276 15 4134 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/1f27544162e38b8c1e73f14f0131ed1b.mp4 0665b094cc38b8d464255254a63511ea 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 University Documentaries 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 Iron Horses: A History of Railroads in the Wyoming Valley, 2012 Description An account of the resource This DVD is part of a series of documentaries produced by Wilkes University Communications Department in conjunction with the Wilkes University History department on the history of railroads within the Wyoming Valley. Future support for documentary production was also provided by a generous grant from Edward J. Meehan, Esq. that established the Wilkes University Oral History Project. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Wilkes University Communications Department and History Department Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2012 Type The nature or genre of the resource Documentary Film https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/ff408d36e1397f7cb973243410a33699.mp4 adbcb63ff47745abba9477ad278c2b89 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 University Documentaries 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-Barre: A Bicentennial Celebration, 1806-2006, 2006 Description An account of the resource This DVD is part of a series of documentaries produced by Wilkes University Communications Department in conjunction with the Wilkes University History department on the bicentennial history of Wilkes-Barre. Future support for documentary production was also provided by a generous grant from Edward J. Meehan, Esq. that established the Wilkes University Oral History Project. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Production of the Thomas P. Shelburne Television Center at Wilkes University and Big Fish Productions. Producer: Andee Sarantino, Executive Producers: Mark Stine, John Hepp. Script: Nick Zmijewski, Andee Sarantino Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2006 Type The nature or genre of the resource Documentary Film https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/dc4f78a23f789804a48241e39bbe205b.mp4 ae73bb7c8e9227bdb974a71f0cc64ce6 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 University Documentaries 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 Did You Boscov Today? Memories of Department Stores of Northeastern Pa, copyright 2012 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Wilkes University Communications Department and Wilkes University History Department Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2012 Description An account of the resource This DVD is part of a series of documentaries produced by Wilkes University Communications Department in conjunction with the Wilkes University History department on the history of Boscov's department store. Future support for documentary production was also provided by a generous grant from Edward J. Meehan, Esq. that established the Wilkes University Oral History Project. Type The nature or genre of the resource Documentary Film https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/5d7267c4bf2a9f34bf092dba84d41501.mp4 1889a6e4bd0a4e962ee3fb9443620de0 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 University Documentaries 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 Trolleys of the Wyoming Valley Documentary, 2012 Description An account of the resource This DVD is part of a series of documentaries produced by Wilkes University Communications Department in conjunction with the Wilkes University History department on the history of trolleys in the Wyoming Valley. Future support for documentary production was also provided by a generous grant from Edward J. Meehan, Esq. that established the Wilkes University Oral History Project. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Wilkes University Communication Department and Wilkes University History Department Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2012 Type The nature or genre of the resource Documentary Film https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/1a5683b28e7e08e1df1609c085a59c38.mp4 f942301e02665760af43ad0d644bd9fd 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 University Documentaries 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 The Osterhout Free Library: A Very Busy Place Documentary, 2014 Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2014 Type The nature or genre of the resource Documentary Film Description An account of the resource This DVD is part of a series of documentaries produced by Wilkes University Communications Department in conjunction with the Wilkes University History department on the history of The Osterhout Library in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. Future support for documentary production was also provided by a generous grant from Edward J. Meehan, Esq. that established the Wilkes University Oral History Project. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Wilkes University History Department and Communications Department. Produced and Directed by Mark Stine and John Hepp. 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 https://omeka.wilkes.edu/omeka/files/original/f020651401520d2b837ae5e9ad279799.pdf 51eaadfdb5eb440ccc5d212f2a47f098 PDF Text Text Issue 17.4: Spring 2023 THE INKWELL QUARTERLY “Full Speed Ahead” w ith Good Things to Come— EPIC: The Troy Saga By Juliana Lueders In This Issue: “Full Speed A head” with Good Things to Come - EPIC: The Troy Saga Guest Writer Dr. Amy Earhart Jorge Rivera-Herrans is revolutionizing the musical industry with his new Who Should Decide What We Can Read? creation EPIC: The Troy Saga. Rivera-Herrans has been writing this musical over the past few years but what makes his story unique is that he has taken Sigma Delta Tau Inductees and to social media platforms such as TikTok to document his creative process Graduates and search for vocal talent. This abnormal approach allowed him to reach new voices and get in contact with individuals beyond the constraints of Senior Capstones the music industry. Through social media, Rivera-Herrans was also able to gather support for his project at the same time, this allowed him to interact Staff Updates with his followers and take in feedback. This remarkable tactic encouraged Senior Spotlights his fans to become personally invested in the project’s success. Over the course of several months, Rivera-Herrans has been documenting the musical progress leading up to it being professionally produced and released Reflecting on My Time in the English Department and the to the public. Beyond. The original concept album was posted to music platforms on December 25, 2022 and has five songs that serve as a sample for the expected fortysong contemporary album. EPIC: The Troy Saga is the first album out of nine that will make up the complete story of Odysseus’ twenty-year journey. The song list (in album order) is “The Horse and the Infant,” “Just a Man,” “Full Speed Ahead,” “Open Arms,” and “Warrior of the Mind”. These songs tell the progression of the Greeks’ attack on the city of Troy, Odysseus’ internal reflection of the lives he has taken, their struggles in returning to Ithaca, a strange island with deceitful inhabitants, and Odysseus’ interaction with the Goddess Athena. Below I go into more detail on each song and share my reflections on the music, lyrics, and general themes of each piece without giving away too much. I will also be ranking them based on personal preference and how hard they slap. 5) “Full Speed Ahead” This position isn’t a reflection of the song itself as it is just as strong vocally and musically as all the others. It’s more so that it is lacking some of the Jorge Rivera-Herrans depth and action when compared to the other songs. It is still a necessary Photo accessed on broadwayworld.com Story Continued on Page 4 1 �The Inkwell Quarterly Guest Writer Dr. Amy Earhart By Alexis Charowsky On Wednesday April 12 and Thursday April 13, I had the opportunity to join two sessions with the guest writer Dr. Amy Earhart. The final Allen Hamilton Dickson visiting writer of the year, Earhart, informed students of both projects she has finished and her currently active projects, and she held a digital workshop highlighting and explaining the digital software she uses on a daily basis. A little about Earhart, she’s an English professor at Texas A&M University, focusing her studies in the digital humanities, specifically Africana Studies. Her biography for the school states that “Earhart’s scholarship has focused on examining infrastructures of technology and their impact and replication of ‘race,’ building infrastructure for digital humanities work, embedding digital humanities projects within the classroom, and tracing the history and futures of dh, with a particular interest in the way that dh and Black studies intersect.” Along with the informative information that Earhart was able to provide to students, a copy of her book Traces of Old, Uses of the New: The Emergence of Digital Literary Studies was provided to students who attended her session on the 12th. In her session held in Kirby Hall, Earhart talked about one of the projects that she has conducted, called the Millican Massacre. Earhart told us that in the massacre that occurred from July 15-17 in 1868, about 300 African Americans were killed in this small town. In order to honor these victims, Earhart and other students of hers have come together to investigate this tragedy that kept being pushed under the rug. One interesting point that she made was that this event keeps being deleted from the internet, as though it had never happened. Located only 13 miles south of Texas A&M, Millican was an important town to Texas, as it was where the end of the railroad that went North led to, the farthest North one was able to go in Texas. Before this massacre happened, Earhart told students that the Ku Klux Klan had gone into the town and started shooting at African Americans. A man by the name of Miles Brown was reportedly lynched by white men, and when town officials went to talk with this community, a gun went off, starting this massacre. Earhart found that this masacre may have ensued “to end Black voting rights in this part of Texas.” She brought up the fact that between the years of 1867 and 1868, there were about 54 marriages, so many due to marriages being able to bind these people into a legal marriage that was unable to be broken. One prominent person of the Millican Massacre that Earhart mentioned was a man named George Brooks. He was a pastor of the town who is believed to have “helped increase Black voter registration, organized community defense groups, and led the Black resistance during the massacre.” In his travels to Austin, Brooks was killed by white men, but his memory will forever be treasured in helping so many innocent people. In Amy Earhart’s presentation and workshop she gave to my digital humanities class with Dr. Kuhar, she provided useful information in explaining possibilities in the digital humanities. She started off with the fact that when technology became prominent in society, it was a revolutionary to our understanding of this type of work. While working in her field, she found that it does not require many people to research more about a topic, but instead is DIY based. Although this was the case, she also said that DH researchers need to collaborate with others, 2 � Issue 17.4: Spring 2023 Guest Writer Dr. Amy Earhart Continuation of Page 2 including researchers, librarians, students, and communities. Earhart reassured us that this process involves experimentation and failing, claiming that we should expect to fail in order to self-teach ourselves. One point she made that I thought was interesting was the fact that projects created in the digital humanities are turned into black box projects after their five-year life is over. Earhart also informed us about three important DH technology tools, which include databases with visualizations, Content Management Systems (CMS), and metadata standards. A project she told us that she had worked on is titled DIBB or The Digital Black Bibliographic Project that lists authored published texts divided by countries in the 1950s. In conclusion to her presentation, she said that it was useful to recover memories of what has happened in past times to help those who may still be impacted by these events and the larger communities. During the workshop part of our class, she sent students a link to a spreadsheet has been working on. She gave students anthologies they were able to share with one another, and we were required to pick a random name out. We then went onto the spreadsheet and had to individually write the person’s name, gender, race, when they were born and died, and other useful information that we knew about this person. This workshop was used as a way to show students how tedious of a job it is to enter everything into a database and work within the digital humanities. I can definitely say that there is a lot of work involved in researching a topic and finding all of the evidence, but when you finally do, it has an informative end result. In conclusion, I think that having Dr. Amy Earhart here at Wilkes was interesting to say the least. She not only told us about the different tools one has to use while working in the digital humanities, such as Omeka or Zotero, but also the vast amount of time, money, and research it requires. The overall message I took from Earhart is that she wants to help people and communities that they live in, and in doing so, she helps these people receive the closure that they need. I want to thank Earhart for all the new knowledge she has provided me with, and I can’t wait to see her finish projects that she has been working on for so long! MANUSCRIPT 2023-24 UNVEILED 3 �The Inkwell Quarterly “Full Speed Ahead” with Good Things to Come— EPIC: The Troy Saga Continuation of Page 1 4 part of the narrative as it is describing the Greek’s journey back home to Ithaca and the struggles they are facing in the middle of the sea: mainly a lack of food for their six-hundred soldiers. The song’s strongest part comes from the characterization of Eurylochus, Polites, and Odysseus. Eurylochus and Polites’ proposals on how to proceed to represent the difficult choices and extremes of war and of Odysseus provide a sort of middle ground trying to appease them both, highlighting Odysseus’ empathetic and rational characteristics that come into play later. 4) “The Horse and the Infant” A very strong opening to the album that sets the stage for the beginning of a war and introduces the conflict between the Greeks and Trojans. My favorite part of this intro is the fast-moving lyrical introductions of Diomedes, Agamemnon, and Menelaus as Odysseus gives them their orders hinting at their rank, skills, and personal motivations. There is a sudden shift in the music with a clash of lightning and the call of an eagle introducing Zeus as he begins speaking to Odysseus. Zeus gives the soldier a message to strike down the infant son of their enemy before the child can grow and take revenge on all the people Odysseus cares for. This moment is the first inclination of the inescapable guilt Odysseus feels as he seems caught in a cycle of bloodshed. The song concludes with Zeus mocking Odysseus’ dilemma, commenting that all Odysseus can control is whose blood he spills. 3) “Open Arms” This song is very simplistic musically with various soft beats in the background that allows for the vocals of both Dookie (as Polites) and Rivera-Herrans (as Odysseus) to really soar. It follows “Full Speed Ahead” and continues to emphasize Polites’ more pacifistic and compassionate position as he encourages Odysseus to see and accept the world around him. There are also hints at Odysseus’ struggle with his guilt over the lives he claimed in the war. But Odysseus was correct in his suspicions of the island inhabitants as he throws Polites’ line back in his face with “That’s what we’d get with open arms” (ll. 47) seemingly to double down on the suspicions that war has enforced within him. The conclusion of the song makes it seem that trusting the inhabitants’ directions was a good thing and representative of potential growth for Odysseus, but those familiar with the tale remember what is waiting for them at the cave... 2) “Just a Man” A beautiful string-heavy opening for the only song of the album with one character singing. This allows for Rivera-Herrans to shine as he develops Odysseus’ inner turmoil of guilt with delicate rises and falls. The central part of the song sees a sudden shift in this softness as the music cuts out completely for a moment only to be replaced with an intense echoing from the chorus. This section represents a shift in Odysseus’ determination as he begins to question when in life these grand changes take place because even after all the great and horrible things he has done he still feels that he’s just a man. The most devastating of his questions is “When does the reason become the blame?” (ll. 18). The song ends with the chorus repeating his impossible questions back at him as he asks for forgiveness over and over because he can’t change who he is. 1) “ Warrior of the Mind” This is easily the catchiest and most memorable song on the album. There is a reason that this song has almost five million more listens on Spotify than all the other songs. Athena’s voice is the perfect mixture of melodious and stern, paired with an elegant piano melody that evolves as the song goes on. There’s a smooth transition into storytelling to show how she knows Odysseus and develops their rapport. Odysseus is allowed to take on a more playful tone in this song. Odysseus is also aware of how Athena values intelligence so he tricks her into revealing herself to him. The chorus of this song is incredible and allows Athena to share her intentions with the soldier. This section develops as the song goes on when the second refrain of this chorus has both Athena and Odysseus singing together emphasizing their shared respect for each other and Athena’s vision. � Issue 17.4: Spring 2023 “Full Speed Ahead” with Good Things to Come— EPIC: The Troy Saga Continuation of Page 4 Addendum: By the time this article comes out, Rivera-Herrans has already released the second album out of the expected nine titled EPIC: The Cyclops Saga. This album has a total of four songs and follows where the previous story has left off. As the hungry soldiers sail towards and reach the island that the Lotus-Eaters described there seems to be someone else waiting for them... ummerr his SSumme TThis ting We’re potlighhting e’re SSpotlig W eniors! SSeniors Meet Emily! Emily Cherkauskas Q: What is your favorite memory from Wilkes? A: Being a member of the English department alone is a core memory. I’ve had so many great memories working with everybody in Manuscript and I will hold them dearly close to me. I’ll also look back fondly on the great discussions and projects I was able to work on in my upper-level English courses. Plus, getting the opportunity to go on a trip to the Round House Theatre in Bethesda, Maryland, to see The Tempest for our seminar class was terrific. Q: What was your favorite literary text from a class you’ve taken here, and why? A: There are so many to choose from! I’d say Doctor Faustus is definitely one of the best works I’ve ever studied, to the point where I have made it the subject of my capstone project. Exploring and studying the different editions of the play really showed the complexity and symbolism within the play. Q: Tell us a favorite quote from one of the English professors. A: “Hey gang, how we doin’.” – Dr. Hamill Q: What English class do you wish you would have had the chance to take, and why? A: I wish I could have taken more writing-oriented classes because I always enjoy building my technical and creative skills, but unfortunately, they did not fit in my schedule. The pains of being a double major! That’s when participating in cocurricular activities helped out a ton. Q: What was/were your concentration(s) in English here at Wilkes? A: My English concentration is in digital humanities. I often advocate for accessibility in media, especially with public media or archiving, and I love exploring the boundaries between traditional scholarly humanities and digitization of research, so that concentration fits perfectly for me. Q: What was your favorite non-English class at Wilkes, and why? A: Probably the communication studies capstone courses. My research project studied the accuracy of closed captioning in local live broadcasting, so it was a very worthwhile and eye-opening experience. Q: What are your future career aspirations? A: I would love to work in the field of media in some sort of production, coordination, or archiving role. Wherever my career and interests lead me to go, I would want to be working somewhere I could be making an impact—not just in the company, but also for the greater community. Q: What is your favorite book/author you have read, separate from English courses here at Wilkes, or just in general? A: Well, now that I’ve completed my courses, I’ve definitely had more time for some recreational reading. I’ve recently started the Shadow and Bone trilogy and I’m fully invested in the Grishaverse! I’m a sucker for great worldbuilding. Q: Do you have a favorite movie? A: 2001: A Space Odyssey. To think such a surreal, unique, and skillful film like this was released in 1968. Praise the monolith. Q: What literary text for a class did you hate the most, and why? A: I can’t say I’ve hated any of the works I’ve read because they are all so interesting, regardless of the era or genre that they represent! Q: What advice do you have for English majors/ minors at Wilkes who have yet to graduate? A: Don’t be afraid to get involved and explore your opportunities! The English major in particular offers so much experience, so take the classes that are not only interesting to your personal traits, but also ones that build your writing, research, and communication skills. Plus, be sure to get involved with Manuscript Society and Inkwell and look into getting an internship to earn some professional experience! Q: What are you most hopeful for or concerned about for your future as you move past graduation? A:Completing undergrad is a very bittersweet time period. I will also say that this time period of completing university is quite an uncertain one—I’m slowly processing the fact that this chapter of my life that lasted four years is finally closing--but opening a new one. I’m quite anxious about the opportunities beyond that as I continue my career search. It’s very sad to leave Wilkes and all of the great memories I’ve had in the English and communication studies departments, but I’m excited to move on and apply what I’ve learned here to a future career! 5 �The Inkwell Quarterly SIGMA TAU DELTA INNIAIATES & GRADUATES This year’s Induction Ceremony was held Sunday, May 7th in the Kirby Hall Salon. Special thanks to Maddie Kinard, who graduated this Spring, for seving as Sigma Tau Delta President for the ---Academic Year, and to Dr. Davis for serving as Faculty Advisor! Fall Graduates: Jay Guziewicz Spring Graduates: Alexis Charowsky Emily Cherkaukas Madelynn Kinard Sydney Kraynack 6 Spring Inductees: Spring Inductees Continued: Amanda Bunje Alexis Charowsky Mya Corcoran Drew Haritos Marina del Carmen Mendez Sinclair Lily Hebda Kelci Smith Matthew Tocket Jessica Van Orden Olivia Wychock � Issue 17.4: Spring 2023 Who Should Decide What We Can Read? By Mya Corcoran According to the American Library Association, libraries received 1,269 requests to censor books in 2022, which is nearly double the number of censorship demands made in 2021. With such a sharp incline in the number of books being pulled off shelves across the United States, book banning has become a hotly debated topic and is considered to be a critical issue. Those in favor of banning books strive to prevent the circulation of books that discuss topics that are deemed to be inappropriate or controversial. Many different types of books including classics like George Orwell’s 1984 and more contemporary works like Jay Asher’s Thirteen Reasons Why have been banned from certain libraries in recent years. However, these attempts to ban books have been met with major pushback. In fact, many consider book banning to be not only a form of censorship but also a threat to one’s freedom of speech. While many anti-book banning groups have formed to fight to keep all books on library shelves, Illinois has been the first state to take legal action to prevent the banning of books. In early May, the Illinois House and State Senate passed a bill stipulating that state funding would be withheld from any public or school library in the state that attempts to ban books from their shelves. The final step for this bill is for Illinois’ Governor, J.B. Pritzker, who has voiced his support for the bill, to officially sign it into law. Illinois distributes 62 million dollars to libraries throughout the state each year. For libraries to remain eligible for this funding, they will have to adopt the American Library Association’s Library Bill of Rights which states, “materials should not be excluded because of the origin, background, or views of those contributing to their creation” and “materials should not be proscribed or removed because of partisan or doctrinal disapproval.” This bill was initiated by Illinois’ Secretary of State Alexi Giannoulias who initially proposed the idea of banning book bans during his campaign. Giannoulias stated, “All these efforts to curb reading materials have absolutely nothing to do with books. They are about restricting the freedom of ideas that certain individuals disagree with and that certain individuals think others should have access to.” While the passing of this Illinois bill takes a step in the right direction to preserving the ability of the public to read all types of books, there has been recent controversy over whether it is acceptable for publishers to make alterations to the content of long-standing books. This controversy was sparked after the book publishing company Puffin made hundreds of changes to Roald Dahl’s bestselling children’s books. Puffin partnered with Inclusive Minds, an organization that advocates for diversity and inclusion in children’s literature, to make the changes to Dahl’s original writing. According to Puffin, the alterations were “small and carefully considered” and sought to remove and replace potentially offensive language. Hundreds of changes were made and numerous passages not written by Dahl were added throughout several of his bestselling books including Matilda, James and the Giant Peach, Fantastic Mr. Fox, The BFG, and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. For example, Augustus Gloop from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is no longer described as “enormously fat” and is now simply referred to as “enormous.” Miss. Trunchbull from Matilda is no longer referred to as a “most formidable female” and instead is dubbed a “most formidable woman.” The OompaLoompas from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory are no longer called “small men,” but are now referred to as “small people.” Other changes include removal of the words “fat,” “ugly,” and “crazy” as well as any references to race, gender, mental health, and violence. Photo accessed on stock.adobe.com Story Continued on Page 9 7 �The Inkwell Quarterly Heads Up: Senior Spotlights! Meet Alexis! Alexis Charowsky Q: What is your favorite memory from Wilkes? A: My favorite memory or memories from Wilkes are the different events that were held around campus. I especially liked when we had Block Party or the different food trucks for students. I’m also going to miss the many sporting events we had here at Wilkes. Next Up: Q: Do you have a favorite movie? A: I can’t say that I have one favorite movie. I really like any type of horror movie or psychological thriller! Q: What are your future career aspirations? A: After graduation, I plan to work as a paralegal. I am definitely keeping my options open though as there are many jobs that interest me in this field! Q: What is your favorite book/author you have read, separate from English courses here at Wilkes, or just in general? A: My favorite author has to be Colleen Hoover. If you’re looking to read any books by her, I would recommend It Ends With Us and Verity. Q: What was your favorite literary text from a class you’ve taken here, and why? A: One of my favorite texts was House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski. We covered this text in Dr. Anthony’s gothic class and I really liked how it wasn’t set up as a normal book. You kind of had to read between the lines to understand what is going on. Q: What advice do you have for English majors/ minors at Wilkes who have yet to graduate? A: I actually wrote an article for Inkwell giving advice to those who have yet to graduate! If I could give one piece of advice to those who have yet to graduate it would be that college is a new environment for everyone. Whether you’re in your first year or fourth year, things may seem very stressful and you might want to give up, but I promise the reward is worth it in the end! Q: What are you most hopeful for or concerned about for your future as you move past graduation? A: After graduation, I’m really excited to see where life will take me. I’m the type of person who likes to take life day by day and while I’m nervous for the future I also can’t wait to see myself grow as a person, all thanks to the education I have received from the English department here at Wilkes! Q: What was/were your concentration(s) in English here at Wilkes? A: Literature Q: What was/were your concentration(s) in English here at Wilkes? A: Literature Q: What are your future career aspirations? A: I hope to work within the Public Library sector as a Community Outreach Coordinator. The ways that our libraries are eveolving as technology does creates a great opportunity to level the technological gap and create equitable opportunities for all literacy developments, thos educational and fun based, to create thriving communties. Q: What was your favorite literary text from a class you’ve taken here, and why? A: I think it is a tie between Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys and The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison. Both of these titles demanded that the reader delve into the meat of the text, and examine why the book was being written. Once you’ve done that, it makes a reader think about their relation to those reasons. Meet Jess! Jess Van Orden Q: What is your favorite memory from Wilkes? A: My favorite, thus far, has been my work within the library archives. I have had the opportunity to become familiarized with prolific authors of study through their personal letters, dive deep into the history of the Inkwell, and even research the Yankee Pennamite Wars in depth. Each project has offered its own a great adventure. 8 Q: Tell us a favorite quote from one of the English professors. A: Literally anything from our class discussion with Dr. Hamill about the Milton quote experience with “the mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.” The relatability alone... Q: What English class do you wish you would have had the chance to take, and why? A: If I had my choice of classes I heard being spoke of during my time here, I think I would have liked to have taken the Studies in Horror and Sci-fi. Octavia Butler is my favorite author, and it would have been a great opportunity to read others within her genre. I am not particuarly versed in Horror, per se, but it would have been interesting to hear about the texts that drew in those who enjoyed it. Q: What was your favorite non-English class at Wilkes, and why? A: As a transfer, I haven’t had the opportunity to take many non-English Wilkes classes. I am going to take a History course next semester, which I am excited about. At my other school, my favorite was a humanities course that was designed to teach you how to research and present a section of land in order to have it preserved. It included leading the class on a walk through the area and detailing all the specifics that made it important for future generations, as well as the wildlife present. We also engaged with enviornmental literature, where I first interacted with many American Romantic authors. Q: What English class do you wish you would have had the chance to take, and why? A: I have definitely taken a lot of the English courses available here at Wilkes. If I could retake one, it would probably be the gothic class that I previously mentioned. I really liked the different texts that we read! Q: What was your favorite non-English class at Wilkes, and why? A: My favorite non-English class at Wilkes was the Women and Gender Studies class I took this semester with Dr. Briceno. Everyone in this class was so welcoming and I feel that we were able to make close relationships with one another while studying more about women and genders within society today. Q: What literary text for a class did you hate the most, and why? A: I can’t really say that I hated any texts. I think that they are all interesting in their own way. Q: What is your favorite book/author you have read, separate from English courses here at Wilkes, or just in general? A: I am reading Plain Bad Heroines by Emily M. Danforth during this last semester. It blends elements of horror, queer, and potentially gothic, literature in a modern setting while telling two interwoven stories. It is quickly becoming a favorite. I have also picked up multiple Louise Erdrich novels during the year, Love Medicine and The Round House, and she is quickly becoming a favorite author. Q: Do you have a favorite movie? A: Dirty Dancing has been the tried and true love of my life, so I have to say that, but I’ll never turn down a movie opp! Q: What advice do you have for English majors/minors at Wilkes who have yet to graduate? A: Returning to college as an older person, I would emphasize the importance in recognizing the moments one needs for one’s self, and taking them. Everything seemed so immeadiate and demanding when I was younger, and I missed a lot in attempting to plan for things that hadn’t arrived yet. I would say that Q: What are you most hopeful for or concerned about for your future as you move past graduation? A: I am starting the Maslow MA program next semester as a 4 +1 student, so I am incredibly excited to see what that looks like, both as a current Wilkes student and a graduate! I am also researching MLIS programs, as I hope to eventually work within the public library sector in community programing and accessibility! Q: What literary text for a class did you hate the most, and why? A: It is going to sound like an out, but there truly hasn’t been a course I disliked. There may have been content within courses that didn’t align with my specific interest in the field, however, the interest and passions that the professors and students in the department brought to each class made me see something of interest in each text. Those moments where I struggled with a text, I would argue, made me appreciate my own favorites all the more. For, they taught me new ways to examine the aspects I had yet to explore! � Issue 17.4: Spring 2023 Who Should Decide What We Can Read? Continuation of Page7 Puffin was met with major criticism from readers who were upset they changed Dahl’s original writing. Salman Rushdie, an author of a very controversial work himself, took to Twitter to criticize the changes made to Dahl’s books. In a tweet, Rushdie referred to the changes made to Dahl’s books as “absurd censorship.” Rushdie is well acquainted with facing controversy as an author after his novel The Satanic Verses came to be considered one of the most controversial books to date, and he was recently attacked and stabbed due to his writing. Rushdie goes as far as to say “Puffin Books and the Dahl estate should be ashamed” for the changes made to Dahl’s original writing. Suzanne Nossel, CEO of PEN America, an organization that works to defend free expression in literature across the United States, responded similarly to news of the changes to Dahl’s books. In a tweet Nossel wrote, “If we start down the path of trying to correct for perceived slights instead of allowing readers to receive and react to books as written, we risk distorting the work of great authors and clouding the essential lens that literature offers on society.” Not only do many fear the changes made will dim Dahl’s brilliant writing, but also consider the changes to be a blatant disregard of Dahl’s wishes. In a recorded conversation that took place in 1982 Dahl “warned [his] publishers that if they later on so much as change a single comma in one of [his] books, they will never see another word from [him].” Dahl passed away in 1990 leaving Puffin with total control over his books. Not all see the changes made to Dahl’s writing in a negative light. In fact, many see the changes made as a way of keeping Dahl’s works relevant and innocuous to readers in our current day and age. To acknowledge the changes made by the publisher, a statement was added on the bottom of the copyright page that reads, “Words matter. The wonderful words of Roald Dahl can transport you to different worlds and introduce you to the most marvelous characters. This book was written many years ago and so we regularly review the language to ensure that it can continue to be enjoyed by all today.” In response to the great uproar caused by the changes made to Dahl’s books, Penguin Random House resolved they would sell both the updated versions of Dahl’s books and the original versions. The reader will have the choice to buy whichever version they would rather read. Despite the original, unedited versions of Dahl’s works still being available alongside the edited versions, many fear that editing works will become just another method of censorship and be used in a similar way as book bans. Nossel stated, “Amidst fierce battles against book bans and strictures on what can be taught and read, selective editing to make works of literature conform to particular sensibilities could represent a dangerous new weapon.” The soon-to-be-passed Illinois book banning law and dispute over edits to Roald Dahl’s books continue to be bogged in controversy. Despite the strong opposition between the two sides of this debate, there seems to be an agreement between both sides that books are important to society and influential on those that read them. If each side did not recognize this inherent value in books, it is likely that neither side would feel as strongly about their beliefs as they currently do. It is this inherent value in books that makes us Roald Dahl continue to debate: Who should decide what we can read? Photo accessed on franklintwp.org 9 �The Inkwell Quarterly English Depart ment Capston Department Capstones es The English Department seniors presented their capstone project this past May, where they spoke to the intriguing and dynamic research they had worked on in their final semester! Featured below are their shared insights into those projects! Emily Cherkaukas presented their paper, “The Malleability of Doctor Faustus in the Digital Age,” which explored an interdisciplinary examination of the Renaissance play Doctor Faustus. Emily shared: I compared the capabilities of traditional scholarly analysis and digital machine reading, discussing the benefits and disadvantages of both. I used these methodologies to compare the A text and the B text editions of Doctor Faustus. This led to some further analysis that offered discussion regarding some context to textual authority, the potential reasoning behind some editing instances or changes, and opportunities for deeper looks into the characters and attitudes and how they operate within the play’s staging dynamics. In the end, I argued that this interdisciplinary scope of analyzing a text offers greater access to an artifact by employing various means of viewing a text. Alexis Charowsky presented their paper, “Prostitution Narratives in Eighteenth Century Literature.” Alexis Shared: The paper focused on the sex worker by the name of Sally Salisbury who was better known as Sarah Salisbury. I compared two different narratives for my paper, one being “The Authentick Memoirs and Life Intrigues of the Celebrated Sally Salisbury” taken from the book titled Nightwalkersedited by Laura Rosenthal and the other was The Genuine History of Sarah Prydden who’s author is unknown. In the Authentick Memoirs, I found that men would typically talk about Sally and the allurement of her eyes, while in Genuine History we got details about Salisbury’s life growing up and how she became involved in this profession all the way up to her death. Being that Salisbury’s narratives written about her were considered to be libertine narratives, they express how she goes against the norms during the time and is faced by moral judgement by those around her. In relation to my own personal experience of writing this paper I would have to say that I really enjoyed researching and learning more about this women for others to read. Since the beginning of the semester, my advisor and I, Dr. Anthony, had met weekly trying to figure out what I wanted to write my topic on. After pulling many quotes from the text Nightwalkers, she suggested that I should start writing a few pages of my paper and from there that is how I ended up with my entire capstone paper. If you had the opportunity to read my paper, I hope that you enjoyed learning more about this history figure and how oftentimes these women of this field of work often have their voices taken away, leaving readers with their own interpretation of their characters. In order to fully understand why women got involved in this field of work, we as a society need to stop underrepresenting them and come to an understanding that they did so in order to live in this changing, male dominated society of the eighteenth century. English Department Awards The English Department announced their departmental awards this past Saturday, May 19th, during the awards ceremony for the Colleges of Arts and Sciences. The Frank J. J. Davies Award was awarded to Maddy Kinard, or outstanding achievement in the English program. The Annette Evans Humanities Award as awarded to Emily Cherkauskas, for outstanding scholarship in the humanities and contribution to cultural affairs. The Naparsteck Scholarship was awarded to Mya Corcoran, for promising writing in prose fiction, journalism, or poetry. The College of Arts and Sciences Award was awarded to Maddy Kinard. 10 � Issue 17.4: Spring 2023 Heads Up: Senior Spotlights! Q: What are you most hopeful for or concerned about for your future as you move past graduation? A: I’m excited to apply all that I’ve learned to a real-world setting! I truly feel like my professors have set me up for success and that everything I have learned to this point will be beneficial to me in the future and I can’t thank them enough for that. Q: What literary text for a class did you hate the most, and why? A: I don’t know if I’ve ever truly hated any to be honest! Q: What are your future career aspirations? A: Ideally, I’d love to work in the editing/publishing industry, working with either young adult or adult fiction novels. One day, I’d love to have my own published book(s)! I also think sometime in the later future I may pursue a graduate degree, ultimately seeking to become an English professor, but that’s a little farther out! Meet Maddy! Madelynn Kinard Q: What is your favorite memory from Wilkes? A: I don’t have one particular moment but rather an experience in its entirety: I’m so thankful for the people that Wilkes has brought into my life. I’ve met lifelong friends, found “the one” (as cheesy as it sounds, I really believe it), and have met some of the most well-spoken intellectual professors that have inspired me every day of my undergraduate (and still now). Wilkes is really a great community of people that I am so extremely sad to leave behind but I know we’ll still be connected going forward. Q: What was your favorite literary text from a class you’ve taken here, and why? A: This is such a hard question but ultimately I think I’d have to go with Mark Danielewski’s House of Leaves that I read with Dr. Anthony in our gothic literature class. It’s such a haunting novel and is unlike any other text I’ve ever read. It’s truly the physical embodiment of a psychological thriller movie. I won’t say much else to ruin other’s reading experience but wow...definitely check this one out. Q: What English class do you wish you would have had the chance to take, and why? A: I would’ve loved to have taken a course with Dr. Stanley or Dr. Kelly.With being a dual major and active in athletics and other extracurricular activities, I was really limited to taking the major course requirements which didn’t give me a chance to branch out a lot but I’ve heard such great things about both of them! Q: What was/were your concentration(s) in English here at Wilkes? A: Literature Q: What was your favorite non-English class at Wilkes, and why? A: With being a dual major, I have taken many communication studies classes and I really enjoyed Crisis and the Media with Dr. Kalen Churcher. We examined the ways our media responds (either effectively or poorly) to crises and what we as potential future journalists or PR professionals should avoid or do. Q: What is your favorite book/author you have read, separate from English courses here at Wilkes, or just in general? A: Another tough one...but one of my favorites that I’m constantly recommending is I’m Thinking of Ending Things by Iain Reid. It’s another psychological thriller that just messes with you in some of the same ways HoL does. It is a movie on netflix but, as per usual, the book is much better and makes more sense :) Q: Do you have a favorite movie? A: Yes! I’m a shameless Twilight fan (I know they’re bad but it’s part of the charm...) and also a big Marvel fan. So I know those are more like series/franchises, but they’re some of my favorites! Q: Tell us a favorite quote from one of the English professors. A: I think about Dr. Hamill every winter season who closed class with quotes from Frost. Particularly, “And miles to go before I sleep”(“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”) Q: What advice do you have for English majors/minors at Wilkes who have yet to graduate? A: Save your notebooks from earlier classes! By the time the capstone rolled around, I really benefited from being able to return to earlier class notes to help support my ideas and root them in scholarship. Department Capstones Capstones English Department Maddie Kinard presented their paper, “Jane Austen and Classical Literary Canon; Limitations and Opportunities of the Canonical Frame.” Maddy Shared: As the title hints at, I explored the limitations and opportunities of the canonical frame through the lens of Jane Austen since, to this modern day, she is still heavily regarded as an influential member of the canon, taught in schools, and is popular in media (movie adaptations, Bollywood remixes, book remixes, etc.). I particularly focused on Mansfield Park because it represents Austen’s careful treatment of slavery, often treating it as a means for monetary gain. However, some scholars (like Ruth Perry) also view the story as a “white framing” of slavery, as Fanny was taken from her family and treated like property at Mansfield Park. So there’s kind of this back-and-forth argument that I was really interested in exploring. I also utilized my Communication Studies degree, looking at linguistic relativity or the Sapir-Whorf Theory, examining the ways in which language shapes the way we understand the world (and the implications that comes with that when looking at canonical priority). My overall experience with the capstone was really great. I loved working with Dr. Davis because we were both so involved and into Jane Austen and the topic (for reference, I developed my research off of our earlier senior seminar class, Jane Austen and Empire). She was very supportive of me and kept me on track when I felt overwhelmed by the amount of sources and ideas I had. Co ntinued : Sydney Kraynack presented their paper, “Patriarchal Violence in Contemporary Literature.” 11 �The Inkwell Quarterly Reflecting on my time in the English depar tment and the beyond. By Emily Cherkaukas The English department, I feel, is one of those departments that you can either finish in three years or take six years to go through whatever it is you need. I don’t see that as a bad thing—rather, it really signifies the level of flexibility and control you can have over your classes, concentration(s), and minor(s). As a double major, I appreciate the opportunities offered by the English program, and I will always hold those close to my heart. This will be my final Inkwell article as an undergraduate student in the English department. It’s taken me a bit of time to decide on what I want to write about, as I want it to be a message that will resonate for students and faculty, long afterward (I’m not dying, don’t worry). So, allow me to reflect on my time in the English department. In the fall 2019 semester, I was a wee first-year Communication Studies major taking my English 101 course with an adjunct, and that was my first taste of the English program. I was a busy college student, and I wasn’t writing or reading as much as I should. The idea, or the physical manifestation of an English major seemed out of my league. The spring 2020 semester was supposed to be normal, knocking out more of my gen eds, with English 120 being one of them. Because of the focus on American works, I found myself re-reading some works that I read in high school. Except, this time, we discussed actually profound analyses of the works. That’s when I learned that post-secondary English is a much different breed compared to any other English or language arts class I had taken previously. With encouragement from Dr. Anthony, who taught the course, I declared my minor in creative writing. I felt the hungry drive to experience more English, and those 100-level courses sparked that energy. The next few months of the spring semester were spent holed up in my room, with my desk, floor and bed littered with textbooks, notes, and printed assignments and rubrics. Looking back, as overwhelming as it might have been, I still knew I wanted more than just an English minor. I knew I was capable of the challenge of more than just the minor. So, I declared a double major in Communication Studies and English. The English 120 to English major pipeline is real, people. Throughout my time in the English department, I bounced between my minors and concentrations, from Writing to Digital Humanities, and then switched my minor from creative Writing to Workplace Writing. I even dropped my WGS minor to focus more on my English courses. With the concentration-designated courses in English, I found myself all over the place. It was a bit chaotic with the number of assignments, but looking back, I felt satisfied with how much I learned and wrote. From writing about poetry to studying 18th century literature to Shakespeare to rhetoric, I always learned something new. Every day brought a great memory, either in my classes or through my work with Inkwell and Manuscript. I had so much flexibility and creative freedom with my projects and research. About that English 120 to English major pipeline: I wouldn’t really describe it as a pipeline—but rather, a twisting and swirling slide, going in all directions, donned with a rainbow path. To put it simply, being an English major is fun and fulfilling. I am very grateful that I chose to pick up a double major in English and a minor in Workplace Writing. From the classes and co-curriculars, I gained editing, writing, communication, and publishing experience that I know I’ll be using in whatever future career I will have. 12 � Issue 17.4: Spring 2023 Reflecting on my time in the English depar tment and the beyond. Continuation of Page 12 About that future... In my Senior Spotlight, I discussed how completing undergrad is a time of uncertainty, and I wanted to elaborate on that. This doesn’t just apply to job searching, but also internships. This past month I was able to pick up a couple of interviews at some local companies that work well with my degree. In that time, I wanted to say that job searching is a task that requires maintaining confidence and openness, all while being patient and non-committal. Be confident in yourself, because Wilkes offers so many great opportunities to replicate the professional environment and allows you to grow skills that you will be using after college. You have the chance to bring new and fresh knowledge to the workplace. However, that doesn’t mean that people will line up to offer you a job with pay that can only be seen in a dream. Patience and resilience go hand in hand, and it will take weeks or even months for you to find a job. I’m not saying that you have to be pessimistic in this situation, but it’s important to understand and grow a resilient mindset in the chance that you have been (or will be) rejected for a dream job. A question that has surrounded my Senior classmates and myself is a good one: when, exactly, should we start applying to jobs? Not to be the expert here, but with my personal experience, I have found that it depends. For something like an English degree, you can apply to so many places in so many different fields, so if you choose to become a professional wanderer, you can become more flexible, compared to other programs. However, that doesn’t take away any sense of competitiveness or urgency. Job searching at a certain time depends on the position itself in accordance with your graduation time. When a job opening gets posted, especially one that is entry-level (basically, fit for a college applicant), that company may need that position to be filled as soon as they logistically can fill it. When a Senior who graduates in May applies for a job, for example, in December, they may not want to wait several months for that person to get started. Some other companies, like networks that hire on contract positions, for example, may be more forgiving with start times. Basically, when you see a job opening, apply for it. Even if the job opened on that day. Do not hesitate or procrastinate. When you see a job opening, hundreds—or even thousands—of other people have seen it, too. One position I have been interviewed for was only open for a day or two before it closed after receiving dozens of applicants. I applied the day it opened and the recruiter reached out to me the next day for a phone screen interview. Applying isn’t the most difficult part of the job. Remember when I said you needed to be patient? That’s because, if a company is even interested in you, it might take weeks for them to get back to you (if they even do bother to follow up with you, which happens to be the more likely fate). Even then, the interviewing process might be even longer. While some companies only need one interview, others need more than that. That position that I was interviewed for first has a phone screen interview, a first-round interview, then a second round, and then, finally, the job offer for whomever they choose. At the time of writing, it’s been four weeks and I’m only halfway through the process. I know of more people who don’t have a job upon graduating than people who do have a job to start with, and that’s okay. Don’t feel obligated to have a job that Monday after your commencement, because, to reiterate, it is going to take time. Although it may not always be the best job, find something that is fulfilling to you and your career goals. Photos accessed on stock.adobe.com 13 �The Inkwell Quarterly CATCH THE BUZZ: STAFF UPDATES Dr. Sean J. Kelly, “‘Nothing beneath—all?’: Rebecca Harding Davis’ Critique of Possessive Individualism in Life in the Iron Mills.” ESQ: A Journal of Nineteenth-Century American Literature and Culture 68.2 (2022): 261-302. Dr. Larry Kuhar presented his essay entitled “Disrupting Chronologies of Representation: The End of History in Natasha Trethewey’s Poems” at the American Literature Association 2022 Fall Symposium, “The Historical Imagination in American Literature,” in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Dr. Thomas Hamill worked on his essay titled “(Un)Making Texts/ (Re)Making Books: Editing in the Undergraduate Classroom” was just published in the book Teaching the History of the Book, edited by Matteo Pangallo and Emily B. Todd, University of Massachusetts Press, 2023, pp. 274-83. He was awarded Wilkes’s 2023 Honors Program Excellence in Teaching and Mentoring Award. Dr. Helen H. Davis presented a paper titled “Rereading and Co-construction” at the International Society for the Study of Narrative (ISSN) Conference in Chichester, UK, in June. This presentation has been expanded into a book chapter for Narrative Co-Construction:Author-Audience Interactions and Narrative Theory, which has been accepted for the Theory and Interpretation of Narrative Series at The Ohio State University Press. She also led a lunch discussion on behalf of the ISSN’s Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion Committee, which she co-chairs. Dr. Davis finished her term on the Executive Council for the ISSN in December. Dr. Davis also completed archival research at the British Library in London in July, and visited important literary locations in London. Dr. Davis also presented a paper titled, “Reverse Harems and #whychoose: How Indy Publishing Explodes Monogamous, Patriarchal Plots” at the International Society for the Study of Narrative (ISSN) Conference in Dallas, TX in March. She also led a lunch discussion on behalf of the ISSN’s Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion Committee, which she co-chairs. Dr. Mischelle Anthony’s poetry manuscript, Vehicle On Fire, was a finalist in the 2022 Longleaf Press Poetry Prize. 3 poems published: “Poem Written after Alison Rossiter’s photograph Haloid Platina, exact expiration date unknown, ca. 1915, processed in 2007” is forthcoming in Ekphrasis Magazine, 2023. “What You Need” in The North [Sheffield, UK], Vol. 68. “Cling” in Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, Vol. 25. As part of the May Poetry Group, Dr. Anthony runs an annual May Poetry Workshop (on May 13 this year) and has also begun a new reading series, Word to Word, both at Gather Community Space in Wilkes-Barre. Dr. Anthony also worked with Wilkes alum Jacqueline DeLucca to set up a monthly Living Lit: Writer’s Workshop at Pittston Memorial Library. Dr. Anthony co-sponsors (with Jennifer Yonkoski at King’s) an annual two-day Creative Writing Conference. Stay tuned and plan to attend the one this September 2023, held right here in Kirby Hall. THE INKWELL QUARTERLY STAFF :: STAFF 14 Staff Writers: Caitlyn Bly, Alexis Charowsky, Emily Cherkauskas, Bailey DeJesus, & Juliana Lueders Editor in Chief & Layout Editor Jessica Van Orden Copy Editors: Mya Corcoran & Daniel Stish Faculty Advisor Dr. Thomas A. Hamill Photos accessed on stock.adobe.com � Hea ds Up: Sen ior Spo tlight! Q: What are your future career aspirations? A: Well—I was hoping to be a poet, but I’ve had to settle on medical school. Q: What was your favorite literary text from a class you’ve taken here, and why? A: Probably Geek Love. It’s sentimental in being the first novel I was given as assigned reading when I became an English major, for Dr. Anthony’s ENG 201. It was grotesque and traumatizing. I loved it. Q: What literary text for a class did you hate the most, and why? "A Photorealistic Image of Daniel Stish". As Seen by an AI Generator Meet Daniel! Daniel Stish Q: What is your favorite memory from Wilkes? A: Zach Linge was a dreamboat. Q: What was/were your concentration(s) in English here at Wilkes? A: I currently have concentrations in writing and literature. Q: Do you have a favorite movie? A: I would like to live deliciously, so I’d have to say The Witch. A: I would have to say Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene. We only read snippets of it, and I enjoyed it enough that I now know I’m going to have to spend a portion of my life that I’ll never get back working my way through the entire monolithic text. I am the modern Damocles, and this is my sword. Q: What English class do you wish you would have had the chance to take, and why? A: I would have loved an advanced course on literary theory. I’ve found the critical theory aspect of English most most engaging by far. Q: What is your favorite book/author you have read, separate from English courses here at Wilkes, or just in general? A: I’m not well read by any means, but so far my favorite book is Neuromancer by William Gibson. Issue 17.4: Spring 2023 Q: What was your favorite nonEnglish class at Wilkes, and why? A: I’m going to make enemies and say that I enjoyed organic chemistry. It was the first time I actually felt as though I understood how chemistry happens, despite the wailing and gnashing of teeth. Q: Tell us a favorite quote from one of the English professors. A: For me, it’s the simple camaraderie in Dr. Hamill’s “Hey gang”. Q: What advice do you have for English majors/minors at Wilkes who have yet to graduate? A: Get involved! There are a ton of opportunities presented as an English major beyond coursework. The only extracurriculars I’ve regretted are those I haven’t done. Q: What are you most hopeful for or concerned about for your future as you move past graduation? A: I’m personally concerned about dying forgotten and bitter, but that’s neither here nor there. More seriously, I truly believe that we’re reaching an inflection point, and that the technological developments of the next decade or so are going to seriously shake many of our preconceived notions regarding the human condition. Failing this Phillip K. Dick esque technognostic futurism, things will probably just keep getting worse forever. Either way, I believe that those with a background in the humanities are also those best posed to make sense of this dawning epoch—or at the very least, present a fitting eulogy. Leadership Transition of the Writing Center The Writing Center has seen a transition of leadership this semester. Dr. Sean Kelly is taking over as advisor as Dr. Chad Stanely retires the position this spring after --- years. The work occuring within the Writing Center is so pivotal to the experience and success of our students’ writing across fields and we are incredibly grateful and excited to see how it evolves moving forward. Welcome, Dr. Kelly! Daniel’s photo accessed on https://www. craiyon.com/ Photos accessed from stock.adobe.com 15 � Issue 17.3: Spring 2023 MANUSCRIPT UPDATE The Manuscript Society is currently accepting submissions for its upcoming 2022-2023 issue! The submission period will be open through 31 March 2023. If you are interested, please submit your work to magazine@wilkes.edu with your Wilkes email. If you would like to learn more about The Manuscript Society or about upcoming Manusript events, please contact magazine@wilkes.edu. You can also stay connected to Manuscript by folloiwing our social media on Facebook (Mauscript @ Wilkes University), Twitter (@ WilkesMag), and Instagram (@wilkes_manuscript_). Writing Center Hours The Writing Center, located in the Alden Learning Commons, is open and offering support to student writers across the Wilkes curriculum. Throughout the Spring 2023 semester The Writing Center is offering in-person as well as online support for all members of the Wilkes community who need writing assistance. Stop by the Alden Learning Commons, or access online support via https://www.wilkes.edu/ academics/english/the-writingcenter/index.aspx For more information, contact: Dr. Chad Stanley email: chad.stanley@wilkes.edu 16 Fall 2023 Upper-Level Class Listings Course Number/Name Date/Time Instructor ENG 201: Writing About Lit & Culture/WGS MWF 12:00-12:50 M 1:00-1:50 Dr. Hamill ENG 202: Technical Writing MWF 9:00-9:50 Prof. Brown ENG 202: Creative Writing MWF 11:00-11:50 Prof. Kovacs ENG 225: Comparative Grammar MW 3:30-4:45 Dr. Stanley ENG 228: Professional/Workplace Writing MWF 1:00-1:50 Prof Mayk ENG 233: Survey of English Lit. II /WGS/&H MWF 10:00-10:50 Dr. Hamill ENG 282: American Lit. II / WGS TR 8:00-9:15 Dr. Kuhar ENG 337: Studies in Am. Romantic Lit TR 1:00-2:15 Dr. Kelly ENG 397: Seminar in Postmodernism TR 9:30-10:45 Dr. Kuhar � 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 The Inkwell Quarterly, 2006-present Description An account of the resource The Inkwell Quarterly is a student-based publication circulated among the Wilkes population as well as prospective students who consider entering the English program. The IQ provides current information about faculty events and students active in the Wilkes’ English program. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Wilkes University's English Department Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available English Department Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Publication 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 Inkwell Quarterly, Spring 2023 (Issue 17.4) 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 Spring 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/6f0121f1d821c690109f0485d2000b89.pdf 081df6b2f3fb3517203f8adfba955d57 PDF Text Text Issue 18.1: Fall 2023 THE INKWELL QUARTERLY Dr. K elly Takes on Two New Roles at Wilkes By Mya Corcoran In This Issue: Dr. Kelly Takes on Two New Roles at Wilkes Upon Loss: An Exercise in Dr. Kelly, a longstanding professor in the Wilkes English Regional Gothic Department, has recently taken on two new roles here at Wilkes. Dr. Kelly has been promoted to Full Professor and has taken over as the Director of So Much for Stardust, So Much the Writing Center. I got the chance to ask Dr. Kelly a few questions about for Me why he took on these roles, what new responsibilities he will have, and what he is most looking forward to as he moves forward in these new positions. Dr. Kelly described the process of becoming a Full Professor as an Reflecting on Reading as “intentionally rigorous, but not altogether unpleasant” process. He a Sacred Practice: explained after about six years of teaching, professors can apply for tenure A Review of Praying with Jane and promotion to Associate Professor. About six or seven years after being Eyre promoted to Associate Professor, they can apply for a promotion to Full Professor. The process for both promotions is similar and involves putting The Art of Finding Friday together a binder that includes teaching evaluations, recent peer-reviewed publications, and evidence of service and involvement in the university. In addition, professors must go through two sets of interviews and write a narrative about their accomplishments and what their career has meant to them. Dr. Kelly noted, “it was satisfying to reflect on the various courses I’ve created and taught, the articles I’ve written (and the impact they have made in the field), and the teaching and mentoring experiences I’ve had (in Manuscript, Sigma Tau Delta, independent studies, etc.).” Now that he has earned the title of Full Professor, Dr. Kelly explained he plans to take on more responsibility as a colleague, continue to work towards the university’s mission, and of course to continue writing and teaching. Dr. Kelly mentioned he genuinely enjoys teaching all of his main courses, but especially likes to teach is ENG 120: Introduction to Literature and Culture because it allows him to teach such a broad range of literature. In the class, he covers works by early American authors like Hawthorne all the way to more contemporary authors like DeLillo and Mukherjee. He also mentioned he really enjoyed teaching a Seminar class on the Uncanny in Literature and a Seminar on Toni Morrison. When asked about why he enjoys teaching English at Wilkes he said, “It’s a lot of fun to work with students who are invested and open to new ideas, and I’ve always been impressed with the goodwill and determination of Wilkes students.” Story Continued on Page 5 1 �The Inkwell Quarterly Upon Loss: An Exercise in Regional Gothic By Lily Hebda Falling somewhere among hardcore, metal, and deathcore depending on who you ask, Knocked Loose are taking the alternative musical community by storm. Currently rounding out an autumn tour with local Scranton band Motionless in White, Knocked Loose are reeling off the June release of their latest EP, Upon Loss: Singles. The tour recently visited local event venue Montage Mountain, playing in the first Scranton Apocalypse Fest. The tracks feature instrumentals that draw inspiration from classic metal tracks combined with distinctively post-hardcore melodies. Vocalist Byran Garris does not shy away from his characteristically brutal sound, delving into harsher, more guttural vocals than perhaps ever before. In addition to Garris’s fast paced melodies, the songs gain additional depth from the inclusion of vocals from guitarist Isaac Hale. However, the band simultaneously explores softer instrumentals, layering gloomy guitar melodies over the final breakdown in “Everything is Quiet Now,” capturing the band’s exploration of a more distinctly personalized sound. Vocalist Bryan Garris at Scranton Apocalypse Fest. Photo courtesy of Kyra Britzke 2 Photo Accessed from Noise Disruption Mag Website Hailing from Louisville, Kentucky, the group have consistently taken lyrical inspiration from their Appalachian roots. This thematic exploration is present in the tracks “Deep in the Willow” and “Everything is Quiet Now.” Comparisons of life and death to a “flowing stream,” foliage as a mausoleum, and references to a visitation by the angel of death contribute to undertones of regional horror. In “Deep in the Willow,” Garris describes local foliage as the “final resting place,” presumably of affluence. Despite clear pride in their hometown, the band clearly express disdain for the social problems and class disparities which emanate from the area. Intersecting themes of natural features and anti aristocratic ideas are expressed again in “Everything is Quiet Now.” Garris describes life as a “flowing stream, poisoned,” once again suggesting the perversion of natural entities- and our appreciation of them- by prejudicial social standards. These elements mark a thematic transition from anger directed towards individuals and specific personal experiences to rage against a shared human experience. Lines referencing being “washed in the blood” and begging “for just a crumb” distinguish organized religion and failing capitalist structures as points of contention. If the lyricism of “Deep in the Willow” and “Everything is Quiet Now” does not evoke images of Appalachian gothic within you, the accompanying music video certainly will. Maintaining their directorial streak, the band’s newest short film is reminiscent of cult horror classics like Children of the Corn. The video is set in natural areas, shot to appear labyrinthine and bleak despite the natural lighting. As the band are chased by scarecrow-like figures in oldsmobiles, the video is cut with shots of contrived patina interiors, conveying � Issue 18.1: Fall 2023 “Upon Loss”: An Exercise in Regional Gothic Continued from Page 2 a centralizing theme of anger toward antiquated systems. These scenes are accompanied by a breakdown which digs into these power structures, declaring them a “king to none.” Garris further laments, “True colors shown/ And I’m not impressed,” a direct dig at the displays of wealth depicted in the video. These lines, when considered in relation to the class structures represented, further solidify the disgust directed towards aristocracy so prevalent in “Deep in the Willow.” The amalgamation of such eerie visuals, aggressive vocals, and direct, unforgiving lyrics culminate in an audio-visual experience perfect for the dreary transition from autumn to winter. Knocked Loose’s latest release is representative of widely shared generational frustration, and Garris articulates this exasperation through biting, bitter lyricism. For those in need of an outlet, Upon Loss: Singles assists in unpacking intergenerational uncertainties, contributing a valuable perspective on such complex issues. So Much for Stardust, So Much for Me By Juliana Lueders Due to the release of Fall Out Boy’s new album So Much for Stardust, I was hit with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. I found an unexpected sense of comfort in returning to my middle school roots and decided to re-listen to Fall Out Boy’s entire discography. These are my thoughts on the band’s progression as a whole and what this new release means to me. What began as a ragtag group of vaguely emo, music-obsessed teens from the Chicago area grew into one of the biggest names of the pop-punk genre. One can feel these rough beginnings in their initial album Take This to Your Grave, produced by Fueled by Ramen. While, at this point, the industry wasn’t ready for this new wave of music the fans were able to carry the band to new heights. The rise in their popularity resulted in a production change to Island Records and the creation of their breakthrough album From Under the Cork Tree. The values of the band began change to Island Records and the creation of their breakthrough album From Under the Cork Tree. The values of the band began to shift as the rough-and-tumble poppunk band had to adjust to major record deals and a growing fanbase. Next came Infinity on High which was the start of growing tension from the fans and within the band itself. This tension reached a breaking point with their sixth album release titled Folie à Deux which was met with backlash and marked the beginning of a four-year break for the group. This later period marked several tonal changes to the music going forward. After this break came the album Save Rock and Roll aptly titled for the band’s return to making music and including featured artists for select songs. The eighth album, Mania, pulled from interesting sources, relying heavily on a more techno sound than what the audience was used to, and, because of that, it was met with mixed reviews. Now, listening to this newest album So Much for Photo Accessed from Spotify Story Continued on Page 7 3 �The Inkwell Quarterly ENGLISH DEPARTMENT FALL PICNIC The Wilkes University English Department Shared Plenty of Conversation, Laughter, Company, and Even More Good Food at the Annual Department Fall Picnic This Past October! 4 � Issue 18.1: Fall 2023 Dr. Kelly Takes on Two New Roles at Wilkes Continuation of Page 1 In addition to becoming a Full Professor, Dr. Kelly has also taken over as Director of the Writing Center. He said he wanted to take on the role because he saw it as “an interesting opportunity and challenge” and his educational background is well-suited to the work. At the University of Pittsburgh where he obtained his M.A. degree, he was mentored by some of the leading composition theorists at the time including David Bartholomae, Mariolina Salvatori, and Nick Coles. Since writing center theory overlaps with process writing theory, he has found his education complements this new role. As the Director of the Writing Center, Dr. Kelly is in charge of training, hiring, and scheduling the peer writing consultants. He has already implemented several changes in the Writing Center including redecorating the center with new posters on the walls and adding a reading corner with a beanbag chair. He has also made changes to the center’s website and some of its procedures. The biggest change he has made as Director is designing a training course, ENG 190 C, that all peer consultants are required to take. In this course, peer consultants learn about writing center methodology, discuss the best approaches to helping students with their writing, and practice providing feedback with the use of sample essays. Right now, Dr. Kelly is working on increasing the Writing Center’s visibility on campus. He has designed and hung informational posters about the center around campus, has created an Instagram account for the center (@wilkesu.wc), and is in the process of designing a new logo. Dr. Kelly explained his vision for the Writing Center logo is a picture of a tree with leaves on top and roots below with the motto “Growth through Writing.” Dr. Kelly explained, “In my mind, this is an apt visual metaphor for what writing is like. So much of the growth is happening in the early stages of the process, during planning, brainstorming, and reading. The metaphor also represents both the inward and outward personal growth that happens through writing. The writing process is both deeply emotional, intellectual, and psychological as well as focused on our representations of our “best”--most coherent, articulate, creative--selves.” Dr. Kelly expressed that he is enthusiastic about taking on this position and its new responsibilities. When asked about what he is most looking forward to this year as the Director of the Writing Center, Dr. Kelly said, “I’m already enjoying working with the peer consultants! As Director, I love all the new challenges and creative opportunities that seem to crop up daily.” Congratulations, Dr. Kelly, on your promotion to Full Professor and new position as Director of the Writing Center. The Wilkes English Department looks forward to seeing your ongoing work and watching you succeed in these new roles! Inkwell Quarterly Staff Jessica Van Orden Editor in Chief Staff Writers Copy Editor Lily Hebda Mya Corcoran Juliana Lueders Molli Mikita 5 �The Inkwell Quarterly Reflecting on Reading as a Sacred Practice: A Rev iew of Praying with Jane Eyre By Mollie Mikita Part memoir, part spiritual guide for readers, Vanessa Zoltan’s Praying with Jane Eyre: Reflections on Reading as a Sacred Practice (now available at Farley Library!) invites us to treat the texts we read as sacred–that is, to engage with the work and ask ourselves how we can apply what we’ve learned from it to our own lives. According to Zoltan, by reading in this way, we learn to treat the characters on the pages we read as neighbors. Neighbors aren’t necessarily those with whom we agree or even like, but we can certainly begin to understand them and their circumstances as if they were our own. In sharing how she approaches the stories of characters on a page, the author weaves in the stories of her own life as the millennial granddaughter of Auschwitz survivors, and how their history of trauma and endurance shapes her own life. As English majors and minors, we are all familiar with the significance of giving close readings to texts in order to find meaning from them. In proposing to treat reading as a sacred practice (at least, in reading the works that we love), Zoltan acknowledges the importance of analyzing text, but she makes a distinction between a close analysis and a sacred analysis. The latter, she demonstrates, doesn’t necessarily reveal the meanings in a text, but it celebrates the close relationship between the characters on the page and the readers of those characters. By treating Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, among other favorite works, as sacred, Zoltan as a reader puts the book’s characters in conversation with her own life. She notes some parallels for us between how she relates to literary characters and how she relates to the people in her life outside of books, allowing an analysis of her own life to inform the analysis of the characters she reads. As a Jewish person, the author embraces both the religious and cultural aspects of Judaism, but spiritually, the traditional prayers don’t bring her peace, only sorrow. Those prayers are the same recitations of the victims of concentration camps, of her family. She associates the idea of the receiver of those prayers with the horrors that the victims of the Holocaust endured. Putting a sacred lens on non-religious texts, then, offers the reader room to renew their spirits in places other than traditional religious texts and spaces, as Zoltan points out. Reading Jane Eyre as sacred allows her to find the magic in characters whom she did not expect to see in that way. Treating characters on the page as sacred, Zoltan argues, allows us to also treat those around us–off the page–as sacred, too. She points out that another part of treating reading as a sacred practice then, is getting together with other readers of the text and discussing your ideas of the text with them, as we might in class. In highlighting the importance of gathering with other readers, I believe Zoltan confirms the notion that Kirby Hall is a sacred space! Perhaps you’ve read Jane Eyre in one of your English classes, but even if you haven’t read it at all, Zoltan provides enough context of the literature with which she engages for the reader to gain a sense of the sacredness of the characters. Her 6 Photo Accessed from Amazon � Issue 18.1: Fall 2023 So Much for Stardust, So Much for Me Continued from Page 3 Stardust I feel as though I am returning home and traveling somewhere new all at once. It is a return to form revitalizing the grungy sound of their early years while also being lightened by their newer style as they pair heavy guitars with catchy synths. It is slowly joining the ranks as a fan favorite which is heartwarming to see. I didn’t expect new music from a band that means so much to me. I was content being stuck in my nostalgia and listening to the classics over and over. But this new album pushes reality to the forefront and it is new and comforting and everything I could have hoped for. The specifics of this discussion perhaps won’t mean a lot to the majority of people. Early 2000s poppunk music isn’t everyone’s jam, but there’s a deeper part of this conversation that I’m hoping to get at. That is, the idea of coming to terms with changes brought by time and that these changes and their effects can take shape in ways you don’t consider until you are confronted by them; that’s what this new album is for me. It was a revelation that came from listening to the new music of an old friend, and suddenly I was no longer a college senior about to graduate. I was a despondent and angry seventh-grader who just moved to a new state and was beginning a new school. I am no longer that girl but I can still love and find comfort in the same things that brought her joy then. I’ve been trying to convince myself to be less afraid of change and this album feels like a pretty compelling argument to me. So, even in my search for new experiences and opportunities and new music, I will hold on to the things that made me what I am and will continue to hum a familiar tune. Reflecting on Reading as a Sacred Practice: A Review of Praying with Jane Eyre continued from page 6 reflections on the text of Jane Eyre encourage me to reread it in a way that I hadn’t before. Specifically, I’d like to see if my perceptions of any characters broaden or change based on whether I can recognize any of their flaws– or strengths!–in myself, and whether that recognition allows me to feel a greater sense of solidarity or empathy with their plight. I might find that I can no longer tolerate what I once found forgivable in a character, but I am most curious about whether I might start to relate to any character that I found so different from myself in previous readings. I began reading Praying with Jane Eyre at the end of September, and submit this review in the midst of turmoil inflicted upon citizens of Israel and Palestine. The proposal to put a spiritual lens on texts, and by extension, everyone around us seems especially significant today. As students and scholars of literature, we engage with perspectives that are often outside of our own, but we work to connect to at least some part of their story, which naturally deepens our sense of empathy and understanding. In encouraging us to treat reading as a sacred practice, Vanessa Zoltan’s work does a wonderful job in highlighting the importance of the the positive influence we can make in each other’s lives and the lens with which we can strive to see each other: not with a perfect scientific lens to reveal each other’s flaws, but a spiritual lens that offers others our grace and compassion. 7 �The Inkwell Quarterly The Ar t of Finding Friday By Jessica Van Orden As a spiced chill air fills the lungs, climbing in through the nose to slide gently down the throat and settle deep within the chest, I find myself on the precipice of sweet denial before stumbling crookedly in some cavernous crack that had been waiting for me since I first woke. I am sure that you are no stranger to this moment I now descend within. The fingers move faster than the brain, tapping lightly against one another, flouncing through the air, grasping, as they try to rectify the loss that has just occurred between one moment prior and one moment soon. It is not, in fact, Thursday but Friday. The last Friday that I have to prepare my precise mode of attack for the mountain of work that I have as midterms arrived. A middle of term that, might I say, seemed to materialize before I could truly cement what postmodernism is beyond that extremely exciting Sunday crossword-type feel where you are consistently walking the line between I’ve got it and That’s not even a clue. At first, reader, you may think to yourself that joy is soon to follow. The weekend has packed up early and decided to grant me one singular peace in the wake of paper, electronic, and even skin-jotted scheduling to plop me into the weekend a day sooner than I had believed. Gone will be the extra drive, closed will be the books, and one more hour of morning snooze can be bought. Except, dear reader, I have never been that good at scheduling, you see. Perhaps you too are not, in which case, I expect you see the realization before those who have always been more gifted than I at delineating their goals and deadlines may: I’m toast. I hope, among a horde of those who have chosen to dive into the introspective, engaging, and fantastical world of literature for the multi-volume work of their own lives, you will enjoy the chaotic enlightenment that this weekend has afforded. I found, once I had uncovered the literal mountain of papers, texts, and critiques that I had amassed in my work, a true depth in looking at my work side by side. I found that the ways in which two completely different periods conversed with one another in my head made me see things in an entirely new light. Two classes that I had once sworn I couldn’t bridge the distance between (at least in terms of what they said and what I could understand) seemed to dance together on the page. I must step back, for a moment, to explain how this semester has been challenging the way I have approached not how I write, well not that alone, but how I read. Along with being in my senior year and considering my work in undergraduate so far in preparation of my capstone, I have begun my graduate work, pursuing an MA in creative writing with the Maslow program at Wilkes. It sounds dramatic, but it feels unfathomable that all that I have learned about writing in a few short weeks has helped me be a better reader through how these authorial voices break apart their practices. This exploration into the ways I approach reading has been strengthened by that phantom of my earlier quandry, postmodernity and its literature. Both of these influences have centered the reader in some capacity, placing the responsibility of meaning on their shoulders. Within the writing program, we have investigated how distance and unreliability can influence the ways in which your reader approaches a character. These practices have examined the intentional manipulations of a reader’s connotations a writer can create by choices of syntax, diction, and voice to mold the tone of the piece that they want. One aspect of this writing that has been expanded on so thoroughly that it almost feels like a new tool is how a writer manipulates a point of view to create distance or alter the mood. I had always 8 Photo Accessed from Adobe Stock � Issue 18.1: Fall 2023 The Ar t of Finding Friday Continuation of Page 8 left the consideration at whose eyes am I, the reader, seeing through. Yet, in the section, we have discussed how a certain perspective may allow a story to continue past a conceived ending. The way the implement distance, possibly shifting from an over-the-shoulder view for a deeper, omniscient internal perspective of the character allows a different type of conflict the be built in the role of the reader. The author may shift between the two, granting a cold, distancing space to form an air of mystery around their character to make the readers question their actions or the motivations behind them—even while they have omniscient knowledge in other aspects. I always considered this push and pull of the focalizing elements to be solely at the hands of the author. I would come away believing what I did about a character, largely, because that was how they were shaped by their author. Even in situations where an antagonizing character became accessible, making them more likable, I considered this to be the control of the author once more. However, as a writer, we cannot always control how the experiences of our readers will come to shape the way they view our implementations of distance. This is a conversation that was stoked within the discussions concerning a Chekov piece we read in my graduate course on the foundations of fiction writing. One of the critical pieces we read posited that the triviality of the situation was the larger moral lessons to be learned, not by the characters per se, but the audience themselves. In the story, a young protagonist who was often hidden from frame though ever present is slighted by the pride of an adult. It is a lesson that the readership is equally culpable in the enacting for they were dismissive of the boy due to the distance enacted. Yet, how a reader approaches the story means that their experience and consideration of the events engender an infinite possibility of meanings, as their own experiences influence how they pick up the book. This is where I found myself when sitting down on the Thursday that was not Thursday but actually Friday, attempting to formulate a thesis for my postmodern research paper. Postmodernism has been an intriguing journey, especially as a senior at the end of my stretch. For it is like running face first, smack, into a false finish line. That sounds harsh, and I mostly do not mean it to sound so. I truly think if I had about twenty more years to sit down in our classroom and hear the ways in which postmodernism refutes, questions, probes, and deconstructs, I would come to grasp the ungraspable. Yet, as I sat with it this weekend, and continue to do so within our classes, I am coming to see the inherent importance in causing your readership to question in an age of content curation. In my study of the library field, one I wish to enter upon completing my masters, I have become more aware of how question and perseverance are smothered within our daily lives. I would argue that the gift of instant gratification, the world so to speak at our fingertips, has left us reliant upon our contentment. Again, I don’t mean this as a critique of the external, for I find myself settling for the first nearly credible information I can feel comfortable reciting or referencing to others most of the time. However, postmodernism has shown me that occurrence within the system of language and meaning on a new level that permeates the structures of our identity. In our last class before break, Dr. Kuhar mentioned the necessity and privilege of fun within postmodernism, which felt counterintuitive at the time. How can something that attempts to dissect the vital frames of society that are designed to corral and hinder people’s upward mobility be addressed in any way that is fun? And then I thought of the reader’s role. Postmodern Story Continued on Page 11 9 �The Inkwell Quarterly Fall into a Fine Dish: Recipes Inspired by the Books! Hogsmeade Jane Eyre’s Butterbeer Seed Cake 4 cans cream soda || 1/4 c. butterscotch syrup 1 c. heavy cream || 2 tbsp. sugar 2 tsp. pure vanilla extract || 1/4 c. melted butter Directions: Step 1 In a large bowl, combine cream soda and butterscotch syrup and stir. Step 2 In a stand mixer fitted with a whisk attachment, beat cream until stiff peaks form. Fold in sugar and vanilla extract, then melted butter until no longer streaky. (Add more butter if desired). Step 3 Ladle Butterbeer into glasses and top with whipped cream mixture. 10 Photo Accessed on Pipanddebby.com 3/4 cup butter, softened || 2 TBS caster sugar 3 large eggs, beaten || 3 tsp caraway seeds 1 1/2 cups flour; plus 1tbp pinch salt || 1 tsp baking powder 1 TBS ground almonds || 1 TBS milk Oven at 350 , Directions: Cream Butter and Sugar until smooth. Beat in Eggs, one at a time. Sift in dry ingrediants seperatly. Stir in the Almonds and Seeds. Mix wet and dry ingrediants together. Line loaf pan with butter. Bake the dish for 4550 minutes. Photo Accessed on Pinterest.com � Issue 18.1: Fall 2023 The Ar t of Finding Friday Continuation of Page 9 literature, from what I understand it to be—in the halfway point of an infant’s experience—seeks to unnerve and confuse the reader so that they must make the meaning. It is a highly questionable process, in my own opinion, for the premise of this in postmodernity is that, for a truly engaged reader to be born, the role of the author must die. This line of thought is the work of Roland Barthes, a postmodern theorist who proposed that a text possesses no meaning until the reader has formed one themself. I find this to be both settling and distancing to the ways that I have always envisioned books as bridges of experience that enable us as readers to grow as more empathetic, knowledgeable global citizens. There are experiences that I will never truly understand, for I cannot live them; however, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t understand that experience in some form and learn what that experience means through the voice of the person who lived it. I also do not think that this idea is inherently linked to nonfiction, which I am not certain was a condition of Barthes’s premise, but meaning, nonetheless, would have to be imbued within the story through the experience of the writer. There is still the importance of the reader grasping and making that meaning, so that it can do something, for lack of a better sentiment. It needs to be so seeped within the literature itself that it comes away onto the hands of the reader and further moves through what they, we, touch. This is where I am at, amid scattered mountains of worksheets and notes, pictures and texts, finally coming to see how these two schools of thought and practice come together. For a great many important things were being discussed—most still relevant today—by postmodern authors during their time. Topics that were pivotal for the readership to work for themselves in order to see the importance they carried in breaking them open to interrogating them. They focused on the binaries of language and power structures, where the innate inference is that one must be understood in comparison to the other for the system of meaning to make sense. It rang out as a critique of its restricting, narrowing properties that, just as the work of enlightened thinkers before them, those who seek to maintain their structures of power rely upon a people content in their placidity. Postmodern work sought to shake the masses from their cobwebs, from the simulation of meaning, but not hold their hand with it. Where I had once poisoned the well, so to speak, told myself I could never comprehend the work of these minds, I realized that part of the process required my efforts as well. There is meaning imbued within the work naturally by the voice that spends so much time with it; however, it is the work of us, as readers, to decipher and grant meaning to it. This understanding removed some of the self-imposed distance I gave to topics where I did not already see the meaning, where I hadn’t yet worked for it. Moreover, it granted me a revived sense of my engagement with the literature, recognizing it as a conversation between the writer and myself as much as it was between the characters. I should say that when I sat down to write this piece I was moved by the personal accounts or experiences those of the Inkwell staff have shared before. It was those articles depicting the joys that arose from my fellow peers that afforded me that middle-of-the-relay drive. I love a good thick novel as much as the next English feller, but when you think of that ten-page research paper sitting on the stack, or the creative peer work that is waiting for you on LIVE, it is easy to forget the drive that pulled you to this field of work to pull yourself ahead, even momentarily. However, when I took those moments to sit within their experience, hear their insights, and note their advice, I found that they became the image of that partner, near feet ahead. That’s probably not the best analogy for this experience, maybe put the whole metaphor in reverse, but, the takeaway was this: remember the intention of the degree. It was our engagement within the work, and for me personally, building upon my response to the text by the experience in the response of others. The English program has always been, to me, one that builds a community equally by the shared moments of wait, what does that mean?, as it does when the intimate lived experience of each reader sharpens the soul of the book together. 11 � Issue 17.3: Spring 2023 MANUSCRIPT UPDATE The Manuscript Society is currently accepting submissions for its upcoming 2023-2024 issue! The submission period will be open through 31 March 2024. If you are interested, please submit your work to magazine@wilkes.edu with your Wilkes email. If you would like to learn more about The Manuscript Society or about upcoming Manusript events, please contact magazine@wilkes.edu. You can also stay connected to Manuscript by folloiwing our social media on Facebook (Mauscript @ Wilkes University), Twitter (@ WilkesMag), and Instagram (@wilkes_manuscript_). Writing Center Hours The Writing Center, located in the Alden Learning Commons, is open and offering support to student writers across the Wilkes curriculum. Throughout the Fall 2023 semester The Writing Center is offering inperson as well as online support for all members of the Wilkes community who need writing assistance. Stop by the Alden Learning Commons, or access online support via https://www.wilkes.edu/ academics/english/the-writingcenter/index.aspx For more information, contact: Dr. Sean Kelly email: sean.kelly@wilkes.edu 12 Spring 2024 Upper-Level Class Listings Course Number/Name Date/Time Instructor ENG 202: Technical Writing MWF 9:00-9:50 Prof. Brown ENG 234: Survey of English Lit. II TR 1:00-2:15 Dr. Davis ENG 281: Survey of American Lit. I TR 3:00-4:15 Dr. Kelly ENG 303: Adv. Workshop in Creative Writ. TR 4:30-5:45 Dr. Hicks ENG 324: Hist. of the English Language MWF 10:00-10:50 Dr. Hamill ENG 340: Studies in Chaucer MWF 12:00-12:50 Dr. Hamill ENG 392: Senior Projects Dr. Anthony ENG 397: Seminar: Queer Lit. & Theory Dr. Davis TR 9:00-10:15 � 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 The Inkwell Quarterly, 2006-present Description An account of the resource The Inkwell Quarterly is a student-based publication circulated among the Wilkes population as well as prospective students who consider entering the English program. The IQ provides current information about faculty events and students active in the Wilkes’ English program. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Wilkes University's English Department Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available English Department Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDFs Language A language of the resource English Type The nature or genre of the resource Publication 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 Inkwell Quarterly, Fall 2023 (Issue 18.1) 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 Fall 2023 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource PDF Type The nature or genre of the resource Publication