV. The surface of Prometheus-6 Burned so black it was like staring into the night The home of billions reduced to an unsanded ball Planetary revival is deemed impossible They talk like it was an act of God Like nothing could have been done But a president gave the order, engineers built the bomb, and soldiers deployed it Only man can kill itself so effectively 60 �Biapolis Nate Stavish Smoking cigarettes at the silent auction. Blind men bet on mystery boxes. Hands rise up and roll down. Almost in unison. In belief that whatever is up there can be theirs and only theirs. Slow thoughts and slow minds ignore what’s outside. Tall grass susurrates in the wind Entirely ignored, the field was beautiful Red bricks were bored through to find a way out. Course close quarters that didn’t guarantee a route to safety. Sifting through the sulfuric stench of the city to rupture the pipeline of Americana, a nostalgic man’s vision and nothing else. Wild avians chirp Singing a composition shared by all Georgie Boy’s head was gashed by a guillotine. Regicide raced through the rooms. Chaos crashed through the crowds. Bloodthirsty rage became a rabid predator. Gasoline hurled itself down the gutters. The inferno dance set it ablaze. The dove thought of the flowers The wolf thought of a meal. 61 �Windchimes Anthony Elmes I looked down and saw a basket of folded laundry and atop it sat a Snoopy Red Cross T-shirt. I grabbed it by the collar as its folded creases came undone and brought it up to my nose to take a deep breath. It smelt like…..detergent. The Snuggle bear and him. Just for a moment I felt relief and just as quickly came the nauseating truth. I looked at the shirt and remembered a conversation I’d had with him where I asked if he could snag me the shirt the next time he went to donate blood and he said he would. He’d regularly donated blood as long as I’d known him and he never really thought anything of it. He even would eat things like spinach and liver just to get his iron up so he was eligible to donate. The nurses loved him, partly because he was so personable, partly because he was O-. But he never really talked about what donating blood meant to him, or why he did it; it was more or less just a task for the day, in between the grocery store and returning a faulty battery. Perhaps he was a true altruist, or as close as one can be. Maybe that’s a dying breed? I folded the shirt again and tucked it under my elbow with guilt. Just guilt. I couldn’t tell if I wanted the shirt because I liked it, because it was his, because he said I could have it, or somewhere in between these options. I told myself he would’ve wanted me to have it, but it didn’t help me feel any less grifty. An opportunistic carnivore, I thought to myself, like a vulture. I don’t know when the feeling starts or why it stops or if it stops. Things must be sorted through, and it feels wasteful to send everything to the landfill so then why does the tho ught of keeping something that I like feel so slimy? How could I walk through this house as if it was a department store? Browsing the aisles, putting things down just as quickly as I had picked them up. Sifting. Sifting? It felt like a constant 62 �back and forth between sensibility and horror. Rationality and the dark, deep-seated feeling that the last nteraction I would have with this space would be one in which I was the consumer. Damned if I do damned if I don’t I guess. I walked over to the nightstand on the far side of the bed, facing the windows. She had always slept on this side and even after she’d gone he wouldn’t dream of migrating across the covers. He always stayed on his side because for him she’d never left. At least I didn’t think so. Like the duvet was still warm, as if she had gotten up for a glass of water and was headed back up the stairs. She had been heading back up the stairs for a long time. He talked to her a lot. This furthered my belief that for him she was still there, an active participant in his life. A few nail polish bottles still stood on her nightstand. They weren’t covered with a film or anything, but I wasn’t sure if he cleaned them and put them back alongside the usual dusting. This was true throughout the house, her secretary desk still littered with opened envelopes and a five year old calendar that had every day crossed out except the 9th of April. The bathrooms still had hairspray and toothpaste that weren’t his, cookbooks bursting with post-it notes in the kitchen he would never use. The house hung heavy with lives lived and stories told. It was oppressive, but the summer breeze would come wafting through the windows and carry this weight off just for a moment. God it was so quiet. People always say death is peaceful, but maybe it’s just as peaceful for the people who get left behind. Nobody talks, nobody moves. Just… stares, off into the distance, waiting for something or someone to bring them back to a world that chugs onward without them. Overwhelmed, I turned on my heel and left, shutting the door behind me. Every step down that hallway in reverse echoed with laughter, cries, screams, embraces, kisses. The biggest moments for generations happened right where I stood. But with a cruel brevity it was done. It was all done. A chapter of my life had 63 �ended before I could even realize. I didn’t sob, I didn’t scream, I didn’t throw things around and wave my fists at the sky. It was almost as if I was in a museum, and any sort of disruption to how they had left it would have felt like the ultimate form of disrespect. At most a single tear rolled down my cheek, as if not to impose upon my surroundings. Of course disruption was inevitable. The house would sell, and a new family would move in. But for that small moment in time, the space was still mine. Was still ours. It existed in a purgatory of sorts, a liminal space where Rod Serling narrated my every breath. But I wasn’t stuck and couldn’t be stuck. I had to leave. I should leave. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to get out. It hurts. It hurts so fucking much. My eyes glazed over and I left. How could I leave in such an apathetic fashion? Didn’t I care at all? Didn’t they mean anything to me? I hated myself for it and that’s the thing about grief. Everyone loves to drown you in the five stages to the point that you could throw up on their black patent leather pumps they dug out of their closet to show some semblance of sympathy. Grief is negotiation. Are they here, or are they not? Are you a horrible person, or are you scared? Are you sad enough, or are you selfish? Some of these feelings smooth over time, like a gash in a tree that is grown over and over again. Some of these feelings linger and creep up on you at your most stable, as if you’d dropped a glass and just when you thought you were done a shard lodges itself in your big toe. Even thinking about one’s own reaction to the situation feels like an exercise in narcissism. You’re not dead…they are. Don’t be so goddamn self-absorbed. But I guess to be human is to be self-absorbed, whether it is objectively warranted or not. I don’t know what healed means, and I know for sure you can’t be fixed. But what I do know is how little I actually know at all. 64 �“Vincent” Sydney Ahrberg I don’t think the world was ready for you, a soft heart in an armored world. You painted your canvas in every hue; up in the sky, your starry night swirled. Your brain was too loud, you needed some peace. You burst through the crowd. You fall to your knees. Stomach of lead, head full of dreams. You’re placed in your bed. Your brother screams. You said, “this sadness will last forever,” and I think you were right. I don’t have it in me to handle the weather on this starry night. 65 �“Leonidas’ Swimming Creek” Sydney Ahrberg My dog swims in the creek ‘til his belly gets pink. Stubbornly refusing to take a rest, he keeps going ‘til he starts to sink. He jumps off his favorite rock in a blink, by baptism of stream water he’s blessed. He swims in the creek ‘til his belly gets pink. Balancing on slimy rocks at the brink, we make him get out, and he’s unimpressed, but he would’ve gone ‘til he started to sink. Crayfish in the bottom like splotches of ink watch him splash like a dog possessed as he swims in the creek ‘til his belly gets pink. He’s tired, we should go, we think. But he won’t stop swimming; he’s too obsessed. He keeps going ‘til he starts to sink. His joy for swimming will never shrink. That’s why we make him wear a life vest; my dog swims in the creek ‘til his belly gets pink. He keeps going ‘til he starts to sink. 66 �“Space Dog” Sydney Ahrberg Hey there little Laika, floating up in space. Are you full of anger pointed at the human race? Do you hate us all for taking you from snowy northern streets and putting you in a rocket just to log data on our sheets? They say you died of panic, so scared your heart could not keep up. That big heart was why they chose you– you were the sweetest pup. Your eagerness to please made you easiest to train and we rewarded your good nature with a death of fire and pain. As you burned up in the atmosphere, your rocket your funeral pyre, did you hope that those who sent you there would likewise face Hellfire? 67 �Do you resent us, Laika, for sending you to die? Are you a star of retribution up in the dark night sky? Or do you still want to please us, and be told you’re a good girl? You’re such a good girl, Laika. The best in all the world. 68 �Confounding Variables Franklin Collazo The moonlight and streetlights clash for luminosity, powerless against the milky fog. I am a shielded observer, driving through their gray remnants; their influence decaying in the grand scheme of things. I yearn for their affairs to terminate— can they not see their efforts are in vain? Perhaps, there are confounding variables that justify this skirmish, but I lack the instruments to discern this. Instead, I am left to the monotonous tone of the road, a white-noise frequency that plays with my ears, quietly orchestrating the celestial war. 69 �American Werewolf Wayne McCormick Legend tells of an insatiable hunger that can overtake a man. Once you’ve carried the fulfillment of ravenous gluttony to term, you are forever trapped in the cyclical need to feed. All inhibitions towards desire cease and the hunger demands you consume. Craig steadied his hulking frame against the counter and calmly repeated his order, “Correkct,” followed by a three second dry swallow, “300 nuggets with 10 barbeque, 10 honey mustard, and 10 ranch dips.” He hiccupped slightly and gave a lengthy exhale that was half sigh, half burp. The cashier was reviled and annoyed. It was quarter to two in the morning and she didn’t get paid enough for this. “It won’t let me ring that high of an order up.” “Yeah it will, should come out to $178.82.” Craig produced his credit card and slid $40 across the counter, “Sorry for the trurble-” After he heard his own slurred speech he shook his head hard side to side, like a dog trying to shake off water. “Oof, can you add a large sprite?” Outside, Matt had been listening to Lisa rant about her boyfriend’s actions for over 10 minutes straight. While they were also far from sober, each had paced appropriately and maintained their wherewithal. The central theme of the rant was after Craig gets to drinking, all motivation is directed towards whatever he wants to do. His emotional momentum is matched by his physical, as it is nearly impossible to redirect all 6 foot, 7,255 pounds of him. “I just can’t believe he’s doing this again! He skips dinner, gets absolutely loaded, and puts himself down for the night with an ungodly amount of fast-food shit.” She stood firm with her arms folded across 70 �her upper abdomen, anxiously bobbing one foot on its ball. A deep hardy laugh was audible through the glass panes, and she spun to see Craig talking and laughing with other customers waiting for their food. Even though almost everyone looked like a child next to him, he was always the most childish in the room. She whipped her head back towards Matt with a look of pure incredulity, “And everyone loves him when he gets like this! It doesn’t matter whether we’re back in Jacksonville or here or wherever, it’s all about what Craig wants.” She pulled out a cigarette and began to frustratingly try to light it. After four failed attempts to produce a flame, she spiked the cheap lighter into the sidewalk. “Can I borrow yours?” The next six minutes were tolerated in silence as Lisa fumed and Matt tried not to feel like the third wheel. Craig burst through the push door butt first carrying two of the largest bags available at McDonalds. As he turned around, he had a cheekto-cheek smile that was acting as a dam for his hypersalivating mouth. Eager, angry, and awkward they set off for their hotel. Back in the room, Lisa had turned up the TV’s volume, commandeered Matt’s bed, and rolled over to not bear witness to the event about to occur. Matt watched from the desk chair the room provided, unconvinced that someone could physically eat this much. Craig began his ritual preparation. He was given 20 boxes each with 15 nuggets and 30 sauces. Splayed in a ring around him on the bed, the 20 cardboard oysters sat open presenting their deep-fried pearls. One additive at a time, he’d pick up a box and drizzle a dip sauce across the nuggets. When the natural flow stopped, he used the straw from his sprite to scoop out every iota of each molasses. Every few boxes, he’d scoot himself in a circle just a touch. He looked like a craftsman set to work, methodically and rehearsed he diligently applied the frosting to his cake. After one total revolution, he distributed the remaining 10 dips across all the boxes, being careful not to add the same sauce to a box 71 �twice. He closed each box after he was satisfied with their wetness. His third go around the circle, he’d pick up a box with both hands and begin rolling the food inside around. Three circular motions forward, three left, three right, and three backwards. Then he would set the box down back in its place in the circle and move onto the next one. Each set of shakes was the same as the last, producing identical rhythms and sounded like a set of Wilfred Brimley’s maracas. As Craig was ending his third lap, without redirecting focus or missing a beat of prep, he asked, “Matt, you know how they reward stallions after they work all day? They put the fuckin feed bag on them.” And with that, it began. The first box was lifted by one hand underneath, and with the slightest pressure from his thumb and pinky pushing on either side, the lid shot open. A few wisps of steam fluttered off the chicken and a heated mix of buttermilk ranch and BBQ permeated around the room. He cupped his hand like a Lego person and scooped all 15 nuggets out of the box in a single, effortless glide. Craig’s jaw momentarily looked unhinged as a bacchanal of meat, breading, and sugar was forcibly lodged inside before it snapped shut. Audibly, it was a mix of suction, oral muscles straining to process, and pleasurable moans. Swirled in a realm of ecstasy, Craig savored the initial endorphin rush. Slowly, massagingly, he masticated his dinner. After he worked down around half of the first payload, he instinctually crushed the small box in his hand, tossed it to the side, and prepared the next round. The fourth lap of this unmiraculous mile was grotesquely fascinating to Matt. With the steady pace of a marathoner and the determination of Kobayashi, his friend persisted. The cholesterol paste filled his buccal spaces, being replaced as fast as it was swallowed. The longer it went, the more labored his breathing became. Each clamp of the jaw came with an orcish sounding exhale. The crushing of shotgunned boxes slowed into managed crumples with disinterested tosses. But like a 72 �foot racer unwilling to quit, he rounded his final corner by double-fisting the final 30 pieces into his mouth by alternating two from box A, then two from box B, and so on. After an ordeal lasting 36 minutes, 44 seconds and over 12,000 calories, Craig sat on the edge of the bed in a deeper stupor than alcohol could have taken him. He began to growl uncomfortably before releasing the loudest belch Matt had ever heard: The howl of the American Werewolf. Then he collapsed into the strewn about carcass pieces littering the bed and began to snore. Craig’s eyes snapped open with a sharp nasal inhale. He went to sit up but every fiber of his abdomen felt like it was going to tear. He struggled to sit up in the bed. Shame and guilt flooded his brain as he looked at the remnants of his work. The rush of emotion transformed into a pang of actualized pain as he looked over to see Matt already awake, who silently scrolled on his phone. When their eyes met Craig broke the quiet. “I did it again, didn’t I?” Matt only saw an American Werewolf once again in his life, when he watched a man attempt to eat 150 chicken chalupas in a single sitting. These people lurk amongst us. They are your neighbors, coworkers, and relatives. They consume without remorse and if you’re not careful, the gluttony will grow inside you too. Legend tells of an insatiable hunger that can overtake a man. 73 �Spectator Autumn Evancavich Speck of dust It must have flown Learned every place In my old home Latched to my sweater Stuck to the glue I used to mend My broken shoe I hate the dust So I clean Until the air Is safe to breathe Until my shoes Hit the ground And no particles flow Round and round I hate the specks That never leave The ones that fly As I collapse on my knees In the hall At your door In every place I once adored 74 �Oh, speck of dust It must have known My house was far From my home It must have known I planned to go It must have known I would not, could not Go. 75 �Love Through Death Kailey Vogel The Girl In the distance stood a girl so far away from view When I first saw her I thought it can’t be true Near the lake I watch her glimmer off the waves I approached her and we kissed, got married, dug our graves As the years went on I found it hard to speak ‘I love you’ once so simple now came out a squeak I trudged the dark, brown muck both thick and slow then I lost all feeling in my soul. My job is gone, but still she did stay together we dwell on the good memories of an old day The doctor seemed so worried my love, she seemed so scared. Dots soon filled my vision into the dark I prepared to meet the other side I once was so ‘fraid I miss my love I wish I could have stayed 76 �Her Ghost When he awoke Her hair he did stroke As she smiled sweetly He disappeared completely Up near the tree He watches as she Walks towards the lake Was this all a mistake? She turns around And stares at the ground From behind the bark Here emerges Mark She begins to question A change in her expression Could he have been her ghost? This would make sense the most Ghosts don’t exist and he is gone She smiled at the man and they talked through dawn 77 �The Kiss The kiss Not of death But forbidden love Not in the unrequited sense Nor the prohibited tense Instead forbidden Refusal to admit To conquer their love Instead they hide it Bottling up all their fiery heat inside “I long to feel your lips on mine” He watches down on her from a different time A few months may be too soon But he knew now She LOVES somebody new “If she feel the need to love another man I will inflict death upon all so we can meet again” 78 �All Mine All mine Only mine Marie will keep me company Can’t think straight Eyes fuzzy I’m seeing red and now she’s dead Quick breathes Tight small knots My lungs collapse as thunder claps Head hurts Ears now ring She’s in my arms with no more harm Push back Run away What have I done, she died so young 79 �The End Death \deth\ n. 1: Me; 2: The identity I am too scared to see Dis•ease \di•zez\ n. 1. What I inflicted upon jealousy Fam•ine \fa-mǝn\ n. How I starve for her to rejoin me Geno•cide \je•nǝ•sīd\ n. The results of blind hatred and envy Hurt \hǝrt\ vb. A feeling of pain of which I’m free Mur•der \’mǝrdǝr\ vb. The blood on my hands that stain like coffee Pain \pān\ n. I have paralyzed all with the sting of a bee Sor•row \’sôrō\ n. Now the world has heard my plea The End? Reunited finally with my dear Marie 80 �Author Biographies Liz Keller is a third-year Political Science major with minors in Legal Studies and History. She’ll never shy away from the opportunity to admire Victorian-era artworks, especially the self-portrait locked away in her attic (which is certainly not cursed and decayed). Jacob O’Boyle is currently enrolled in Keystone College ‘27 M.S. in Wildlife Biology. Jacob is currently lost in the deep, dark woods on his search for more tasty blueberries. Lindsey Christain is not only a lover of writing but also a compassionate observer of the natural world, holding a deep appreciation for all life forms, big and small— from cats to tiny, often unnoticed slugs and beetles. Aubrianna Harte is a junior English and Secondary Education major and says, “I do not have a cat.” Leah Smith’s favorite kind of music is metal. So, instead of listening to calm wave sounds to carry her through her writing, she prefers wailing electric guitars and people screaming their lyrics. Her favorite bands are Ice Nine Kills, System of a Down, and Spiritbox. Jake Middleton is a student at Wilkes University. Jazmin High is a senior Psychology major closing out her career on the manuscript board, and she’d feel a little hypocritical to not submit after convincing friends to. Caden Temple is a student at Wilkes University. 81 �Sinner Joan is a senior English major and enjoys riding Appaloosas in Springbrook Township in their spare time. Kylie Sable is a senior neuroscience major who hopes to get her PhD in Behavioral Neuroscience but likes to give her brain a break with writing poetry. She is also currently the Associate Editor for the Manuscript and a proud member of the dance team! Grace Cairns is an English major who will graduate in 2028. She is actually part penguin and spends free time swimming around and finding food. Madi Westawski is a 2028 Accounting major can wiggle her ears when needed. Liv Serkosky is a fourth year Theatre Arts BA major and 4+1 Creative Writing student. They’re an actor, author, director, singer-songwriter, and activist. World’s most dramatic queer, enjoyer of sapphic media, and lover of all animals. They spend their time keeping engaged with the politcal world and using their socvial platform to keep friends, peers, and strangers aware of the world. They currently work in film and aim to one day live in Calfironia, restoring life where the fires took it while finding their own. Nicholas Penglase is a graduate student in Creative Writing and has a dog with one eye, and two cats without tails. Krystal Crespo Clark is a DDMA major and Dance minor. She spends much of her time in dance classes and on dance team. 82 �Craig Conville (best known to Wilkes campus as “Craig the Wilkes Guy”) is a Mechanical Engineering major at Wilkes University. Extracurricularly, he is an Admissions Student Ambassador, E-Mentor, Residence Hall Assistant, and Treasurer of the Gender and Sexuality Alliance. Poetry as a medium is his chosen coping mechanism for the social stresses that come with knowing many people and reaping the mental consequences of both his and others’ decision making. His Wilkes University Endeavors, as well as Wilkes Merch Shop, can be found on Instagram: @craig.the.wilkes.guy Jack Deluca is a 2029 English major and spends their spare time usually writing horror stories, horror poems, making costumes, and making short horror films. Nate Stavish is a senior English major and is Larry Davidmaxxing. Anthony Elmes is a senior History major and their favorite fruit is honeydew. Sydney Ahrberg is a senior English major finishing out her twoyear tenure as Executive Editor of the Manuscript Society. In her free time, she enjoys reading, snuggling with her dogs, and thinking about how unfair it is that she can’t pet a sea lion. Frank Callozo is a senior Data Science major and says, “When I consume soda, I open it partially to decrease the flow rate, allowing me to savor every drop.” Wayne McCormick is a a junior Creative Writing major and News and Sports Reporting minor. He rejects “just say no” and says “perhaps” to drugs. 83 �Autumn Evancavich is a freshman Biology major. She’s a lover of both music and poetry, enjoying when the two blend together as she listens to her favorite rap artist Juice WRLD. Kailey Vogel is a sophomore with a double major in English and History, who is projected to graduate in spring of 2028. Vogel has once been told she could be eligible for Miss Wilkes University due to her heavy involvement on campus, which includes: The Honors Program, Barre Scholar Program, E-Mentor, Resident Assistant, Dance Team Captain, Editor of The Beacon, HSPC, Programming Board, Wilkes University chorus, Presidential Student Leader, peer math tutor, note taker, and Honors Peer mentor. 84 �Thank you for having us as long as we were here by your sides, creating to show the world what can be done through the power of words. Keep writing and keep creating, even in the darkest moments when it matters most. We will cherish these moments until the day we become the subject of someone’s love letter to the world. Thank you, Wilkes, for leading us this far. You will see our names again one day. With love, The Graduating Editors Sydney, Kylie, Liv, and Jazmin 85 � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript: Literary Magazine, 1947-present Subject The topic of the resource The Manuscript Society of Wilkes University has been publishing its creative written and visual art magazine, Manuscript, continuously since 1947. Currently, the student-led editorial staff publishes one issue per year, and copies are complimentary. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Wilkes Manuscript Society Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Coverage The spatial or temporal topic of the resource, the spatial applicability of the resource, or the jurisdiction under which the resource is relevant 1947-2020 Description An account of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript is a student-run literary magazine, published by the Manuscript Society since 1947. It is currently published once a year. Individuals may submit creative fiction, creative nonfiction/short personal essays, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, digital art, and music compositions. Submissions are open to all Wilkes University students, faculty, staff, and alumni. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Anyone can read or obtain copies of any of the material for research purposes, but if the researcher wants to quote from the materials, they will need to obtain copyright permission from the <a href="https://www.wilkes.edu/academics/colleges/arts-humanities-social-sciences/humanities/manuscript/index.aspx">Wilkes University Manuscript Society.</a> Type The nature or genre of the resource The Wilkes University Manuscript: Literary Magazine is arranged chronologically. The series ranges from 1947 – present. The magazine is currently published in the Spring only, but has previously been published seasonally, each semester. The series also includes a folder with supplemental materials from the Manuscript Film Society in the 1970s. The folders include a date range which may hold more than one issue of the magazine. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Wilkes Manuscript, 2025-2026 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource English Department Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2025-2026 Type The nature or genre of the resource Literary Magazine