1

2
5 “Alive” 16 Drawing
Shelby Dunn Aaron Viramontes
17 Drawing
6 “1789” Ken Lew
Megan Waters Photography
“The Price of Life” Justine Kudla
Kane McKeown
18 Photography
7 “The Three Girls” Maya Swartz
Katie Bern
“The Apologetic Stare” 19 Bookmaking
Samantha Dietel Amelia Moreno
Bookmaking
8 “Beautiful Disaster” Angie Helwich
Hilary Vander Sanden
20-21 Photography
9 “The Cheese that Sets My Heart Ashley Patnett
Aflame”
Danielle Malloy 22 Senior Seminar/web Design
Jordan Groll
10 “Love: Contextualized”
Sammi Powers 23 Mixed Media
Jen Szalko
11 “The Rose Cutter”
Steven M. Harper 24 Painting
“Keyboard Caliphate” Leah Murphy
Daniel Carroll
25 Digital illustration
12 “At The Clinic” brian sykes
Kathleen Bucsanyi collage
brett ratajczak
13-14 “Small Town Witch I & II”
Megan Waters 26 Photography
maya Swartz
15 Graphic Design
Andrea Bernardi
Ceramics
Jade Braden

3
27 drawing 33 “All We Ever Find”
Jennifer Szalko Devon Ross
28 Painting
Erica Bartley 34 “Authorial Intrusion”
Painting Samantha Dietel
ANDREA MOORE “Graduation”
Kathleen Bucsanyi
29 drawing 35 “Memories”
Leah Murphy Rachel Monahan
drawing
ken lew 36 “I solved the world’s
30 Photography problem…”
Jordan Groll Danielle Knoff
illustration “Essence of Transience”
erica bartley Rachel Monahan
31 Painting
ROMISHA TAYLOR 37 “Perseverance: A Zombie Tale”
Ceramics Molly Caldera
Marichu Gonzales
Flannery SHannonv 38 “October 16, 1807”
Paola Gonzales Stephen Zahradnik
“Boy”
32 Ceramic Tiles Jamie Marquez
Brittnae Brasfield
Flannery Shannon 39 “The drama is all Greek to me”
Jade Braden Megan Waters
Jordan Groll “The Colors of Your Life”
Joanne Hill Janeen Wilkey
Justine Kudla
Kathleen Murphy 40 “Black Women”
Lisa Guardiola Shannel McLaurin
Marissa Finazzo “Winter Stepsister”
Marichu Gonzalez Jennifer Dalla Betta
Maggie Noffke
Meghan Sutherby
Paola Bianca Gonzalez

Sergio Gonzalez
Tara Reed
Alive
Shelby Dunn

Jump. Fall. Die.

But the image of death was never imminent. I knew what it felt like to climb. I knew what it felt like to jump and fall. But
death was an experience I had yet to grasp.
That’s what I imagined whenever I looked at that pale green refrigerator. I never liked it, but I loved the color. It was pulled
out from a time machine with that fifties conformity and commodity – appliances of all sorts were that color in that day and age. I
saw myself climbing to the very top of that icebox.
I heard my mother talk about the news once. I can’t recall if I made it up or not. If it was a real memory. But I do remember
vividly imagining that girl’s death. I imagined the girl as she jumped from the tell surface and landed on a broom, perfectly in place
to impale her from the pelvis. Just as Frieda Kahlo had been impaled. And impaled even after. But for this girl, there was no surviving,
no life of meaning afterwards. No midnight affairs with anyone after such an incident. No life.
Such a strange refrigerator it was. In its stately yellow-green obtrusion. I never liked it. But I was curious. Very curious.
About that now freshly reaped young lady. I was curious as to how I would die. And often envisioned a similar, if not parallel, death.
I refused to freeze to death just as my mother had frozen that earwig. A creature that I now fear, that I had once looked
upon in vain curiosity. So resilient. We couldn’t crush it. So Mother put it in a Ziploc baggie filled with water. Placed it inside the
empty icebox. I returned daily to see whether the earwig remained alive. And with every strained and meticulous perusal I found that
it had remained unchanged. Frozen in time, but unchanged. Death had not brushed his fatal hands upon the resilient insect. I wanted
to be maimed. Let Death wrap his arms around it, around me. I wanted to stand up to Death, deny Fear. Deny Death’s inevitable
status. Stand up to him. Survive or die in a gruesome, apparent way. Either win big or lose big. I’d find out which soon enough.
One day I had even tried to climb to the top of that sickly green refrigerator. I couldn’t pull myself upon the counter. Too
small. Too short. I vowed that once I started preschool I would attempt again. Maybe then I would be tall enough.
Preschool: I honor my vow. I climb up the counter. Success. I reach for the top of the minty refrigerator. I already feel myself
falling. I clutch the empty air halfway between the fridge and the counter. Tighter. I feel my insides falling outside my body like ghost
organs.
My body is frozen still from the rush of my blood, the flush of blood pressure. I am empty. I am unfeeling, separated. I am
nothing.
I wake myself up. Snap back to life. I look at the top of that radiating jadeite refrigerator. It’s too warm. Too tall. And I am
too big to fit between the fridge and ceiling. No leverage to jump.
Oh well. I turn around. Cautiously placing my foot along the cabinet door ledge. Quietly, silently lower myself to the floor.
There I regain feeling. Pick up my ghost organs. Grab the air around me and fill my empty shell up again with the heat generated off
the working refrigerator. I am alive. And Death had gotten the better of me. Sent his ally, Fear, to do his dirty work. Death, scrawny,
skeletal Death. Hiding behind large, enveloping, passionate Fear. He does your dirty work. We pay the price.
Don’t worry Death. John Donne knew you well, knows you better now. We are quite acquainted. Death be not proud, he said.
Do not believe this is a victory. In the process, you have only lost your commission. I wonder what is better than that advantageous,
now fleeting, opportunity. Ashamed to be seen without me putting up a fight? Me so willing. Ashamed that I was so willing to do the
job for you, let you stand helpless on the sidelines like a coach with a renegade player. Like Agamemnon watching his capricious
Achilles.
What does the future hold for me, dear Death? A life indeed. An aware life since I have already caught your eye. Maybe you
are looking for a more rewarding commission from me. If so, I am sorry to inform you I regret this missed opportunity. For Death, you
are not the only agent of this dealing. For Death, one day, you too will die.

5
 1789
Megan Waters

O, did it ever shine so bright –

It’s burning!
A revolution in the stars

It tears down the walls

Of the sky
& resolution is disconcerting

And though it all seems so far away

The rabble rousers will have you remember
This alignment

Every condensed Sun

& guiding moon –
A call to arms

“Give us freedom,” they say,

It storms thru my veins
“We’re taking it”

Pamphlets are equally distributed –

Devoured, discarded
& some have met the guillotine

I anxiously await my bellicose stars

For every time the sun glares in my eyes
It’s like a new Bastille is rising

The Price of Life

Kane McKeown

I think I see,
What I think to be,
The dream of a simple man.
But when it is in fact to me
The thing I forever had in hand!
The things I hold; the things he –
He with other would together band
To scheme and plot to scorch the land
Till found these things with joy and glee;
Are as dull to me as they are bland.
Not precious to me at all, you see!
For I was born into fortune and
Now know and so sadly can about wealth agree;
It is the evil and arrogance in men, you and I, we.

6
The Three Girls
Katie Bern

Composed of three
Always different
Personalities contrast
Mostly harmonious
Dramatic at times
Girls they are
Sisters, of course
Oldest, middle, youngest
Ideas clashing
Fights starting
Tears streaming
And words flying
One comforts
While one cries
And the guilty one remains clueless
A functioning family?
Perhaps not
But abounding in love.

THE APOLOGETIC STARE

Samantha Dietel

On the screened-in porch, Mary

Is pouring hot black coffee
Into a mug. Out the window, Mike
and she make brief, silent eye contact,
as he then takes a pull of his beer, drains it,
and tosses it into the trashcan behind him.
The Coors settles his nerves from their early morning fight,
when she complained about his attitude
and his not returning her calls.
He really needed that beer, maybe another.
Feminists make him drink.
Mary’s coffee mug is pearly white
in her tanned hands as she takes a tiny sip.
Her eyes search Mike’s profile. Feeling guilty,
she dumps her coffee into the sink and disappears into the kitchen.
Mike sighs, feeling the weight of Mary’s eye subside,
then tenses again, but only momentarily
as he feels the cold of a beer bottle pressed into his palm.
He takes in her apologetic stare as he raises the Coors to his lips.
Back to normal.

7
 Beautiful Disaster
Hilary Vander Sanden

Scarves, handbags, and wallets in every shape and size,

Jewelry everywhere glistening with silver and gold.
A Tiffany’s box with a little surprise,
She always dresses so damn bold.

Shoes of every color and type,

Jeans hanging up to be dried.
Her pink computer ready to Skype,
Shoe laces that need to be tied.

Containers packed with nail polishes and make-ups,

Hoodies covering the floor.
A garbage can full of Starbucks’ cups,
This shopper just wants more.

Skinny jeans with a purple pump,

A tee with Marilyn’s smile.
Living like she was a Trump,
Only worked for a little while.

The image in the mirror is only a lie,

As her heart begins to beat faster.
Her own reflection makes her cry,
She’s simply a beautiful disaster.

8
The Cheese that Sets My Heart Aflame
Danielle Malloy

I felt like a dog with a Beggin’ Strip being dangled in front of its nose. My mouth was salivating as I watched each dish pass by
me, all looking better than the rest: dolmades (stuffed grape leaves), spanakopita (spinach pie), pastichio (the Greek equivalent of
lasagna), moussaka (layers of eggplant, meat, and cheese) – everything smelled as if it had been flame-roasted by the thunderbolt
of Zeus himself.
As my older brother reached over my plate with his olive oil-smeared fingers for his sixth piece of crusty sesame bread,
I saw it round the kitchen corner. The noisy, crowded Greek Islands restaurant suddenly seemed so peaceful as our waiter glided
over with his bounty. At this point I had a one-track mind; I could almost taste the delicious lemony tang on the saganaki (flaming
cheese) that he was about to ignite. It was slow motion as he poured the tiny shot of ouzo onto the then-lifeless rectangle of cheese,
when suddenly a chorus of “Opa!!” rang through the air as he lit the cheese on fire, flaming it to crispy, gooey perfection and finally
dousing the flame with a generous squeeze of lemon. My nose and ever-patient taste buds had been jolted back into reality; it was
time to feast. As I forked my portion of saganaki onto my plate (why my family of five ordered only one dish is beyond me), I suddenly
felt a little skeptical: all this anticipation for what? A little square of stinky cheese that’s been soaked with some weird, licorice-
flavored liquor, then lit on fire?! Maybe it’s just me, but I thought fire in the kitchen was generally a bad thing? It took about the time
from plate to fork to mouth for me to conjecture all of this, but by the time I actually took my first bite, I was sold.
All of my previous memories of saganaki had not failed me; the crispy, flaky outside, so perfectly salty and lemony, gave
way to the warm, oozing inside, all of which seemed to meld together in a way that makes you think about the love that goes into your
food. Someone was willing to risk his eyebrows being torched off just so I could enjoy this food of the gods. Sadly, as quickly as it
had begun, it was over, and I ached for more. Aha! There was one piece left, but before I could even open my mouth to ask if anybody
wanted to split it, my younger brother skewered it with his fork and popped it in his mouth. He did it so fast that you could have
blinked and missed it, but I sure as hell caught it, and I was mad. He didn’t even have the courtesy to ask if anyone else wanted it?!
“He’s five,” my mom said, rolling her eyes at me, and I realized that maybe I was being a bit irrational, especially seeing that I had
another mouthwatering course on the way.
I was satiated for the time being with the saganaki, but I got my second wind as soon as my dinner was laid in front of me.
“Lamb Rosamarina for you,” said Niko, as he placed the five-pound plate in front of me, doubtless thinking that my eyes were too big
for my stomach (he was probably right). The beautiful loin of lamb was steaming in a bed of moist orzo noodles, all drenched in what
can only be described as pure sin: béchamel sauce (basically butter and lamb drippings. Yeah.). The minute I touched my fork to
the lamb, it immediately slithered off the bone. As I lifted the forkful to my mouth, I inhaled the hearty aroma of the Greek season-
ings, and I hoped that the dish would taste half as good as it smelled. I finally took my first bite, and the lamb was so tender that I
barely had to chew it. I thought the phrase “melt in your mouth” was only applicable to M&M’s and other bite-sized chocolate goods,
but now I knew that lamb could also fit into the category. In this moment, my eyes met with my mother’s, and we exchanged a silent
but telling understanding that this was the kind of food we were meant for. (I now understand why I associate most with my Greek
heritage, despite the fact that I am only 25% Greek and roughly 60% Irish: corned beef and cabbage just don’t hold the same gusto
as flaming cheese and tender, succulent lamb.) The orzo (rice-shaped pasta) that served as a pillowy haven for the lamb was just as
good – perfectly smooth, buttery, and cooked to al dente perfection. It served as the consummate complement to the excess bits of
tender lamb and decadent sauce. Unfortunately, my stomach finally caught up with my mind, and after about 10 bites, I had to call
it quits. It killed me to have to refuse baklava for dessert, but I had eaten myself into a state of food-induced comatose, and I had to
throw in the towel before I would have to be carried out on a stretcher.
Ten years later, these Greek dishes still hold the same mystique for me, whether served at the Greek Islands, Pegasus, or
even if we foray into some home cooking (note: saganaki… not such a good idea in a kitchen with curtains). At this point in my
life, I’ve probably consumed over 75 orders of saganaki, but my stomach still lurches with excitement each time I yell “Opa!” as my
favorite dish ignites.

9
 LOVE: CONTEXTUALIZED
Sammi Powers

We never knew each other outside the context of winter coats.

Stiff cocoons of green, army issue, water-proof fabric lined with finely quilted batting encased in olive green polyester or
his felt-like pea coat with a faux satin lining and bright plastic buttons, his collar upturned in the absence of a scarf, which held us,
padded from harsh Chicago winds, City of Big Shoulders, Windy City, my ears eaten bitterly by the tiny pinpricks of wind through my
thin hat.
I remember his hat—red and blue wool with a fleece lining and flaps that pulled down over his ears—the hat I borrowed
on the float at the South Side Irish Parade when tiny March snowflakes clung to the wool of the hat and the ends of my hair. I didn’t
return that hat until after Easter.
The spring startled us apart. Without out coats, thick and warm, we were vulnerable and our feelings too close to the sur-
face of our thin, translucent skin. In the gentle coaxing of April air my heartbeat could be seen clearly in my wrist, pattering quickly
when he moved his chair closer to mine in our small, shared office.
“Jeopardy is on,” he would say, breath tickling the small hairs on the back of my neck as he reached around me to grab the
remote—3:30, time for a break. The first few times we watched the quiz show I sat quietly at my desk, trying to answer my e-mails
and sort through my charts. But when he said, “It’s not as much fun to play this by myself,” I found myself vying for his attention with
right answers and sly comments.
Before my veins betrayed me, there was no embarrassment. Long sleeves covered the rapid expansion and contraction of
my heart pushing blood through my body, and my coat held in all the warmth my body leaked out. On a Friday night we stood on the
“L” platform and my teeth chattered; they clacked loudly in my head, a rapid tattoo of the wind sneaking in through the side of my
canvas sneakers. He moved closer to me, put an arm around my shoulders, and rubbed his gloved hand along my shoulder. It was just
hours earlier on the rush-hour crowded Blue Line that he’d pressed his chest against my back, his hand on my arm, to help steady me
against the stops and starts of the lurching train. I’d wanted that hand on my waist, my hip, searching for me underneath the bulk of
our winter wear. There was no more of that, though.
In the spring time I took to wearing cardigans to hide the pulse in my wrist. I swept my hair back. I tried to hide myself. He
was transferring. February was forgotten. Gone were train rides where he held me back to show me when we passed his high school,
when he would posture defensively to keep other boys away, when he would tell me about the first time he rode the train by himself.
No longer could I inch my hand toward his across my lap.
On the last day before he left, we got the new Death Cab for Cutie CD. O drove him home that night, listening to the album
and the soft turning of his head as he watched the other cars speed past us. Ben Gibbard sang a song about the thaw of spring ruin-
ing a relationship, and all I could begin to consider was the absence of my coat. I had the windows rolled down and the May breeze
twisted around my neck, tightening, making me wish for a biting wind to nip this sadness away. I never wanted my bare skin to touch
his—only gloved hands or palms against the rough coats of winter.
We never did know each other out of the context of winter coats.

10
THE ROSE CUTTER
Steven M. Harper

The laceration is fresh,

Did you enjoy it?
Tears trickle down the stems
Of what was once…Whole.

A new life for every thorn

Pierces through the flesh,
Down to the soul.

From the bud blooms

The scarlet that bleeds,
Consumed by passion.
Each petal a heart
That wilts.

Did you enjoy it?

I understand…
She is beautiful,
No!
She was.

Keyboard Caliphate
Daniel Carroll

I have dedicated myself in the last two or so days

To an elevated presence in the world of Facebook.

Let my wit and general self-indulgence shine on this unholy land

Like a steadily burning lamp in the darkest of hell’s soot-colored nights.

I have churned out of softly aching silos,

The phantasms that have crept in solitude up the legs of your jelly insides

To hang out on a white screen, delicately embroidered there

A shame-colored instance of a whole self deconstructed in a velvety new way.

Let it be known, oh pilgrim, oh traveler, oh sojourning tapper of keys,

That I find myself loving myself more and more

The more and more I coerce the numbers in my computer into words about me
And mold the Starry Sphere that precedes the Elysium

Into the lightning strike neurons that precede the crackling and stinking City of God.

11
 At the Clinic
Kathleen Bucsanyi

The room was full of plastic chairs. They were a funny faded orange color, and the metal legs were tarnished and rusty. They had seen
better days, just like the people sitting on them. I chose one in the back corner, furthest away from the front desk where the foreign
receptionist sat collecting the insurance cards.

It was crowded, the air smelled like stale sweat, and yet, it was frigid in there. The girl to my right had a nursing book and spiral open
on her lap. Her head was down and her short blonde bob had fallen over her face. Her pen moved ferociously as she took notes, never
pausing to look up from her work. I wished I had brought something to keep me that busy.

Several other girls sat near the door. They were all silent and slumped down in their orange chairs, as if sliding lower would help them
disappear from this whole situation. Their hands were folded in their laps and their glassy eyes glued to Oprah, who was live on the
small boxy TV mounted on the wall.

We were all wearing sweatpants. When I had made the appointment, the lady on the phone had told me to dress “comfortably” as if I
were scheduling some overnight retreat at the YMCA.

The people outside began to yell and shout again. I looked out the cloudy window to see them waving their giant Jesus posters and
screaming threats of eternal damnation. A petite Asian girl and an older man, who appeared to be her father, rushed through the
doors. She was the youngest for sure, probably not even out of high school. They took their seats and stared down at their shoes, no
doubt trying to avoid the judgment we were all passing at that moment. Not that any of us had the right to; we were all in the same
boat. Or rather, the same cold, orange chair-filled room.

My attention wandered to the barren white walls. They had a yellowish tinge to them, fitting in perfectly with the aged and disre-
garded décor. There was a long jagged crack next to me, running from the baseboard up to the ceiling. I followed it with my eyes, but
then grew nauseous.

The receptionist continued to call out names, which were barely recognizable amidst her heavy accent. One at a time the girls made
their way up to her desk. I watched them dig through their pockets and purses and pull out wads of crumpled bills to pass over to her
anxious open hand. Then, in turn, they each disappeared with a green coated behind a heavy wooden door.

I leaned over in an attempt to catch a glimpse of what was back there. I saw a gurney covered by a blue sheet. People wearing scrub
caps and surgical masks stood around it. The door slammed shut and the nausea hit again.

The chubby, dark haired girl in front of me suddenly stood up. When she turned around, I saw streams of tears running down her face.
She grabbed for her coat and abruptly scurried out the front door. Applause erupted from the people with the Jesus posters. The rest
of us re-crossed our legs as the receptionist erased her name off the list.

She summoned me up next. The door opened and the nurse appeared to take me back. Get in, get out, get on with life, I silently
repeated to myself as I took one last deep breath. Just like he had.

12
small town witch
Megan Waters
I

Amid the hiss of the snare

and the call of the horn
the response is this:
Be aware [Beware!] you could miss…
“Come and take my pain away”
The strain and slide of strings –

sudden stops-beats-pulses
take a second
to gather
(smiling face melting, dripping absentmindedly charming;
scatterbrain sketches take shape in
the laugh lines)
(whodunit feral abandon voiced strong craze of heat from flustered
petal-chapped lips)
trembling feverish zealots (street angel lying on the curb,
cars clamor by drenched [sweat&tears]
met w/ expletive
& distracted delusion)
giggling eyes [belladonna irises sullied by crack whore smears] betray –
pipe dream –
misconstrued syllables&syntax;
moonshine wide eyes ask little [intricate simplicities]
mad love - the minutiae of mania are all on their own

feet stomp eagerly

to the sounds of
A tarantella mind
& wild heart
Delirium
terpsichores line up - then turnabout
scatter…
rock a little
trip light the fantastic
toe-tappin’
fais battre ton tambour

13
 small town witch
II

Oh, if only I could shove

all this in a music box –
pins [needles] on a revolving [door] cylinder
that strike[out] tuned [primed&readytogo]
teeth(ing)[bared for battle]
of a comb – to disentangle the snarls
that ruin the mass of curlie quesies –
but, the design of the vein [sang coursing violet&blue]
in a metal plate (like the one
residing in my head- barrier?)
to keep out the noise –
(paintstrokes leave behind spectrum –
spot black, set eyes on bloom)
the other side of the mirror of sound:
Heterophony;

or perhaps to keep it in – citadel –

secure from thieves, fiends
incapable hands –
spider fingers bitten at, picked at
anemic nail beds (respiratory malfunction –
like my lungs never receive enough oxygen)
b/c I hardly let up on
“the nervous habit”
so led to obvious bloodletting
across the lifelines & wrinkles
of dry yet smooth cutaneous
anxiety unravelers
that scratch-score-scrape
at [drum] bone

14
Andrea Benardi
Graphic Design

Jade Braden 15
Ceramics
16 Aaron Viramontes
Drawing
Ken Lew
Drawing

17
Justine Kudla
Photography
18
Maya Swartz 18
Photography
Amelia Moreno
Bookmaking

Angie Helwich 19
Bookmaking
20 Ashley Patnett
Photography
21
Jordan Groll
Web Design
http://insideye.org/

22
Jennifer Szalko
Mixed Media

23
 Leah Murphy
24Painting
Brian Sykes
Digital Illustration

Brett ratajczak
Collage

25
Maya Swartz
Photography
26
Jennifer Szalko
Drawing
27
 Erica Bartley
Painting

Andrea Moore
Painting
28
Leah Murphy
Drawing

Ken Lew
Drawing

29
Jordan Groll
Photography

Erica Bartley
30
Illustration
 Romisha Taylor
Painting

Marichu gonzales, flannery shannon, paola gonzales

Ceramics

31
 Brittnae Brasfield, Flannery Shannon, Jade Braden, Jordan Groll, Joanne Hill, Jus-
tine Kudla, Kathleen Murphy, Lisa Guardiola, Marissa Finazzo, Marichu Gonzalez, Maggie
Noffke, Meghan Sutherby, Paola Bianca Gonzalez, Sergio Gonzalez, Tara Reed
Ceramic Tiles
32
All WE ever find
Devon Ross

All we ever find is the need to find something more.

All we ever find is hope in the face of broken lives,

defeated vessels, minds, souls.

All we ever find is ourselves; reflection of the very self we wish to become,

and the self we cannot wish away.

All we ever find is loneliness,

past memories to rerun in the face of today.

All we ever find is risk, disappointment from those we appoint as the bearers of our smiles,

our warmth, our hearts.

All we ever find is the thought that what I had worked so hard to become

is both what I want and what society will allow me.

All we ever find is tears, from wins and losses.

ALL WE EVER FIND.

All we ever find is what we knew was there, what WE once had, and what we fail to realize
still exists.

All we ever find is this.

33
 AUTHORIAL INTRUSION
Samantha Dietel

A poem for Barth:

(Insert self-conscious aside)
I’m so postmodern.

GRADUATION
Kathleen Bucsanyi

Three weeks and counting

until I will be forcibly uprooted
from the existentialism I have known carefully
for the last four years.
The eccentricity, that has allowed me to break down
the rigid barriers of the box I had lived in prior,
will dissolve away
as if it never existed at all.
I will be a nine-to-fiver, back in the box.
My efforts to un-conform, stand out, and
be the change that the world needs
will be irrelevant
as my only duty will be to appropriately blend in
with the other Metra commuters.
I have already bought my black pencil skirts
and pantyhose.
I have been looking forward to this day since kindergarten.
Yet, now I find myself staring longingly
at the tiny desks
attached to their orange chairs that only an 8-year-old could fit into properly
knowing that I will never again sit in one
and ponder a long-winded professor’s thoughtful lecture
until my brain hurts from the overload of knowledge.
What I know now, will be what I know forever.
Maybe I should have paid closer attention.
The learning days are over, and it is all downhill from here.
Downhill and into the “real world.”
The capitalism that I have loved to loathe
will be the only thing I breathe.
And one day, I will sit at a bar, with a cheap beer in my hand
and realize it’s the same kind I used to drink
during those college days.
I will laugh at how foolish and reckless I was.
My nine-to-five brain will have long forgotten that
those times were actually brilliant,
and I was a genius back then.

34
Memories
Rachel Monahan

Cherished ones illuminate like the brightest flame

Locked away in the mind’s abyss
Each one preserving time in a single frame
Any moment can recall pure bliss

So many exist like pebbles in the sea

Varied arrays of endless hue
Each one reflecting a different version of me
Eroding slowly until revealing something new

Tangled together in eternity’s vine

Until one awakens the mind like a gentle breeze
Which moment will be the One that’s mine?
Slippery sands of time I have to freeze

Finally vanishing? Time cannot expire!

Veiled illusions of truth always transpire

35
 I solved the
world’s problem…
Danielle Knoff

Coffee
A culture
then a drink.
How did it happen?
Starbucks.

Essence of Transience
Rachel Monahan

It all started with a burst

Energy flowing through a boundless sea
Could this have been the first?
Elated euphoria encompassing me

A myriad of fragments creating spheres anew

But one would be a superlative sapphire
With a fixed fate? Quite possibly true
Spurred from reviving rain of pure perspire

An early air ignites a spark of hope

Through an altered lens I have sight
Against all perils one must cope
Out from the depths to a fresh form of plight

Perhaps this is one cycle that will transcend

Birthing something new from this ephemeral end

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Perseverance: A Zombie Tale
Molly Caldera

Jed’s boat was named Perseverance. Along the side was painted a phrase: Keep Calm and Carry On. It was painted by the British
Ministry of Information during World War II and was sold for war money at auction.

He’d used this antique for years to fish the marina of Louisiana. Now, he’d use it to escape. After four days of hiding in the lower deck
from the monsters, one of them hobbled to the ledge of the harbor. Without a thought of the fall, it stepped over the ledge into the
lake, sinking, without as much as a thrash to save his life. “No breathing lungs,” Jed thought to himself. He had an idea.

“Lula, we’re setting sail.” Jed whispered. “What on earth?” Lula barked back in a hushed yell. “Where are we going?”

“The radio said the monsters are infectious and eating people. If we stay here, we’re goners.” Lula looked across the abrasive sunset
into the nothingness that extended for miles. The undead could be heard like a low approaching buzz in the distance.

“No, absolutely not. We have barely any gas and nowhere to go.” Lula was growing frantic by the minute while the wail of reanimated
bodies swayed haphazardly.

The gas in this antique would get them twenty miles off the shore. Lula could see the intricacies of these monsters – pale gray-green,
their eyes glazed.

“I’ll be back,” Jed went to find a gas can. From below the deck he felt the boat sway suddenly in lofty motion. He returned as Lula was
struggling to regain her balance on land, unsure of where to turn. “Lu!” he cried out. Lula had leapt from the boat. Jed was immobi-
lized, afraid to leave his solitude.

He pleaded for her to return. In the distance, the wall of groans was encroaching on the marina. Undead limping and tumbling;
cracked skin, oozing thick pastes of blood and puss, arms detached at the joint like a bag of bones.

There was silence. Lula relaxed her face. She walked a few steps toward the boat and again the fast approaching herd, chasing the
scent of her ripe flesh. Certain death on land was more comforting than uncertainty on the abyss of the Gulf. Jed motioned frantically
for her to jump.

Lula bent down and unlatched the rope holding Perseverance ashore. Fearfully planted, unable to budge an inch, Jed was weeping for
his wife to return. The boat was soon twenty-five yards from the shore; Perseverance became an ebbing silhouette on Lake Pontchar-
train.

He fell to his knees. Unable to witness the savagery of the walking dead, he sunk his head, pressing hard in to the flaky paint. Amidst
the white noise of waves came the booming sound of a low feeding howl.

“Now where are you going?” he asked himself. The lake would eventually flow to the Gulf, after that, well, what after that? He raised
his head and looked out at the lake. He grabbed his pole.

Fishing was something Jed loved to do alone. The serenity of his niche in the marina was a countryman’s solitude. The lake offered an
air of liberation. Lula was terrified of Perseverance; it was unsafe for anything, and he shouldn’t go out there too much to fish. He’d
often joked to her, “Nobody ever said you’ll go blind if you fish too much.”

The troubles of the day were still fresh in his mind; thoughts of tomorrow were creeping in. The water tossed Perseverance around the
lake. Jed looked out at the horizon ablaze: Keep Calm and Carry On.

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 October 16, 1807
Stephen Zahradnik

A kiss is a time-machine
Meant to keep us alive.
A meeting in secrecy
Buried in moist pleasure
Mouth to mouth
Explosions of Mount Vesuvius
Occur in rapid succession

Lightly plucking,
Tongue to tongue
Entangles and frees
Sweetness against
Nothingness.
A void
Closes with noses
Tingling from minty after-shave.

Boy
Jamie Marquez

A young boy’s tears were few,

His siblings gazed with resentment.
He shared the eyes of the mother they hardly knew.

They all remembered the silent room

That had the door where their mother with vacant eyes went.
A young boy’s tears were few.

The slamming of the door comes too soon,

Opening their bleary eyes, they see their father drunk and spent.
He shared the eyes of the mother they hardly knew.

The pleasant voice of a mother was new,

Yet the eldest sister left.
And a young boy’s tears were few.

Hardened and alone, they grew,

Some passed, some went,
Away from a boy who shared the eyes of the mother they hardly knew.

He sees the view,

All alone, shots ringing, his last brother dead.
A young boy’s tears were few.
He shared the eyes of a mother he hardly knew.

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 The Drama is all
Greek to me
Megan Waters

if Aphrodite is Hormones –
fais batter ton tambour
let Loose a battle Cry
of Waged winsome war –

wear your Dress blues

your absolute Best –
or so you Thought
timid and turtle teetering

so what of Pheromones
eh, Ms. Dickinson? –
I’m biting off Far
More than I can chew

Teiresias is always old

so how did he
Spy on the Snakes?

The Colors of Your Life

Janeen Wilkey

The confines of life breathe down your neck.

You struggle under the pain of expectations.
You are helpless to the puppet master pulling the strings.

The world is black and white,

Or so they say.

You long for the freedom of the blue sky,

To go home and be with the canvas
To splash it with things other than color.

A dab of laughter,
A squirt of anger,
A splattering of joy,
A stroke of fear,
A mix of love, and
A hint of pain.

They are not the colors of the world.

You paint with the colors of your life.

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 Black Women
Shannel McLaurin

Categorized
Stereotyped
Judged
Carries the burden of statistics
Made out to be less than
Beauty dependent on the shade of color
Stand up
Be more than hips and thighs
Lips
Breasts
Love yourself
Carry yourself with respect
Don’t forget that are equal if not more
Be more than
Be better than
Be strong
Strong
Black woman

WINTER STEPSISTER
Jennifer Dalla Betta

A heavy door creaks open.

Dusty stirs and shakes at my feet in a jaunty dance;
Dirt held hostage, seized in pale sunlight.
Or perhaps it is little mice I’m seeing.
Dancing? Singing?
Sewing beautiful gowns of silk and chiffon,
transforming me into the spring blossom I’m not?

Tiny thimbles spilt on the floor,

Bathing in the neglect of my winter.
Ignorant mouse, I don’t want your gown –
beauty stings chapped fingertips, silk is too heavy to bear.
Ignorant mouse, I will not dance –
these heavy feet don’t live in tiny glass houses.

Ignorant mouse, don’t you know me?

The stepsister, the winter, the dead limb on a grey tree.
Unforgiving. Cold. Rooted.
The prince isn’t mine.
I don’t want him.

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Saint Xavier University
3700 West 103rd Street
Chicago, IL 60655

Saint Xavier’s Visual Art Center

10435 South Spaulding
Chicago IL 60655

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