SPRING SEMESTER 2023

AVANT
A Li te r a r y Ma ga z i ne
S p r ing 2 1
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 AVANT MAGAZINE

Avant
Volume 67
Spring 2023
Avant is made by and for undergraduate students at Row-
an University each semester. We believe in helping writers and
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Avant is printed by Square One Printing in Mount Laurel, New Jersey.

All material is copyrighted, Avant 2023

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Table of Contents
Writing
Poetry
Eggs en Cocotte - Kiley Parker.................................................................8
Lunatic - Ryan Amejka................................................................................11
Silenced - Allison D'Arienzo.....................................................................15
Gray Area - Devyn Riddick.......................................................................16
What if we're gonna be okay? - Ayanna Johnson........................17
Patience - Benjamin Schnur.......................................................................18
lovergirl - Alexa Diamant...........................................................................19
strawberry lipgloss - BriAnna Sankey................................................26
The Lillies - Jason Benson..........................................................................27
Another Question - S.E. Roberts...........................................................28
dana marie - Alexa Diamant.....................................................................30
Nineteen - Olivia Figueroa........................................................................32
Linger - Alexa Diamant...............................................................................34
microwave cooking for today's living - Robert Pallante.........37
Belonging is Finite - S.E. Roberts.........................................................38
Chipped Polish - Ashley Servis.............................................................41
My Mother - Ayanna Johnson.................................................................42

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The Queen, The Gentle, The Scorned - S.E. Roberts.................45

Rock Bottom - Alexa Diamant..................................................................47
Dad - Steven Flickenger.................................................................................49
dear mr government man sir - Robert Pallante..............................51
Anissa's Actualization - Devyn Riddick.............................................52
Does Not Heal - Ryan Amejka.................................................................54
Fuck R*n C*rm*n - S.E. Roberts..............................................................56
Early Daffodil - Cecilia Combs................................................................58
Comedian - Samantha Szmuloz................................................................68
Slight - Allison D'Arienzo............................................................................69
Loose Walking - Ashley Servis................................................................70
i wear jealousy - Chloe Mortier...............................................................71
Sleep Paralysis Demon - Kiley Parker................................................73
The Lake of Memories - Benjamin Schnur........................................75
A Tree Speaks - Robert Pallante..............................................................76
Spineless - Allison D'Arienzo....................................................................82
Not Your Publicity Stunt - S.E. Roberts.............................................83
Theia's Dance - William Kaminer...........................................................86
Demons - Alexa Diamant............................................................................87
Seasons Muses - Alexis Atwood.............................................................90
Pit - Kel Pedersen.............................................................................................92

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Life - Jason Benson..........................................................................................93

Heartbreak - S.E. Roberts............................................................................94
If You're Thinking of Trying to Fly - Steven Flickinger............96

Prose
Translations - S.E. Roberts.........................................................................13
Bless Me... Me, For I Have Sinned - Chloe Mortier.....................21
The Act of Feigning Normality - Madison Richardson..............35
Entropy - Jason Benson.................................................................................48
Hum - Kel Pedersen.......................................................................................60
A Ravenous Tradition - Jason Benson................................................78
Apathy - Jason Benson..................................................................................89

Images
Front Cover
Cleanse your mind - Marlaina (Marley) Schiman

Inside Images
Tending to my own - Marlaina (Marley) Schiman..................12
Venus - Marlaina (Marley) Schiman..............................................20

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his judgement shall be swift, and it shall be terrible

(or Mittens)- n.l. rivra.........................................................................31

Fill your Page with the Breathings of your Heart

- Marlaina (Marley) Schiman.................................................44

Plugged Into the Machine - Marlaina (Marley) Schiman....52

Entering El Morro - n.l. rivera.....................................................66
re:birth - Avery Demarest...............................................................81
Hello Little Sir - n.l. rivera............................................................91

Back Cover
Geological - Marlaina (Marley) Schiman

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"This is what our sleepless nights and

stomachaches amounted to."
~“What if we are gonna be okay?”
by Ayanna Johnson

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Eggs en Cocotte
By Kiley Parker

two eggs
cracked into a greased ramekin
soft brown shells like the skin of my grandmother
who wonders what the hell i’m doing with two eggs
cracked in a grease ramekin
she does not say the word hell
but i feel lit
for the god that grasps her does not allow such language
so i am very good at listening to my grandmother
and her invisible words.

two eggs
and heavy cream
soft white liquid swirling around twin suns
my grandmother watches from her perch at the kitchen sink
water trickling through the cracks in her fingers
the silent judge
whose decrees are heard by few
but whose verdicts ring through the home
she made a choice a long time ago to not lodge her critiques
directly at me
but instead at the long suffering warden
my mother
speaking in a language i long to understand and never try to.

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two eggs
heavy cream
and goat cheese.
mashed by my fingers
hiding under my nails.
i snuck away with my sister today
running to target at eight a.m.
she loves to run
around the block
away from her problems
off into the world
i don’t think i could have it any other way.
two eggs
heavy cream
goat cheese
and one deep dish
filed with stale boiled water
it had sat still in the electric kettle
waiting for my mother to become the tea drinker she promised.

two eggs
heavy cream
goat cheese
a perfectly average dish
if indulgent
but all dishes are.
one my mother would raise an eye over

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led on by the judicator.

she flicks her eyes at the back of my mind
bites her lip in the corner of my vision
a shallow attempt to hide distaste
at something that is not a handful of almonds
or a spoonful of sad soup
but something so intrinsically illegal —
a filling meal.

two eggs
in a ramekin greased with enough butter to spite a mother
topped with enough heavy cream to earn the judgment of a
grandmother
with crumbles of goat cheese that inspire solidarity with a sister
ramekin held by my firm, two hand grip
into a dish of lukewarm water
and into an oven i set for myself.
and a wait i choose to bear.

ready.
out of the oven
eggs en cocotte
not as jiggly as the recipe claimed
patchy yellow yolks
heavy cream like molten ooze on my tongue
pungent cheese
and it is delicious.

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Lunatic
By Ryan Amejka

White glimmer and the absence of sun,

the moonlit glow of your face, screen-bound
and sheer. The shock slowly drained from your
face when the moon revealed his hand.

Overcast and awfully twisted, a night

corralled and shackled by looming fate.
Surely, there is something unsettling about
this midnight’s marauder, the mirrored moon:

he looks at you forlorn, for long held

reasons only he is privy to. A secret. He shines
with efficacy, brilliant regardless of the hour,
and presents full-faced, except when the sun steals the day.

Cratered and confined by his perpetually abrasive surface,

indiscriminately glowing in the dark of his room,
guilty yet merciless, a soldier to lunar cadence, serving
the whims of circadian rhythm and off-beat pulses.

At night, you find he writes for confession, manipulating

the darkened tide. Despite his polished lacquer,
he wishes actively to be nothing more than
your ordinary shadow under the long day’s sun.

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“Tending to my own”
By Marlaina (Marley )Schiman
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Translations
By S.E. Roberts

When he asks me on that first date, I feel as though I am

standing at the entrance to a labyrinthian library: there’s a world
of possibilities, right at my fingertips, if I only dare to reach for
them (I do). Together, we take out a volume on the origin of Dis-
ney, the creation of the first movie, dinner etiquette, and butter-
flies. A princess sings her way across the screen. Movies are meant
to be talked about with another. You should be on your best manners
at the table. Butterflies are not a bug known to live in people, but I feel
them set flight in my stomach, flutter into my throat, when he
leaves me at the end of the night with a kiss.
For our third date, we peruse the shelves and read a book
on weather patterns that’s mottled with holes, a guide on the
best foods for a picnic, a pamphlet about the prettiest views in
our city and where to find them. The weather book is too old to
be useful, it turns out, and it rains on us while we eat. We read,
beneath the storm, a book of inspirational quotes. Vivian Green
says Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to
dance in the rain, so we do. You can hardly see anything through
the sheets of rain, but he is a pretty sight all on his own when the
lightning flashes, showing him soaking wet and laughing. Later,
we look for How to Cure the Common Cold, and we curl under a
blanket with tissue boxes to read it together.
On our seventh date, we read about the progression of
romantic relationships, find a dictionary filled with the proper
terminology. I sound one word out: bOIfrEnd: a male companion

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with whom one has a romantic relationship. He seems hesitant about

the word, nervous to use it himself. He’s very romantic (doing
and saying things to show that you love someone), I think, but
only when we’re alone. Flowers (white chrysanthemums) for my
room. Notes left in my locker, the days I stay late at school. Pet
names when we’re together in private. It’s never bothered me be-
fore, but… on my own, I read about impending disasters. Experts
say smoke doesn’t exist without fire. I stop reading.
On our tenth date, I look for books about the stars and
how to paint constellations between them. I recite from memory
the stories of every single one I know. We read about telescopes
and magnification; how different lenses change what you can
see. I tell him the story of lovers trapped among the stars, and
this time when he hesitates to talk about such things with me, to
use words like romance and relationships and feelings, I do not
turn away. I look closer, and I see different things.
We never go on a thirteenth date. I get tired of standing in
a library with him when he looks around every corner before he
turns, and I am the only one searching for more stories. He can
be afraid somewhere else, I figure, and I don’t shed a tear when
I tell him to go. In the world of possibilities we started with, I
knew this was always one of them. I read about ancient civiliza-
tions, and how even Rome burned in a fraction of the time it took
to build. Their ruins are still a reminder of what went wrong. I
take note of him like a true historian, build him a place in my
memories—and then I leave him behind. I feel no need to repeat
history.

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Silenced
By Allison D’Arienzo

The face I wear is not what it once was;

you remind me every time you ask
about my mood, my thoughts, my mind.
Fingernails dig deep into thighs as I ponder
whether I should tell you.
I beg myself not to speak.

Words tumble out with minimal coaxing

and I find myself spouting secrets
I didn’t even know I was keeping.

When the faucet runs dry,

silence settles between us.
I think of my voice, grating and unappealing,
like flies escaping a rotten mouth,
filling the room and you sitting there
listening intently.

The burden of my speeches will become too heavy

and I won’t blame you when you stop asking.
The time will come when I must rebuild my mask
and seal my lips shut once more.
My fingers itch for the needle and thread
that will mute my stories in eight neat stitches.

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Gray Area
By Devyn Riddick

I’ll never be that child again.

Waking to the wafting scent of bacon,
Grandma’s house warm in winter and summer.

I’ll never be that child again.

Watching movies into the wee hours of Christmas morning,
my sisters huddled around on the red couches.

What happened to gooey chocolate chip cookies

and sleepovers that ended with the ceasing of talking,
sleep consuming one by one like a peaceful plague?

We set sail on wishes, whims, and prayers,

acting first, thinking later.
Understanding that the world was ours for the taking.

Orange sunsets, clouds fluffed like custard, belonged to us.

The starry sky, crystal clear constellations,
hung themselves for us to find our way back home.
The earth was ours, because it belongs to our Father.

So what happened to our authority?

Confident children became afraid adults
unwilling to leave footprints on the banks of time.

We’ll never be those children again.

We must seek solace.
We’ve traded our serenity for solemnity.

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What if we are gonna be okay?

By Ayanna Johnson

This is the future that we were so worried about.

This is the adulthood that we heard was so hard,
this is what our sleepless nights and stomachaches
amounted to.
Incredible to think we are doing just fine,
incredible to think that our tomorrow selves,
will soon forget today’s worries.
As today’s little victories slip through our fingers
how consistently we pass on
celebrating the delights of today,
consumed by dreamt up disaster
that has yet to materialize in real time.
The only real time
is now.
What if maybe,
just maybe
it’s gonna be alright,
what if
we are gonna be okay.
After all, this is the future we were so worried about.

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Patience
By Benjamin Schnur

I’ll wait for you

Until you become your best self
And I become my worst

I’ll wait for you

Until the sky turns green
And the dinosaurs roam the earth

I’ll wait for you

Until the lake of memories turns to ash
And the sun fades into dark

I’ll wait for you

Until our hearts grow cold
And the flames we tend to fade to mere sparks

I’ll wait for you

For as long as it takes
For as long as it takes.

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lovergirl
By Alexa Diamant

her body was a poem,

changing and rhyming
keeping me interested
from beginning to end.

her beauty marks were the stanzas,

bountiful and plenty
and her chest was the meter,
rising and falling on command.

her words slowing and breaking

in the middle of a sentence,
giving me time to catch my breath.

her voice, left hanging

in lowercase letters
whispering the beauty
of a simple affirmation.

her hands, my god,

her hands were the feeling
of sunlight through the clouds;
apricity.

honey is what i call her

but her eyes answer
elusive
enigmatic
i am swept away by her existence.

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“Venus” By Marlaina (Marley) Schiman

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Bless Me... Me, For I Have

Sinned
By Chloe Mortier
Father Owens, a short balding man, uses the handkerchief he
always keeps in his inner jacket pocket to wipe at his profuse-
ly sweaty forehead. He curses his younger self for ever saying
Georgia's summers were “hotter than Hell.” Never could he have
imagined that he’d be standing in the very place to prove him so
very wrong.
The priest looks up and down the lengthy line that seems
to have no end in sight. After what felt like an eternity — Oh
Lord, has it been an eternity? — Father Owens has finally made it
to the front of the line and the screams of damned souls gets even
louder. From behind the black, pointy iron gate, guarded by one
devil, he can see the flames rise high into the red skies, volcanoes
erupting, and flying demons swiping down to knock over those
who try to run away. He shakes his head and thinks to himself
for the thousandth time, I don’t belong here. I shouldn’t be standing
among these tattooed ruffians, filthy predators, or my neighbor, Allan.
“Allan?” Father Owens questions aloud. There, a few
people ahead of him, is the piss yellow dyed hair and striped
shirt tucked into the cargo shorts of Allan Rose. The man twists
around with the mention of his name, his gentle smile on his lips,
and beams when his eyes land on Father Owens.
“Father Owens! Well, I’ll be darned. Good man, it’s funny
seeing you here,” Allan chuckles.
“I could say the same for you. What are you doing here?”
Other than his atrocious hair choices, Allan is a stand-up guy:
always goes to church, never cusses or drinks alcohol, and takes

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care of his elderly mother.

“One of the girls from my basement escaped and wacked
me over the head with Mama’s good cast-iron skillet,” Allan
laughs again, rubbing the back of his head. His stretched smile
quivers ever so slightly.
“Sorry, girls in your…basement?” Father Owens babbles.
“Yup! Mama and I had a really good thing going till that
little bitch went and ruined it.” Allan throws his head back mani-
acally, a vein in his neck pulsing, but that smile is still carved on
his face. Father Owens daps at his forehead again and clutches at
his heart.
“Alright, keep it moving Chatty Kathy.” The devil man-
ning the gate yanks at Allan’s collar and pulls him in. “Name?”
“Allan Rose,” Allan says proudly, puffing out his chest.
The devil looks down at his clipboard and nods once.
“Well, get to running, Allan Rose.”
Allan salutes the devil and yells over his shoulder as he
begins to sprint away, “See ya in there, Father Owens!”
The remaining people in the line get dragged in and Fa-
ther Owens is finally next. The devil looks him up and down, a
cruel smirk playing on his cracked lips. “Name?”
“I’m sorry, but there has been a big misunderstanding. I
don’t belong here.”
“That’s what they always say. Now name?”
“I’m not like…him.” Father Owens points at Allan who
is now being twisted up like a pretzel by a demon. “I’m not like
any of these people! I am a man of God. I’m a good person!”
“Listen, I don’t care — ”
Father Owens falls to his knees. “Please. Whatever I have
done, I’m sorry. Is it because I told Marie that she looked lovely
on Sunday, but I really thought she looked like an overweight
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peacock? I mean, what was she thinking, picking a dress with

feathers? Is her stylist in Hell? Because they should be. Her outfit
was a true tragedy. Or maybe it’s because I told Father Kelvin
I misplaced the Bible he lent me. Well, I didn’t lose it! I threw
it out after using a couple of pages as toilet paper, okay!? I like
reading my psalms while on the john, sue me! And they don’t
pay priests enough, so I didn’t have any toilet paper, but I asked
the Lord for forgiveness, Goddamn it! Oh, fuck that felt good!”
Father Owens pauses, a darkness setting over his eyes. “…
Wait. I know what it must be. Yes! I’m here because I stole of-
ferings, is that right? Oh give me a break, it was only a hundred
dollars so that I could pay my electricity bill and I returned the
money afterwards. The real person who should be here is that
bastard Father Basil. He caught me and has been blackmailing
me ever since. Well, I found him and Sister Martha feeling up
each other after service and kept my trap closed, like the good,
Godly man I am. Do they get to serve an eternity, being tortured
in Hell? No!
“Jesus fucking Christ,” The priest mutters under his
breath, “I just had to be a gluttonous pig and have that extra piece
of chocolate, even though I’m on a diet. The damn thing went
and choked me. And now I’m here to suffer for sins I thought
were absolved. Hahaha. Jokes on me! Good one, big man in the
sky!”
The devil blinks slowly at Father Owens, who is now
breathing heavily and has a tight grip in his thinning hair.
“I’m only going to ask one more time. Name?” The devil
barks.
Reality comes crashing down on the priest and he quick-
ly stands back on his feet. He brushes off dust from his knees,
combs back his hair with his fingers, and straightens out his tie.
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“Apologies. I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps

the Holy Spirit?” Father Owens chuckles, but quickly clears his
throat as the devil narrows his eyes. “Right. Um…Dylan Ow-
ens.”
“Dylan?” The devil looks down at his clipboard. “You’re
not Mark Owens? The priest who had a nervous breakdown and
slit the throat of an altar boy after having taken shrooms to have
a ‘conversation with God?’”
A hand flies up to Father Owens’ throat and he swallows
dryly. “No!”
“Shit.” The devil slams the clipboard against the gate and
the loud clunk rings in Father Owens ears. “How do we keep
letting this happen? It’s the 4,000th time this week! I swear, I’m
going to let HR have it this time…”
“So…can I…um…leave?” Father Owens asks. “We can
just…forget all about what I said, right?”
The devil looks back at Father Owens and then down at
his list for a moment. He sucks his teeth. “Look, I don’t really
feel like filling out the paperwork for the transfer. And I think
using Bible pages to wipe your ass is pretty fucked up and a big
enough sin to get you a spot here. So, welcome to Hell and get to
running!”
“Wait! No, that’s not fair! NO!” The devil grabs Father
Owens before he can run away and flings him into the sky where
a flying demon catches him in their talons to then drop him on
top of other running sinners.
“Strike!”

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"For the seasons muse, like inspired man,

Needs little but water, paper, and pen."
~“Seassons Muses” by Alexis Atwood

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strawberry lipgloss
By BriAnna Sankey

It’s as if my body is always on fire,

and although my brain
is the extinguisher,
it can never seem to put it out.

It can’t tell the difference

Because every situation
feels life threatening.

Everyone is watching me,

they can see right through me.
I’m not fooling anyone with my
unbothered attitude and
strawberry lip gloss.

No one is watching you

they’re focused on themselves,
you egomaniac.
Your lipgloss looks great.

But why won’t my hands stop

s h a k i n g

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The Lillies
By Jason Benson

Life lived for an ideal, a life lived true.

Through fields of many hues, a sun shines through.
The Lillies will get trampled, burned, and torn.
But they will always stand proud after the storm.
The upright fields represent us here now.
To tend to these flowers we do here vow.
Be it a banner held high or a head held proud.
The roar of the masses thunders aloud.
Like lightning strikes no same place twice.
We make no mistakes again, no matter the price.
The ones who would stop us, no longer abound.
Should they appear, we will surround.
No liege, prior, king, nor lord.
Shall rule this land by might or sword.
The flowers, like we, won’t stay trampled or torn.
On this day our freedom is born.
We stand here ready, we stand here anew.
A life lived for an ideal, a life lived true.

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Another Question
By S.E. Roberts

What does it feel like, to kiss someone?

I am almost 22, and
I still don’t know.

Not beyond the impulse that rose in me like bile,

the one I swallowed even as it tried to seize control of my mouth,
and the forceful wishing of a dream
I forgot before I woke up.

I have never kissed a boy, never kissed a girl,

never kissed anyone in between or beyond.
I have never even pecked the cheek
of someone who made butterflies bloom in my lungs
and sunshine settle in my stomach.

But I want to.

Gods, do I want to.

And I wonder what it will feel like. I wonder if

I will notice the taste of their lip balm,
memorize the shape of their mouth.
I wonder if bubblegum joy will stick in my throat,
or if I’ll feel like the flying, floating ashes of a brilliant fire.

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I wonder — I think — it will feel extraordinary.

I am almost 22, and
I have never kissed anyone.
And I wonder if I am too ordinary, for the sort of magic kissing
implies.
But, honestly?
I do not think it matters.

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dana marie
By Alexa Diamant

A kaleidoscope of warm honey and molasses brown.

Oh, how her beautiful kind eyes guide me home through the
toughest of storms.

Little amber paper lanterns floating over the water, lighting up

the foggiest of lakes,
illuminating the darkest of hearts.

Amulets of azotic topaz glistening like rocks on the beach,

letting waves rush over them without ruining their shine.
No matter the corrosion, they refuse to give up their iridescent
hues.

To be lucky is to be able to look into

the eyes of a soul whose colors are chained to the soils of the
earth.

There are a million elements trapped in her eyes,

and I fell in love with every single one.

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“his judgment shall be swift, and it shall

be terrible (or Mittens)” By n.l. rivera

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Nineteen
By Olivia Figueroa

you see,
i’m nineteen and the only thing that compares to getting older is
being stranded on an island
you’re terrified,
but you’re free

I used to think time was weightless

until each day started taking up too much space
the stars placed above sometimes get heavy on my shoulders
and if growing up means getting older
then explain to me why
there was a time I felt much bigger than
this

the thing about nineteen:

you’re leaving and becoming all at the same time
and
you live in this bubble where you’re on your own
yet
you’re not alone

I met one guy on my way here

who’s words matter far much more than mine
and I know that to be true because
he makes me feel okay to cry
he said, “there’s goals here i’m trying to reach”
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we climb until we’re high enough to see the beauty of it all

this is where we end, this is where we begin
and no one jumps before they reach the top of the mountain

another one here is from my past

I don’t know how to explain it but
sometimes she keeps the world from spinning too fast
it’s something about calling the same place home
and you know someone who’s foundation feels familiar
those walls
they shelter, they build up, they break
ten years later
at least some of us made it out of that place

nineteen,
there’s some barriers between you and me
I might’ve been terrified
but here
this year,
I was free

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Linger
By Alexa Diamant

They say skin cells

renew themselves every
28-42 days.

So that must mean

it’s been a lifetime since
my body has felt the
touch of yours.

My skin is now
completely devoid
of your embrace.

If I was aware of the moment

we held each other
for the last time,

I never would’ve let go.

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The Act of Feigning Normality

By Madison Richardson

CW: Anxiety / Overstimulation

You’re walking through the mall, the signs for the stores
blurring together as you walk past them. You count them as you
pass, jumping beans in your veins as you count more and more,
getting closer to that store: the store that makes your feet bounce
as you rush from shelf to shelf, looking for your favorite things.
Three shops, two shops, one shop. There it is! The store logo
flashes brighter than the rest, catching your attention, and you re-
sist the urge to run inside. Despite the bubbles floating to the sur-
face of your skin, you take a deep breath and keep them down.
Calm. Focused. Don’t be weird, you’re an adult. Adults don’t act
like that. You walk, focusing one foot in front of the other, a bal-
loon filled to the brim ready to pop. You shut your eyes hard and
ball your hands into fists, struggling to contain everything like
an overfilled bin of toys. You rush to where your favorite shelf is,
knowing its location from memory. You’re an aerosol can ready
to burst, pressure building as your eyes fly past everything. Too
much, too much, too much and, before you realize it, your limbs
are moving on their own, hands like helicopter propellers as they
shake out of your control. Not enough, not enough, not enough
and you’re bouncing on your toes, each bounce releasing the
pressure, calming the jumping beans in your veins, popping the
bubbles under your skin, and untying the balloon ready to pop.
You take a deep breath and hold it, keeping everything from
being enough for other people to notice, but just enough that it
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all goes away. You close your eyes, put your hands over your
ears, and try to relax back into your skin, focusing on the breath
filling your lungs and releasing. When you are calm enough,
you grab something off of the shelf, containing the pressure once
more as you make your way over to the checkout and pay for the
item you picked. You squeeze your eyes shut again before you
walk out of the store and back into society, feigning normality as
much as possible until you get home.

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microwave cooking for today's

living
By Robert Pallante

progress, that’s what they say will be brought by all this,

all this abundance and all this amazing advancements,
we all will be fed they said, instant food, instant grati —
— fication, we thank you gentleman and gentlewoman,
thank you for bringing us the future, we are grateful.

gentleman and gentlewoman, i think we have an issue,

that progress you brought seems to be too good for us,
food is not good anymore, and our lives feel so bor —
— ing, work is a tragedy, help us, we’re down in trenches,
why did you do this? why bring the future and then stop?

we all feel sick, there is something not right and unwell,

do you have those pills and medicines? cure our hyper —
— tension, flip on the little boxes and tell us our stories,
take us to planets far away and worlds just next door,
where is your creativity? where did your imagination go?

i am beginning to think you are ignoring us, hello hello?

oh dear god, you are here with us too, stuck in the end —
— less void called now, you must have so many regrets,
having created a future that now feels so unreal and yet,
we both are now stuck in it, stuck out in the cold, frozen.

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Belonging is Finite
By S.E. Roberts

The Pevensies come back to London,

(or so everyone says),
but there are mountains
and valleys
weighing on their shoulders
(which do not bend),
a war in their eyes
(which do not waver),
and something strange flashing in the shadows that drift over
their faces
(which do not flinch)
without lingering.

The Pevensies come back,

but they come back with more changes clinging to them
than the countryside should be able to inflict.
High chins
and odd accents,
something living under their skin
that nobody walking the streets of London
has ever seen.
(Mrs. Pevensie —
you sent your children away from one war,
and you never realized,
but you sent them straight into being the leaders of another.
Why do you think they came back so different, Mrs. Pevensie?
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 SPRING SEMESTER 2023

What do you expect to come home, when children go to war?)

The Pevensies come back,

curling into each other like their bodies have forgotten how to be alone,
running after fights like they’re desperate for blood,
moving like they’re used to taking up more space.

The Pevensies come back,

and they are brighter than the London fog can smother,
more striking than the city can perceive,
older than the cobblestone streets can fathom.

The Pevensies come back,

only here’s the thing:
they don’t
(not really.)

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"We set sail on wishes, whims, and prayers"

~ “Gray Area” by Devyn Riddick

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Chipped Polish
By Ashley Servis

She described chipped nails as something that was “lived in.”

A fresh coat of paint was considered to be perfect.
A chipped coat of paint was loved.
It had been around the block.
That paint belonged to nail beds that belonged to fingers that
belonged to hands that picked things up.
They did a service.
They were used to hold the hand of another.
They were used to cook a meal.
They were used to flip through the pages of books.
They were used to hold open a door for someone.
She found all of those things to be beautiful.
I found her, along with her perspective on chipped polish, to be
beautiful.
The next time the corners of my royal blue nail polish chipped
off, I appreciated it.

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My Mother
By Ayanna Johnson

My mother’s frail brown hands force up the zipper, the fabric, like
magnets facing the wrong side they reject. The zipper parts like
the Red Sea against my spine. I am not surprised, I knew if my
mother picked it out that it would not fit me. I hold my breath
still as her ruby red fingernails try to contort my shape, a ritual
of humiliation. She attempts to fully encase my ink stained body
in rhinestone. Beads of sweat scurry down her pretty made up
face, I wish she put this much effort into loving me. She comments
that she must not have noticed I gained weight under the ugly
oversized boy attire I dress myself in. I let her criticism roll down
my back. I swallow the word ugly like medicine. Dresses have
always served as punishment to my masculinity. As the zipper
shimmies up begrudgingly, relief fills her eyes, as if it was her
hard work that got the zipper to zip. She does not consider that it
only zipped as a result of me inhaling deep and never letting go,
I learned young how to make myself smaller, my mother never
truly knew my size. She became so accustomed to how I was so
willing to shapeshift to appease her. I was never brave enough to
exhale in her presence. The dress zips, suffocating my body and
scratching my skin, she smiles at my discomfort. She makes up
my face next, she loves to make me up, to paint me until I am a
spitting image of her. It is only when I look like her reflection that
she tells me I am beautiful. It is only these moments when she looks
at me and sees daughter instead of dyke. It is only these moments
she looks at me with a gaze absent of disgust. I accidently let go of
my breath for a moment and a bead scurries off the dress, I remain
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 SPRING SEMESTER 2023

silent, we remain silent. We both see this facade falling apart at the
seams and say nothing. She tells me she loves me under her breath.
I am hesitant to believe her; how can you love someone that you
do not know? I know she is not speaking to me, she is speaking to
the daughter she made up she will never love the dyke that I am.

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“Fill your Page with the Breathings of

your Heart” By Marlaina (Marley) Schiman

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The Queen, The Gentle, The

Scorned
By S.E. Robert

She
is told by a radiant lion with a golden tongue
that she is destined to rule an entire world
which fits neatly in the back of a wardrobe.
She is crowned young,
but she fought in a war younger
so it hardly matters.
And rule she does, to the radiant southern south,
beside the glistening eastern sea,
the great western woods,
the clear northern skies.

Then He kicks them out

into a world they have unlearned
and bodies
they don’t remember how to move anymore.
She watches her siblings shatter to pieces,
even as she stays still and serene
until the golden light is gone
and she can scream into the darkness He does not command.
He takes her home away
simply because she dares to love it more than Him.

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When she is allowed to return,

it is only after she has spent years learning how to walk
talk
dress
live
within a world she will never be allowed to rule.
And her home is gone: ruined.
She is nothing more than a breathing myth, and
the lion does not even let her stay
long enough to pick up her crown.

She decides
she is done being Gentle.
Her siblings do not understand.
She will not try to make them.

She pulls on nylons and lipstick,

curls and dresses and heels:
anything that will make her look more like the queen she used to be.
She had a home, a duty, a people, to cherish and protect.
She had everything, until she didn’t.
He took it all away.
Is it any wonder she gave up on him?

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 SPRING SEMESTER 2023

Rock Bottom
By Alexa Diamant

all I wanted to give you was everything I had

because you gave me the ability to see life in
color when everything was black and white.
dark times have beat me down for
enough years to break my spirit,
filling me with hatred towards the world, and the little
girl I used to be who loved everything and everyone.
how the hell am I supposed to hold myself together when
i can barely tell you that I’m seriously not ok?
just let the waves carry me out to sea so they can
keep me just like all of the other lost souls.
lie to me when you look in my eyes so you can see the
meaning of a person’s soul being broken.
nothing is in them anymore; there’s a black hole
obliterating all of the heavenly planets I created.
place your hands over my heart and feel it
quiver once you experience my miserable
reality, because everytime I look at the stars, they disappear,
slipping through my fingers, like they hate looking back at me.
this is a cry for help.
understand me when I say there are mountains too big and
vulnerable for me to climb over to get to you.
we met the day the world changed seasons, and now this
xyz of a world I exist in is too harmful for
you to be in anymore; I’m told to
zip my lips and feel the emptiness of my existence.

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Entropy
By Jason Benson

The harbor is dark even with the lights on the ships

shining their horns blaring the sailors screaming at whatever is
causing the cacophony of chaotic churning chimes and bells and
whistles and alarms tearing their brutal cheer into the city where
families sleep and eat and cry out to their officials and kings to
end the ordeal the trial the test of the will of the people of the city
to not bend or break or snap under the weight and the worries
the many have told will tell and won’t take for granted anymore
than they have taken their time to take their place to take re-
sponsibility to take back what was theirs before it all changed for
better for worse for greater good in the name of cruel creed and
tenet of the warrior of the priest of the god who watches who
sees who ignores who laughs at the misfortune and fortune of
the rising and falling of the beginnings and ends the world and
its worlds and its worlds so desperately cling to before returning
to the start at the harbor.

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Dad
By Steven Flickinger

He loves me the way he can,

but not the way the boy needs.

Dad loves the “man,”

the second basemen,
the reckless cannon-baller,
the unapologetic belcher,
and some days I do too.

Dad says “I love you,”

by holding the ladder
while I clean the gutters.
You can almost hear it
slip through the cracks
in his voice
upon the wobbling
of the ladder.

Dad says “I love you,”

with a heaping pile
of spaghetti on your plate
twice the size
of his own.

Dad says “I love you,”

by coaching third base.
When our feet crossed

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those white chalk lines,

we were suddenly given
permission to feel,
permission to scream,
permission to high-five,
or even hug.

Dad says “I love you,”

by never saying the words
“I love you.”

Dad loves the “man,”

But I don’t even think he’s met
the poet, the stargazer,
the boy, who’s chasing
firefly words with
his glass jar heart.

Maybe I never introduced him,

but he’s never hiding,
just a little shy.

You should get to

know him one day,
Dad,
I think there’s something
he’s been waiting to hear.

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dear mr government man sir

By Robert Pallante

dear mr government man sir

you’re such a big man, telling
me what i can do, who i can
love, and who i can be, fuck
you

dear mr government man sir

be a man, learn to just be, go
get a life, and pick up a hobby,
take a hike, maybe jump off a
cliff

dear mr government man sir

all i ask is for you to do your
job, provide for the common
good, and please leave us all
alone

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“Plugged Into the Machine” By Marlaina

(Marley) Schiman

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Anissa's Actualization
By Devyn Riddick

A soul is housed in this body,

nestled within the walls.
Just as nails scrape chalkboards,
that soul claws crimson tissue in search of freedom.

A soul is housed in this body,

misunderstood,
yearning to feel a tight embrace like the eternity of time.
It needs a friend that won’t judge
even after seeing its abrasion scars,
each bearing the name of a different perpetrator.

A soul is housed in this body,

one that can’t let go:
of the promises once pressed to its precious core,
of the others that came from onyx shadows
robbing intimacy, labeling it love
each time pilfering a piece.

A soul is housed in this body,

one that treats tears as triumph.
Stricken sick with grief, it understands,
someday this pain will be useful.

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Does Not Heal

By Ryan Amejka
“..the pregnable skin was so coarse and tight / And now I hope it
does not heal”
after Samia, “Does Not Heal”

Wrought with purplish agency,

a bruise swelters in understandable heat.
It is smaller than fortune,
taller than desire, it is lounging
in egregious shade, it is cascading
and overwhelming.

Do you feel it? Yes, it is the bruise

on your skin, the one resting slightly
underneath your mania, the one
you tried to heal with icy hands,
the blood pooling and sparking an itch.

A bruise, yes. Your bruise on your skin.

Cold dish soap in the metal washer,
rough sponge erasing anguish.
This bruise is ink in skin, it is adhered
to your fingernails that scratch its surface,
twisted veins magnetized to your touch.

You wonder how long until it heals.

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“Life stretches before us, oh what a great

plight.”
~“Life” by Jason Benson

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Fuck R*n C*rm*n

By S.E. Roberts

She does not seem to understand when I say it —

she seems to be waiting for the other shoe to drop,
like one day my words will dissipate in the morning sun,
a fog lifting.
The regret I feel tastes like a lemon against my tongue, a tang I
can’t scrape off.
She is not the only one I have watched deteriorate,
personality crumbling to ashes
in the face of his hellfire.
He spits acid that eats away at her,
a near-physical sickness she cannot walk away from.
There is no cure.
No, she is not the only one.
But she is the only one I can touch,
the only one within reach of my fingertips,
spider silk-soft, just as much steel in her,
just as much delicacy.
He has ripped her to shreds
more times than I can count,
has stopped giving her time to rebuild
after the destruction.
I don’t know if I have ever hated anyone this much.
Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him,
for ever daring to twist his words into weapons,
for ever daring to make her responsible for his own miserable
shortcomings.
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 SPRING SEMESTER 2023

She will not be mad at him, but I

have rage enough for the both of us,
could bury him in the ground and my memories
with hardly a second’s consideration.
She is so much to me,
and every time he sands a little more of her away
I reinvent the definition of mourning.
She does not understand.
I can only hope
(one day)
she will.

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Early Daffodil
By Cecilia Combs

I rise with the scent of spring.

My awkward stalks stab

through the ground,
while my leaves sway in the fleeting sunshine.
My thin-as-paper heart
cannot believe this dew-drop like promise.

I do not trust
the heat crawling across the world.
But I enjoy it;
the pollen tasting wind
that flutters my petals,
the honey tasting laughter
that ripples through my being.

I do not trust the sunlight,

outlining the world around me in a glow.
I do not trust the lightness ballooning in my chest,
the fuzziness floating my flowery mind.

This won’t broaden into spring or summer.

The fog and frost will come.
I may wither and, again
melt underneath the ground to slumber
in darkness and cold.
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But…
the birds babbling in the blossom-bursting trees,
the stream swirling with shy fish,
the green grass grasping each other as they glance around…
they believe spring is coming.

So for only today,

I’ll raise my green throat to the cyan sky
and let the scent of spring
wash away the numbness of winter.

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Hum
By Kel Pedersen

CW: Insects

Something is humming beneath the floor.

It only occurs to Sarah as she shifts her feet where she
stands at the kitchen counter. The faintest feeling of movement
beneath her socks slowly ripples up her legs, till it reaches her
head, and it clicks. Beneath her own faint humming of some tune
she’s had stuck in her head the past few days is the softest har-
mony — low, but not quite melodic, and quiet enough she only
hears it when she pauses for a breath.
Sarah knows the house is old, listened to the realtor go
on and on about its history when she and Riley were still doing
house tours. She hadn’t exactly been sold, at first, but Riley was
instantly in love with the place.
“There’s just something about it,” she’d said. And Sarah,
watching the way Riley’s eyes danced while she took in the en-
tryway, the back garden, the kitchen, could do nothing but agree.
She steps back from the counter, her hand falling away
from the cabinet where they keep their glasses and mugs, shift-
ing her feet again. It’s the faintest vibration, but as soon as it
registers, her feet suddenly feel like they’re sinking beneath her;
like she could topple over any moment. Beneath her is the base-
ment, and Sarah wonders if it’s a problem with the boiler or the
plumbing. Her plans for an afternoon cup of tea and a Law and
Order marathon temporarily set aside, she walks down the short
hallway to the basement door.
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 SPRING SEMESTER 2023

The stairs creak loudly on every step. She’d proposed to

Riley that they redo them a while back. Though, on their long list
of fixer-upper projects, it hardly takes precedence. More urgent
are the exposed stone walls and concrete floors of the unfinished
basement. They’ve already had problems with heavy rain drip-
ping in and threatening to flood their storage space. Riley took
it upon herself to start building the frame for proper walls and
prep the space for actual flooring.
They each have their weekend projects around the house,
and the thought occurs to Sarah that Riley would probably have
a better idea what the odd hum beneath the kitchen is, but she
isn’t home yet. Sarah has most Friday evenings off, but Riley isn’t
so lucky. Nonetheless, it’s creeping into late afternoon, so she’s
likely already driving home from work.
Sarah resolves to check, just in case it is something time
sensitive and serious, and tell Riley about it once she’s home.
The overhead light flicks on with a stutter. From the bot-
tom of the stairs, Sarah can see nothing out of sorts. In fact, she
can hear nothing out of sorts, either. The humming which drew
her down the steps and away from her quiet evening is gone.
She walks further into the space. The boiler rumbles quietly, as it
always does; a very different hum to the one she is now less sure
she actually heard. The exposed pipes along the ceiling are all
sealed and still. The washer and dryer tucked away in a corner
are off, and Sarah remembers the load of laundry she should
probably do sometime this weekend.
Riley’s tools and materials are scattered about the space,
a temporary pause in her project now that the first drywall is
installed along the back wall. Sarah walks a circuit around the

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basement, double checking that everything is in fact fine. Just

when she’s about to turn back to the stairs, a small hole in the
new drywall catches in the corner of her eye. It’s tiny, when she
gets a closer look, barely an inch in diameter. Its edges are rough,
like something has chewed through the plaster, though it’s not
close enough to the ground for it to have been a mouse. It looks
somewhat like a moth hole when she looks closer, but that too
doesn’t make much sense.
Sarah crouches before it, putting herself at eye level. Wary
of the dust Riley has warned her not to breathe in, she peers clos-
er, trying to see behind the hole. But the dim light overhead and
the shadow she casts make it impossible.
She huffs and stands back up, scoffing a quiet, “Whatev-
er,” to herself.
Once more she scales the creaky stairs. The basement door
shuts behind her, and she lets out a heavy sigh at the time wast-
ed. Back in the kitchen, she pulls a mug from the cabinet and
places the kettle on the stovetop. But just as she’s about to click
the dial to high, she hears it again.
A hum beneath her feet.
“For fuck’s sake,” she says, and marches to the hall closet
where they keep a spare flashlight. Not sure why, but neverthe-
less certain that whatever chewed that innocuous hole has some-
thing to do with the low, taunting tone she hears, she grabs the
flashlight and descends the stairs again. And again, the hum-
ming stops.
Her mind flickers back to the first months she and Riley
spent in this old house. Their little back porch leads directly to a
garden, and Sarah was excited to grow her own vegetables and

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herbs. But once the plots were laid out and the seeds sowed, she
started noticing the bees that swarmed the garden in droves. The
first time one landed on her, she shrieked, loud enough to draw
Riley out of the house. She laughed at Sarah’s panicked expres-
sion, and together they searched for their source. The hive was
huge, tucked away beneath their porch, and when Sarah insisted
they have it removed, Riley smiled sweetly and shook her head.
“They’re honey bees,” she said. “They’ll look after the
plants. And so long as we don’t hurt them, they won’t hurt us.”
Weeks later, on a day when Riley was busy lacquering a
newly built dresser in the garage, Sarah went to water the gar-
den, and noticed the constant buzzing of bees was gone. When
she checked beneath the porch, wielding the same flashlight she
tightly grips now, the nest had disappeared without a trace.
Sarah clicks the light on again; waits for it to stop flicker-
ing. They’ll need to replace that, too, at some point. She walks
to the wall and finds the hole once more. With a soft click, the
flashlight turns on, its warm yellow light stretching the shadows
around her. Sarah raises it and shines the beam into the hole.
Nothing.
There’s a thin sliver of empty space between the drywall
and stone, but that is all. Frustrated, she clicks the flashlight off
again, and turns to stomp back up the stairs.
She takes a single step, and something small and wet
crunches beneath her socked foot.
She barely has time for the shudder to make its way up
her spine before a cacophonous roar of noise hits her ears. Be-
hind her, thousands of bees and beetles, spiders, crickets, milli-
pedes, and moths spill out of the hole she just inspected. Sarah

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turns, lifting her foot, catching sight of the squished beetle she
killed before the entire floor is overtaken by insects. They swarm
in the air, circling around her, and she screams in horror.
Stumbling, trying to escape, she trips over a stack of drywall still
sealed in its packaging that Riley planned to install in the com-
ing weeks. Sarah falls to the ground, and can feel the way she
crushes even more bugs beneath her. The ones in the air, creating
that now-familiar hum, get louder and descend. She waits for the
stinging, but they simply land and begin to cover her, crawling
along her exposed skin, overlapping each other, beginning to
creep beneath her clothes.
The staircase creaks, and everything else falls silent.
Riley stands frozen at the bottom of the steps, watching
Sarah as she struggles to fight the panic still welling up inside
her. Sarah swipes her hands across her arms, her legs, desperate
to get the insects off of her. With a gasp, Riley rushes to her side.
The bugs covering the floor part ways for her feet, allowing her
to step unobstructed. She lands next to Sarah and takes her shak-
ing hands.
“Look at me,” she says. “Focus on me. You’re okay. You’re
safe.” She wraps her arms around Sarah and holds her, breathing
slow and even, waiting for Sarah to copy her breaths. Her quiet
reassurances continue, and between them, she begins to hum, so
soft it takes a minute before Sarah even notices it.
The bugs all around and on her move again, near si-
lent this time, and she jolts in fear. But Riley holds her steady.
“You’re okay, love. They won’t hurt you. You’re okay. Just
breathe.”
Almost as quickly as they appeared, the insects march

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back across the floor and up the wall, and pool back into the
holes they spilled from. There are dozens more of them, most of
them much smaller than the one Sarah discovered. It’s barely a
minute before the two women are alone.
They don’t speak; Sarah cannot find any words to suit her
terror and confusion. Riley simply continues to hum.
At the corner of her eye, Sarah spots a spider still on the
floor, one of its legs broken. It struggles to move, but still tries,
desperately, swayed on by Riley’s song. She follows Sarah’s gaze,
and when she sees the injured spider, her humming ceases. She
goes to reach for it, but catches herself, her eyes darting back
to Sarah still in her arms, as though worried what she’ll think.
Sarah can only stare, still in shock. But she doesn’t flinch when
Riley leans down and scoops the injured spider into her hand.
She holds it like one would cradle a kitten; watches it like it's
precious.
Riley smiles, hums that same low tone that caught Sarah’s
ear in the kitchen what feels like an eternity ago, and the spider
stands despite its broken leg and crawls down Riley’s arm. They
both watch it disappear into a tiny tear in the bottom corner of
the drywall.
Sometime later, they stand together, with Riley’s arm
bracketed around Sarah’s waist for support. They climb the stairs
and close the basement door behind them. The living room couch
sinks beneath Sarah and she listens as Riley putters about the
connected kitchen.
“Tea?” Riley asks, already turning on the stove and fetch-
ing another mug to place next to Sarah’s abandoned one.
She doesn’t answer, but when the steaming mug is hand-

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ed to her minutes later, she accepts it. Riley takes a sip of her
own, and hums in content. Sarah watches, oddly soothed by the
familiarity of their evening routine. Her eyes catch on something
from within Riley’s hair, skittering along her scalp. A millipede,
tucked away and hidden in her dark hair. Sarah’s eyes fall lower
to the ladybugs dotted like moles along Riley’s neck, the cater-
pillars curled around her wrists beneath her sleeves, the crickets
dancing between their entwined feet.
The thought that they might have always been there oc-
curs to Sarah, but if so, what would it have changed?
Riley offers no answers or explanations, and Sarah leans
her head on her shoulder — another fly in her trap.

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“Entering El Morro” By n.l. rivera

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Comedian
By Samantha Szmuloz

Beneath the smiles, the jokes, and the laughs I force out of me
hides a wound deeper than any root traveling in the soil of the
earth, and darker than pig’s blood. It stretches wider and longer
as I slice into it with self-mockery, causing it to bleed out profusely.
I do not clean myself up, nor do I attempt to stitch myself up.
What is the point? No one sees a clown bleeding, anyway.

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Slight
By Allison D'Arienzo

(CW: body image issues, allusions to eating disorders)

I stand in the dimly lit kitchen

peeling away the flesh,
watching it fall into the garbage.
I find myself sucking in
the small pouch of my stomach
in the mere presence of an orange.
I release.

The notion of slimness plagues me

and consumes my thoughts
even on the good days.
Idealized sallow skin and bones
make my cheeks redden like rouge
as I realize people can perceive me
walking home with my lunch.

It comes in waves, rising and falling

like the breath in my lungs.
My ability to expel those thoughts
falters and I find myself listening
to the voice that tells me evil
secrets of desire and beauty.
My appetite for oranges vanishes.
I release.

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Loose Walking
By Ashley Servis

I know where I am supposed to go,

What I am supposed to do,
How I am supposed to do it.
But, I am not actually in charge of those decisions.
Rationale carries me.
Muscle memory.
My mind floats.
My tongue sits weird in my mouth.
My toes attach to my feet oddly.
I can never stop bending and cracking them.
My wrists connect to my forearms in a way that feels wrong.
I am constantly rolling and shaking them out.
Even when my eyes are closed, it is like they are open.
No amount of blinking straightens them out.
When I am on autopilot I am okay.
When I realize my cerebellum has taken over I panic.
At this point,I prefer being in my own passenger seat.
It is safer than driving the car and crashing it.

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i wear jealousy
By Chloe Mortier

in my hair
woven in my curls
matting and knotting; brittle and dry
brushes and combs lost in its tangle

in my heart
pumping through each vein
curdling and sizzling my blood
till it’s empty and lifeless

in my eyes
watching joy grow in your life
while it shrivels in my garden,
the water from my ducts poisonous

in my smile
sewn carefully with a steady needle
stretched wearily for years on end
though fools nobody

in my ears
sweet nightingale laughter rising
from your lungs with others
while crows perch silently in mine

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i wear jealousy
in my toes, my fingers,
my knuckles, my eyelashes,
my whole fucking body

i wear jealousy
or does jealousy really wear me?

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Sleep Paralysis Demon

By Kiley Parker

glimmering lights
far away
mocking
twisting
turning
stitched into pitch
uncaring witness
to cruel, ashen earth

lavender curtains that lurch

caught in a wind that bites your cheeks
teasing you
who lies awake
helpless and
useless.
cheshire grin
hidden between fabric folds
tickles you,
calls for you,
as if you could turn away
from the thing
that
looms.

blankets that coil around snake around your torso

sweltering
prickly

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tight
too tight
not tight enough.
no help to you. they never were.

the tightness pushes static through your corpse

a fuzziness that drizzles through your fingertips
nowhere to go
nowhere to hide
under your woolen walls
that tremble at the slightest touch
a slack feeling in your hands that never quite leaves
but never quite stays.
the bubbling bile that rises in your throat
oozing from your lungs
thick
heavy
it's so hard to breathe.

there is no slumber
no sandman coming to your rescue,
no hallucinations to save you from your fate
no relaxing
no breathing.

it is with you from under the covers

and it is not leaving.

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The Lake of Memories

By Benjamin Schnur

That moment, standing in the cul-de-sac in June

While the fireflies began to flicker
Watching the tail lights vanish into the fading light
As she left to find herself a better life
Is everything to me.
And yet it is nothing.
Nothing more than one stone being thrown
Across the smooth black surface
Of the lake of my memories.
I stand on the shore in a field of white poppy
And watch it sink to the bottom, with all the others
Pebbles and boulders, fragmented shards
Crystalized in the depths.
Unremarkable, yet sublime.
Infinite, yet contained.
Living, yet passed.
Though the surface may be a mirror,
It is not myself I see when I peer into those murky depths.
It is those tail lights, going and going,
But never gone.
Memories of the past remain intact,
Because the past exists only in memory.
Those waters, still as death, preserve me
In a motionless frame of that early summer evening,
So long ago, but so fresh in my mind
Like a fly in amber remains the captive
Of some long vanished pine.

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A Tree Speaks
By Robert Pallante

a town lies in the pines — now abandoned,

down along the great rancocas near the devil’s lair.
there stands a tree that holds ghosts and spirits,
see within the branches tattered rags blow.
look! the bark — it is wounded and bleeding,
touch your hand to the trunk — ba bump, ba bump, ba bump.
then a voice says to you, go to the water, go to the water,
you start to run, the cold nighttime air blowing around you.
again you hear — go to the water, go to the water! faster, quicker!
keep going, you are nearly there, go and immerse yourself!
soon you find yourself along a bog, berries float on the surface,
you break the veil and wade in, water sitting just below your breast.
plunge yourself beneath! the voice says, breathing its will into you,
you drop below the water, finding yourself in the pitch black void.
once more there comes a voice, you have destroyed the old,
coming up back under the moonlight, for the first time you look around.
within the ripples you see the reflection of the universe, stars after stars,
look up and witness the ever expanding heavens pinpointed by worlds.

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“within the ripples you see the reflection of the

universe, stars after stars”

~“A Tree Speaks” by Robert Pallante

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A Ravenous Tradition
By Jason Benson

There it sat, more than a chair yet less than a throne.

Gilded with silver and gold in tragic streams, as if an angel had
been killed atop it and allowed to bleed rivulets of metallic blood
down the entire thing. A crest forged from necrotic blackened
steel sprawls like tendrils across the rear of the backrest. It sits
abnormally lower than the majority of the room, resting cen-
tered at the bottom of a circular pit surrounded by stark stone
bleachers. This was likely meant to be a humble placement for
a humble throne but the message has been corrupted by time.
The construction was all hard edges, no soft curves to be seen.
Not in any way a comfortable spot to rest, as if it was designed
to remind its wielder of the reason they sit there. The dark stone
material the mock cathedra is crudely assembled from is cracked
and worn from centuries of use. The seat was stained a dark
crimson color from years of tradition. The shackles bolted to the
arms of the cruel chair are covered in rust. This was not a seat of
reign or rest.
This is a seat of remorseful renewal, and return to youth
and life meant to have been left behind. The many who have
died attempting to place themselves upon that occult device
now surely haunt the few who were successful in doing so. A
tradition they call it, established righteously by the first king
and practiced desperately by every king since. The dark priors
enforced the sacrifice in the name of their god despite being long
abandoned by any form of true divinity. So many innocent lives
sacrificed so that their blood may run and grease the arcane cogs
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and wheels that drive the throne to do its terrible job. It’s truly
an awful day, dreaded across the kingdom. Prisoners are the
first to go, if there aren’t enough of them, the next to be given
to the horror are any and all opposition to the throne. Political
revolutionaries, activists, dissidents, and many artists compose
the so-called opposition. Redemption, it’s called for the scum
and plaque that plague us and seek to destroy our way of life,
redeemed through this great unwilling service to the crown.
Sometimes though even the redeemed are not enough and the
priors will pull from their very own clergy, those who are so
brainwashed by their sermons that they see this as being chosen,
as an honor, to die so their god-king may live.
Sitting in this cursed place is the king of this equally
cursed land. His bones are protruding and showing through his
worn out skin. His frame gaunt from malnutrition, his ability
to sustain himself long since corroded. He is a shrunken figure,
as if dried out by the countless years in power. His skin gray
and putrid, his eyes lifeless. The tragic look of a life long past its
intended end date sits heavy upon his brow. With a shaky breath
he sits, nearly dead in his throne. A corpse adorned with a bru-
tally assembled crown, a symbol of his damned title. The scars
that cover him tell the story of a man not built for a crown or a
throne, even one as lowly and barbaric as this. His skin pock-
marked by the sacrifices and conquests this position requires of
its holder. He aged even faster this time, reaching such a decrep-
it state in only a decade or so, maybe soon the toll will become
too much for even a man such as him. The king rests, covered in
blood from the day's proceedings. The blood of the many soon
runs through his veins again, and the ritual is complete. Soon

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enough his skin is plump and tanned like a man who spends his
days tending fields. His bones once again hide behind ropes of
sinew and muscle. The once small shriveled figure is now tower-
ing. His breath is now steady and concentrated. The shackles of
the occult device fall from his wrists and he looks upwards. He is
renewed again, yet his eyes remain as lifeless as ever.

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“re:birth” By Avery Demarest

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Spineless
By Allison D'Arienzo

CW: Gore

The blood that stains my hands comes off with ease

and slowly turns the warm sink water pink.
My chest, delicately carved, shows where I reached to seize
my heart. The organ beats on the floor, stink
invading the vile kitchen, foul and green.
Red wine can’t judge me when I get a glass
and serve it with a side of cheese and spleen.
When peeling off my face, I try to preserve
the carefully applied powder and blush
without a smudge. Mistakes combine with rouge;
my fingers press together. They will crush
the fragile skin. I cannot blame abuse
on those without a mind for consequence.
The bones within me share this ignorance.

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Not Your Publicity Stunt

By S.E. Roberts
Inspired by Naveed A. Khan

(CW: Discussion of Suicide)

What is with
the romance we have dressed
suicide
in? Like the act
is something to be wined and dined,
draped in jewels
and set on display, or
paraded across a television screen,
and not mourned
in quiet moments
with black sorrow and silent grief.
I am so sick of the idea
that someone can be too beautiful
for this world.
There is no such thing as beauty
that cannot be contained
by the scope of an entire planet surrounded
by a hundred thousand
universes.
And, for your information,
the tragic artists just called:
they’re tired
of living the same, perpetuated lies
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when there are plenty enough artists left

to come up with something
better.
And if you think those stereotypes
had the right idea, please.
Grow
up.
Your creative vision
is not so immense
that only death can lighten the load.
You are not so special in your burden,
and neither was
Plath
or Berryman
or Woolf
or Wallace
or Hemingway
or any of them.
And I am sorry, but please understand —
I say this only because your suffering
is not meant to be a spectacle
or an achievement for others to aspire to.
I say this because you need to live
for your anguish
(and for what comes after)
not die for it.
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Nobody
becomes worth more
when they are
gone.
Let me tell you something:
people are not rain,
or snow,
autumn leaves
or gentle sun beams —
they do not look beautiful
when they fall.

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Theia's Dance
By William Kaminer

Theia danced at the dawn of all things.

Spinning against the black of night,
She emerged from the edge of the sky.
Blazing with the abandon of one damned.
Orbiting erratically, like a top about to fall.

She trapped me in her pull

And dragged me evermore near.
Until I could smell burnt copper.
Until I was tangled in her mercury hair.
Until the space between us was so small our air was one.

Then she came into me,

and we were all at once consumed.
By hellfire, passion, thunder.
Screaming heat consumed the dark
And in that moment the sun appeared dim.

Her impact sent me spinning.

I awoke burning, clutching my broken core.
My Theia was gone, engulfed by oblivion.
As my skin cooled, I looked to the sky.
The blushing amber moon smoldered.

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Demons
By Alexa Diamant

CW: Brief reference to suicide

My feet have felt so heavy lately

dragging along these chains of steel.

My demons follow me
Watching.
Waiting.

They laugh when I bleed

and bleed when I laugh.

We’ve lived in a tight knit void

filled with nothing but an eerie silence
where days are agonizing and
nights never end.

My demons worry about me

Giving in.
Giving up.

They’ve made sure the void

grips my conscience in a chokehold,
making it impossible for me see the
violence I’ve created.

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They worry about my time

left on earth.
I worry about my time
left on earth.

In the end, there can only be one.

I have to be the last one standing.

But how can I kill my demons

without killing myself?

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Apathy
By Jason Benson

Their eyes peek through their windows and railings convenient-

ly so high above that they can watch guiltless. I am Kitty, I am
beggar, I am every innocent killed while innocent eyes no longer
innocent watched apathetic from their balconies and windows.

Their eyes peek through their windows and railings,

conveniently so high above that they can watch guiltless.

I am Kitty,
I am pauper,
I am every innocent killed while innocent eyes, no longer inno-
cent, watched from their windows.

So inactive in their apathy they are like the very balconies hang-
ing there motionless.

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Seasons Muses
By Alexis Atwood

The falling leaves, so gracious they loom

And weave through the trees not a moment too soon.
The seasons muse, like winds on the sea,
Breathes cool waves of autumn to thread new degrees.

Her harsher sister then steals the light,

And paints over harvest with swells of white.
The seasons muse, like a seafaring man,
Cares only for strokes that shun the land.

Then come the hums of a blossoming spring,

To flow awake new and resting things.
The seasons muse, like the ebbing shore,
Sings to recede and then sings once more.

The dizzying plight of those summer waves

Do little to keep the poet from page,
For the seasons muse, like inspired man,
Needs little but water, paper, and pen.

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“Hello Little Sir” By n.l. rivera

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Pit
By Kel Pedersen

You sink a blade into sweet flesh

and carve a heart in two.
Twist with both hands
and pull. Cradle imperfect halves
in two palms. Dig a thumb
beneath stone and lick up what spills.
Cut halves into quarters,
feel them bleed out between your fingers.
Offer a taste so we might
sink our teeth in together.

I lick my lips,
chase phantom sweetness,
and say,
No thank you.

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Life
By Jason Benson

Through Fire and Mud we walk with faith.

Walk with the sun blazing along in pace.
A desert before us, oh what a great plight.

Through Tundra and Toll we walk with sorrow.

Walk with steady foot on ice seeking tomorrow.
A glacier before us, oh what a great plight.

Through Crevice and Cave we walk with fright.

Walk o’faithful through the dark of the night.
Oblivion before us, oh what a great plight.

Through Terror and Turmoil we walk without law.

Walk adamant through hell, steadfast to the maw.
Desolation before us, oh what a great plight.

Through Smoke and Fog we walk without sight.

Walk fast through the blind seeking respite.
A wasteland before us, oh what a great plight.

Through all the Suffering and Challenges reprised.

Walk not to the edge, not to demise.
It all lay before us, behind us as well,
Life stretches before us, oh what a great plight.

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Heartbreak
By S.E. Roberts

If you have been especially unfortunate in your life

(or fortunate — who’s to say, really?)
you will have met heartbreak,
at one point or another.
You might not call it that,
but you know it —
the feeling of your heart in your stomach,
tears in your throat,
acid in your mouth,
the grief that curls up inside you
like it’s making a home in every joint and hollow bone.

I don’t mean to make you a bystander

to yet another relationship
you will never be a part of,
but I know heartbreak intimately.
She has kissed my hands,
wrapped promises around my ribs,
settled her sadness along the line of my spine.

Even now, I cannot look at her

without noticing all the details
that make me want to hold her hand.
What wonder she has conditioned into me!
And what sorrow.

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If I am the especially fortunate type,

(or unfortunate — who’s to say, really?)
I will continue to meet with her
until the stars burn out.

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If You're Thinking of Trying

to Fly
By Jason Benson

Don’t.
Remember the unforgiving nature
of gravity;
that what goes up,
must come down.

And come down you will.

With all the grace of
a meteor,
you’ll watch your life become
a crater.

But how are you

supposed to stay grounded
when you know that those
few moments in the sun
were the best of Icarus’ life?

When you know that

his single tear of joy
turned to steam
on his cheek
as he smiled.

How, after that,

can you not dream
of building your own wings?

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Avant
Editorial Board

Editor in Chief: Nyds Rivera

Senior Editor: Robert Pallante
Treasurer: Kerry Sojka
Senator: Alexis Atwood
Assistant Editor: Lance Serafica,
Kelsey Pedersen
Layout Editor: Chloe Mortier
Social Media Coordinator: Robert Pallante

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