Fall 2015 Chronicle

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Fall 2015



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The ChronicleWells College

Aurora, New York

Chronicle Board

Cover Design by Indy Harrington

Editors in Chief

Senior Visual Arts Editor

Senior Poerty Editors

Poerty Editors

Senior Fiction Editor

Fiction Editors

Senior Non-fiction Editor

Non-Fiction Editors

Senior Design Editor

Julie Cavanaugh

Tegan Watson

Windy Wells

Kylie Nishioka

Patrick Munroe

Windy Wells

Julie Cavanaugh

Morgan Weigal

Cristina Moreno

Tegan Watson

Patrick Munroe

Leandra Campbell

Courtney Brindisi

Emily Badger

Cristina Moreno

Windy Wells

Tori Russell

Courtney Brindisi

Elaine Gwathney



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Table of Contents

Home by Kailin Kucewicz (short story ).......................................................... 6

When We Took to The Streets by Missy Brewer (short story )........................ 7

She Remembers by Audrey Woolver ( poem )................................................. 10

Missing by Christina Moreno ( poem )............................................................. 10

winter song. by Michelle Lee ( poem ).............................................................. 11

New Beginnings by Julie Cavanaugh ( poem ).................................................. 11

Wells College Aerial View by Kylie Nishioka ( photo ).................................. 12

Almost Home by Daleysha Lockhart ( poem ).................................................. 12Brother, Dear. by Michelle Lee ( poem )........................................................ 13

Again by Kailin Kucewicz ( poem )................................................................ 13

Scars by Atiya Jordan (poem)...................................................................... 14

Bird Bath by Abena Poku (photo).............................................................. 15

First Date by Raea Benjamin (short story).................................. ...................... . 16

Naos by Katt Corah (poem)........................................................................... 18

Stairway Down by Indy Harrington (photo)....................... ..................... ......... 19

We Are Not Strangers Here by Atiya Jordan (short story)......................... .... 20

the inbetweeners by Michelle Lee (poem).................................................... 21

The Life. by Christina Moreno (short story)...................... ..................... .......... 22

Archway by Abena Poku (photo).............................. .................... .................. 23

Smoke and Ash by Michelle Lee (short story)............................. ..................... 24

Blue Skies and Dusty Boots by Indy Harrington (photo)........................... ...... 27

For Those Who Need A True Story by Atiya Jordan (poem)...................... ... 28

Coal Mine by Katt Corah (short story)............................................................ 29Straying with the Night (Tasmania , Australia) by Kylie Nishioka (photo)........ 32

how to bake bread. by Michelle Lee (poem)......................... ...................... .......33

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Editor’s Note

This semester has certainly been a learning experience! Windy Wells

and I both joined Julie Cavanaugh as editors-in-chief, and after

working out some kinks our amazing staff has pulled together this

semester’s Chronicle: Nostalgia. With autumn fading away and graduation

already on many of our minds, we’ve been feeling nostalgic lately – and

whether you’re just starting at Wells or you’re getting ready to go into your

final semester, we hope this issue will serve as a welcome reprieve from the

stresses of finals, resume building, and general adulthood ennui.

We received a fantastic amount of submissions, and we’re very excited to

present them to you now. Special thanks to Elaine Gwathney for her design

work, and congratulations to our contest winners Indy Harrington (visual

arts), Kailin Kucewicz (nonfiction), Michelle Lee (fiction), and Atiya Jordan

(poetry)



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HomeKailin Kucewicz

Ilost my home years ago, and I don’t know where I put it. I searched and

searched and I finally made a home out of him. I made a home in his college

level apartment, in the room with the black mold that I never knew about. I

made a home amongst beer bottles and Xbox games, next to childhood books

and dirty laundry. I made a home in between his roommate and our co-workers.

I made him my home, and then he left.

So I continued my search.

Two years later you found me. You found me in the heat of the summer.

With your toothy smile and sly one-liners. You found me, and my love for cats,

my comfortable boyfriend, and my fear of settling. You found me attractive and

funny, and I was this wild beautiful thing that you could only dream of.

Then I found you, found you on the dirty hardwood floor with the sticky mess

of least weekends adventures next to four week old food stained dishes. I found

you on the other side of me, sandwiched between you and my comfortable boy-

friend. I found you and your toothy smile and the smoke on your breath and

the alcohol sliding down our throats. I found you charming and attractive in the

most unconventional ways.

I found my home. I found my home in the scent of your skin. I found home

in the way you look at me like I am your whole world, like without me the sun

would never shine again and all of your happiness would be drained, and the life

would be sucked from your soul, like without me you would die. You looked at

me as if you had never known joy until you saw my face. I found home in your

gentle kisses and your tight hugs. I found home in your words and your pres-

ence and your love. And I know that I am not supposed to make homes out of

people, but just this once, I think it would be ok. Because when I’m with you, I

am at home.

When We Took to The StreetsMissy Brewer

W e couldn’t contain ourselves. We couldn’t possibly stay inside our neat

little homes when darkness fell, cool air broke the relentless heat of the

day and the street became empty. Clearwater Drive was ours for the taking, and

we did not let the opportunity pass us by.

My brother, Tyler, and I were never forward enough to instigate the night’s

activities, so we would eagerly await the knock on our door. We could always

expect it between eight and nine o’clock at night and we would act as if we had

been doing extremely important things, all of the important things that an eleven

and fourteen year old could be expected to do. In reality, we had been watch-

ing the clock, anticipating the appearance of Jackson’s and Jacob’s faces on the

other side of the screen door and the invitation to run across to the neighbor’s

yard and get our last companion, Braden, outside.

Without fail, we would start by playing hide-and-go seek-in-the-dark (we always

added the last phrase to distinguish our nighttime adventure from the daytime

game of children), and that’s exactly how one summer night—the most memora-

ble—started. Jacob, the best seeker of the five of us, had just finished getting all

of us out when Jackson, his older brother, commenced his usual complaining

and desire to just stop the game then and there. Very rarely did we stop there,

but Jackson was a proud thirteen-year old who hated being beat by his younger

brother. The rest of us agreed to move on to a different game that particular

night and I, the only girl, was simply happy to have kept a place with this group

of raucous, adventurous boys.

Jackson’s complaining stopped the fun of hide-and-go-seek-in-the-dark as

without him playing we lost our makeshift leader. So we sat. And we thought.

On the concrete porch of Jacob and Jackson’s house, we laid out all of the pos-

sibilities of the night before us. Go inside and play video games: No. We had far

too much energy and not using the open space before us would be a waste. Start

a game of football: No. Throwing a ball in the dark is never a good idea, and

I was a liability to whichever team took me. Invent another game that involved

running, hiding and chasing: Maybe. But, we could never agree on what the rules

should be. Explore the wood: Now. That was exciting.

Behind our three houses, there was a wood that extended to the next main

road. During the day it was easy enough to navigate through the trees and brush,

but the night opened up many more mysteries. Braden and Jacob were the

strongest advocates for this idea. They were excited by the darkened wood that

we hadn’t yet tackled, and they could imagine all of the hidden adventures in

those shadowy corners. Jackson was hesitant because while his brother

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and best friend could see the exciting opportunities, he could see everything that

could go wrong. Tyler also was not too keen on the idea, but that was because he

was, quite frankly, too scared. He used the excuse that he was the oldest of the

group and that he had to watch out for me, his little sister, but we all knew that

he was the most frightened of the dark and the unknown. And I just wanted to

impress the older boys. Through all the nights that we spent together, my great-

est fear was that I was holding them back, preventing them from doing more

daring, adventurous activities because I was the only girl as well as the youngest

by six months.

Braden and Jacob won out, in the end. Well, by winning, I mean that Jack-

son allowed the two of them to scout ahead and then agreed that the rest of us

might follow. The remaining three of us sat on the porch, awaiting their return.

Tyler alternated between going back to our cozy home, but he couldn’t stand

the thought of his little sister being braver than he was, so he stuck it out. And Jackson stayed, I believe, to make sure that his brother came back safe. Despite

the boys’ differences, they were a pair that could not be easily broken up.

The two adventurers returned about ten minutes after they left and they did

not come back disappointed. As they came running around the house, panting

heavily, Jackson, Tyler, and I knew that the wood didn’t only contain whispering

branches and leaves. Voices, they said. There were voices coming from some-

where in the woods. These voices were excited—it sounded like they were having

a gathering or, more accurately, a party. We were not really sure what kind of

party they could be having in the middle of a wood at ten o’clock at night, but the

idea that there was actually something to explore was thrilling and unexpected.

Into the wood we went.

The night only seemed to grow darker as we made our way to the wood, and

the beams of our flashlights were ineffective against the black of the night. As

soon as we stepped into the wood, our quiet, safe suburb disappeared. We were

locked in a thicket of trees and the only way to get out was to move forward. In

a single file line we walked down the path—Braden, Jacob, myself, Jackson and

Tyler—all holding on to the back of one another’s shirts. My heartbeat quick-

ened as I felt the thrill of danger and I could hear the boys’ breath becoming

steadily faster. Each of us knew that this was the most daring thing that we had

done yet. Finally, we had escaped the confines of the yard and ventured into wild

territory that belonged only to the animals.

Voices of young men reached us as we rounded a bend in the path and we

stopped in our tracks. It would have been easy to turn back then. It was enough

to have heard the voices that Braden and Jacob had heard. But this was a night

for the unknown, and with only a few more steps we would turn into the clearing

from which the voices were coming. We couldn’t gather enough breath to talk

to each other, but we turned the flashlights off and continued to walk as one

towards the disembodied voices.

The men in the clearing had enough light with which we could see. As we

crouched in the bushes, we could make out the small gathering of men who

were talking and laughing, smoking and drinking. They were not worried about

keeping quiet, either. The five of us glanced at each other, trying to decide what

to do next. Jackson made the motion to head back, there wasn’t much more

that we could do. Going into the clearing would be foolish, as we were kids and

they were—at least—in their early twenties. As we were turning to go back down

the path Tyler, being the most nervous of the group, tripped and fell as he was

getting up.

The strangers immediately stopped their chatter and looked at our hiding

place. One of them shouted at us to come out, and that’s when we ran. In a fren-

zy of panic we ran without thought back towards the house, our safe spot. Leaves

hit my face, branches snagged my clothing and roots in the ground threatened to

trip my clumsy feet. In a rush of pounding feet and heavy breathing the five of uspoured out of the wood and into our quiet neighborhood.

We could still hear the distant voices of the men, but no one was pursuing us.

I suppose they didn’t think it was worth chasing after a group of kids that were

most likely harmless. And we were. At the time, we didn’t understand much

of what they were doing, though we came to find out later that the clearing was

partly a marijuana field, cleverly hidden within the wood. For the time being,

though, we were more than satisfied with what had happened that night. The

thrill of discovery, the overwhelming adrenaline of the escape and the success of

returning culminated to make that exploit the best one in a long series of night-

time escapades.

As we grew older we ultimately grew apart as we melded into different friend

groups and the knocks on the door came less often. Braden moved and Tyler

went to college, followed by Jackson. In the same year that Jackson went to

college, Jacob died in a snowmobiling accident. It was sudden and awful and a

terrible reminder that life could be taken far too early. Tyler and I saw Braden

and Jackson at the funeral after years of separation and I just cried, because

nothing could be the same. I left our town for college a year later and the loss

eased without the house as a constant reminder. We five have split in a way that

is devastatingly permanent. But I’ve always remembered those nights when we

ignored everything else and came together to take the neighborhood.

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She Remembers Audrey Woolever

Puffs of dandelions dance delicately in the breeze and

land lazily atop the pond.

A dragonfly perches itself on a lily pad while

a swan bathes its marshmallow body under the bridge.

He takes her hand and pulls her close.

They are against a tree. Their tree.

The wind picks up and sends a shiver up her spine.

His breath on her neck warms her immediately when he

says I love you and tickles her neck with

quick kisses. But those words can’t take the war away, can’t

keep him here with her.

She remembers this with hot tears running

down her face and the feeling of the stubble of his beard she

hated so much but never made him shave off because

he loved it so. The feeling of his skin against hers and the bark

of the tree against her back.

Those feelings that she will never have again.

Missing Cristina Moreno

Beaten up and drier than an old forgotten paper towel, his large numb hands

type away at a keyboard. It always took a long time to write with only two long

fingers, but he had the needed patience to continue his work. The house was

heated and the animals lay nearby, yet it still felt as desolate as a long forgotten

building on a winter’s afternoon. While the typing grew slower, he stared blankly

at the empty IM box, one question hanging in the air; was he missing his child?

The sound of footsteps answered the silent question and tears came to his eyes,

but when he turned to the doorway, the usually stubborn water was gone. She

was there and the warmth was back.

winter song.Michelle Lee

eomma eomma I am so tired of carrying the fault lines carved into my back of

construction paper people and plastic places holding up memories that feel l ike

dust caught in the light eomma do you know how to stop what we are doing to

ourselves or is the answer in a glass bottle drifting in the ocean eomma I have too

many words gathered in my brain but my mouth is filled with feathers clinging to

my throat did it feel like dying sometimes I feel like I am dying and being reborn

again and again and I can’t get out eomma are you this tired too.

New Beginnings

Julie Cavanaugh

Take the breath from my lips,

whose color has faded.

Be the light in my eyes,

which age has dimmed.

Let your voice resonate in my ears,

drown out my melancholy tune.

Take me in your arms,

hold my fragile frame.

Bring back my youth,

which was lost to time.

Make new memories with me,

combat an unforgiving past.

Give me your patience,

so I can learn peace again.

Grant me your love

and I’ll shine anew.

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Wells College Aerial View Kylie Nishioka

Almost HomeDaleysha Lockhart

Slowly waking from bed I rise

Stretch and rub my eyes.

I fall clumsily from the top bunk in a lazy state

I know what morning it is, even before I fully wake

Rumbling and feeling a tummy ache

“Ma! I’m coming, don’t let her lick the bowl!”“You woke up too late, it’s after noon, maybe next time you’ll learn.”

Brushing my teeth with eyes closed

Bright lights behind lids since sleep still has a hold

Mommy’s making Sunday dinner, the cake is already poured

I feel like home and it’s tugging a bit at my soul.

Because I’m miles and miles away but I’m waiting until she’s stirring food,

And taking a swipe at the mixing spoon

Knowing then that she could see me but she allows it with a smile

“You’d better have an appetite.”

I smile and nod while I pour my cereal

We’ll be eating at six, but I won’t be home

Because I’m only here in my thoughts

But the smell of red velvet batter brought me close.

Brother, Dear.Michelle Lee

My brother holds a cavern

of ash under his chest but

I know his hands are lighter

than mist and at dawn he

withdraws his anchor of

a spine vertebra

by vertebra.

They forced him in

with steel while thelarge thumps of water

caught starlight and I

watched while the fire

burned I just watched—

forgive me.

AgainKailin Kucewicz

Nothing in this world

haunts, like never getting to

say goodbye, again.

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Scars Atiya Jordan

Nobody in the world, nobody in history, has ever gotten their freedom

by appealing to the moral sense of the people who were oppressing them –

Assata Shakur

A smoldered

gun barrel

kissed twin scars

directly beneath

her breasts

where two bullets

are still cradled.

That mighty

boned sista

body wiped

clean of age

sage skin of

mahogany

clay stained

dreadlocks

splayed out

and open

trailing scents

of grapefruit

and orange pulp.

She has known love

fugitive love

slaves wishing to

caress freedom

catch a taste

of sweetness

beyond urine-

stained bars

silent wounds.

In the thundering

of night murdered

voices of comrades-

in-chains pull her

dreads back

to lick her

tender scars

the corners of their

lips shaped like Africa

tongues dripping

defeat and hollow echoes

of shattered generations

white-washed

trapped in this new age

of raw gunshot wounds.

Forty

one

shots.

Scars pulled back nestled with old

battered ones

shall no longer

be

SILENT.

BirdBath Abena Poku 14 15



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First DateRaea Benjamin

Ihad started my pick up truck a thousand times before, but this time my hands

shook a little and I struggled to get the key in the ignition. “Breathe man,

breathe” I whispered to myself before turning on the radio, rolling down my win-

dow and backing out of our long, bumpy driveway. Worries whipped through

my mind like the hot July wind whipped through my shaggy blonde hair as I

drove down the familiar dirt road. I peered out the window as I drove past the

Parkinson’s house. Their kids, Sarah and Tommy, were running around the

big pine tree in the front yard. When I glimpsed at them through the passen-

ger window, I was briefly overcome with memories of childhood carelessness.

I don’t exactly know why, but something about seeing those children almost

convinced me to turn my truck around and go back home. Maybe I could call Jenny and tell her I wasn’t feeling well and then spend my evening on the living

room couch next to my younger brother, watching Jurassic Park for the eighth

time this month.

I knew in the back of my mind that if I canceled on Jenny, I would regret it for

the rest of my life. Maybe it would have been okay if I had been on my way to

pick up some other girl for a date, but not Jenny Hawkins, not the girl I’d loved

from afar since the third grade. I could hear my mother’s voice ringing in my

ears while I sped past the familiar mailboxes and front porches that decorated

my neighborhood,

“You can’t just sit on the sidelines your whole life, Russ. You have to put your-

self out there. Show people what they’re missing! You’re a great kid!”

I took a long, deep breath and shook my head quickly, trying to get the hum

of those last few words out from inside of my ears. Maybe she was right. Maybe

I should start to put myself out there more, meet new people, try new things.

But, she was also wrong. She was wrong because I wasn’t a great kid. I wasn’t akid at all. I could hardly even remember the last time I felt like a kid. I could

remember how being a kid felt, sure. I could remember being worry free, feeling

happy and hopeful every day, but I couldn’t remember the last time I had actu-

ally felt that way. For years now I’d been hearing my parents, my teachers, my

peers, almost everyone I knew tell me to “lighten up,” “have some fun,” “live a

little.” For some reason though, no matter how hard I tried, I could never seem

to shake the constant feeling of uneasiness.

And here I was, still trying desperately to fight off that same feeling, and still

failing miserably to do so. Worrisome thoughts seemed to rush over me with ev-

ery breath I took. What if she thinks I’m weird? What if I can’t think of anything

to say? Oh God, what if I trip in the movie theater and spill popcorn everywhere

like I did that one time with uncle Dave? “No. Stop. Just relax” I mumbled to

myself under my breath, desperately trying to reassure myself that everything

would be okay. I couldn’t afford to get worked up and panic, not now, not here,

not in front of Jenny Hawkins.

I could feel my heart starting to beat faster as I got closer and closer to Jenny’s

house. I was sincerely worried that I was on the brink of having a heart attack.

I did my best to keep my cool while simultaneously sweating through the dress

shirt my dad had lent me the night before. My palms were slipping and sliding

all over the steering wheel of my truck. I was trying so hard to relax, but I just

couldn’t focus. I couldn’t compose myself. My stomach felt as though it was

doing summer salts and my eyes, though they were staring directly at the road,

wouldn’t seem to focus. I felt like I was going to puke or faint or both and so I

pulled the truck over. I was less than two minutes from Jenny’s house.

“I can’t do this, I just can’t do it!” I shouted, my eyes welling up with nervous

and frustrated tears. Feeling defeated, I rested my pounding head against thesteering wheel. I hated myself more than I ever had in my life. Here I was, two

minutes away from picking up the girl of my dreams and I was giving up, just like

I had so many times before. But this wasn’t supposed to be like all of those other

times. I wasn’t trying out for the soccer team or going stag to the homecoming

dance. This was different. I was doing this because I wanted to, not because I felt

like I had to or because my mother had been nagging me about it for months. I

was doing this because it was Jenny Hawkins. Jenny Hawkins, who I never in a

million years thought I would have the chance of taking on a date. The mere fact

that she had agreed to go to the movies with me was a goddamned miracle! Was

I seriously about to blow it?

I knew that this was the only chance I would ever get to make Jenny someone

more than the girl I secretly stared at during fifth period. I had to at least try;

if I didn’t, I knew I would never forgive myself. I picked my head up off the

steering wheel and wiped away the sweat left behind by my forehead. I took a

deep breath, rubbed my eyes, and ran my fingers through my hair. I turned the

key, started my truck, and pulled back onto the road. Regardless of how the date

went, I knew I had already accomplished something. I rolled my window down

and as I drove, the soft summer wind felt cool against my damp face. I clicked

on the radio, turned up the volume, and, as I pulled up Jenny’s driveway, I was

surprised to realize that I was even singing along.

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an ocean

of death’s pities, soft as spring.

With her love she plucked those seeds.

Dark half years

and cold winds

and Chaos.

But those were lies her mother sold

in dark halls.

Who gave her throne

uncontrolled?

Whose gilded crown?

All his loves drown

in seas below.

Stairway DownIndy Harrington

NaosKatt Corah

From the land

came

the sun.

Could none deny

soft spring?

Among the flowers wide

the glade

was shadowed

and Chaos.

She tended

life.

Who sent her prayer?

Beauty,

a bud for the golden naos.

All was good

up above.

Soon:

Chaos.

She was gone

and without the dawn.

Cry, love,

beyond

and mountained.

The deep

had no plans.

Who loved his

Chaos?

Godly blood

all life

back down,

to dark and home.

A fruit grown in

her soul.

Her love would voice

six seeds

of Chaos.

Claim her stole,

down deep,18 19



20 21

Speak her name and gently touch the souls of our ancestors.

We Are Not Strangers Here Atiya Jordan

The more the truth was deeply hidden behind imprisoned walls and shaking

branches, the terms “urban” and “black” became interchangeable. Then

and still now it is even easier to believe that our history originated in the cities,

and that we are a people of concrete jungles, far re-moved from the mango trees,

rivers, and the grasslands. But as an Afrikan first, searching for the connections

gives me hope. As a woman next, I want so badly to carry the earth in my womb

and give birth to strange, yet divine fruit. And lastly as a poet renewed, I write

letters to my ancestors with no anticipation of getting responses. I immerse my-

self in our binds to nature, those that haunt and those that nurture and renderingthose scenes throughout pages and pages.

I miraculously became drawn to the spirit dive. Not embarking on such a dive,

I became drawn to a black man’s story of his connections to the natural world. A

young boy, faraway from the sea in his Detroit hometown, dreamt of exploring

the world of the deep seas. As he reached into adulthood, the historical con-

nections he would discover went beyond any childhood fantasies he once had.

He and a group of black divers began to explore the wreckage of the slave ship

Henrietta Marie. The bittersweet feeling was inescapable for these divers. Diver

and journalist Michael Cottman shared his story in his memoir, Spirit Dive, in

which he proves that we as a black people are no foreigners to the natural world.

And I consider myself a spirit diver.

I’ve immersed myself into the old-growth woods that is far from yellow cabsand empire state buildings. The decision to go to school in Aurora, NY had be-

come an escape plan to take a break from the New York City life. Where I have

resided for twenty years, my birds are jarring sirens and metallic gunfire. Their

broken wings stained the walls of bricked houses and sidewalks. Cornfields and

deep pasture are all I see here. There are no bodegas on the corner where dice

is being tossed and brown paper bag bottles lined against curbs. And glass shat-

tered on the ground. Here there are fewer cracks in the concrete because the

good green rolls deep. There are no crooked streetlights and lampposts. Trees

are good for something here.

The lakes up here may not be the bluest, but a city girl like me made the de-

cision to dive into the Cayuga Lake one afternoon in August. Its body stretched

across horizons and the way it curled around the wooden boardwalk, I was

amazingly fearful. The waves jived to the warm ballad of the wind. A good friend

and I counted the steps until we were at the edge of the boardwalk. We dived

in. Zebra mussels snagged onto my toes, but invited me to explore the myste-

rious depths of the lake. It was dark underneath. But I realized how slowly my

blood intermingled with the rhythms of the water. The Cayuga and I coexisted.

Although I may not historically connect, it doesn’t matter because but it was still

an experience where I found myself in becoming apart of natural environment.

As an urban girl, nature had never been that spiritual experience where I

could run to. New York City is full of parks to indulge that experience, however

I had never felt that spirit dive. I have enjoyed long walks on Jones Beach where

I would create silly languages in the sand. But I hated the sand in my hair. I loved

swimming and never would put a time on when I became tired of feeling the wa-ter soften my limbs. I’ve been apple picking too. Fall has always been one of my

favorite seasons because it gives me the chance to jump in puddles of colorful

leaves. Trees are made for something in an apple orchard. I would climb sturdy

branches and pick apples until I cannot fit any more. The crispy grasses beneath

my fall boots were always a pleasure.

But the stars dim no matter where I am. Stars, I imagine my ancestors dreamt

about cuddling with in the shackled depths of slave ships. Cottman was able to

see the truth within the shackles eaten away by the salt. I want to write a poem

like I have dug dirt with my bare hands. I want to dive into the soils and let

nature expose the truth within itself.

the inbetweenersMichelle Lee

there is nothing in the

history books about us

and our existence only lives

in the spaces and the pauses

between words. we are

shivering from the ocean

clinging to our pores what

monstrous deeds have we

done.

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22 23

The Life.Cristina Moreno

Iopened my eyes to a new day and to see the person I happily serve everyday.

This may seem a simplistic thought, and you may be right, but not in the way

you would think. The disheveled man before me is my boss and manager. I

don’t exactly get paid, but I am happy to do my job for Him.

As far as I can remember, I’ve helped Him throughout His everyday, happy

to be depended on and in turn cared for. While I get to cook, clean, and sing

for Him along with everything else that I do, He makes sure I stay awake and in

top health. Even when an accidental injury happens, He makes sure I’m treated

immediately.

Yes, I believe that I am very lucky.

Today is a day like any other for this time of the year. He wakes up a little

after the sun and eats His breakfast that I made for Him after a short shower.

He always tells me it would “wake Him up,” though He’s already awake. I don’t

question it, of course. I just enjoy the sounds of knowing He’s walking around.

Normally my kind isn’t allowed in an office or workplace without some sort

of permit or badge, but He always said I was special. In reality, He’s the spe-

cial one. He owns the building He works in and I help Him with paperwork

throughout the day. He told me a long time ago that the work I do for Him was

done by some person called a “secretary”. That sort of job is rare now and only

seen in poor areas.

As it is know, there are many rules that I have to follow as part of who I am

to stay within my job’s guidelines. One of them is to keep the unreasonable side

to my programming, my “emotion” in check. A relationship with Him would be

forbidden.

But He has shown me love.

If anyone were to find out, I would be dismantled piece-by-piece until my

main processor was all that was left. I would be thrown away, left to be without

Him- without the Master I know- left to worry if he’s being cared for and helped

throughout His day.

Out of all the human emotions that I have been programmed with, I believe

I know this one best: fear. Next to that, frustration and anger.

And hurt.

He never came after me.

He didn’t try to save me.

He didn’t argue the Love.

He didn’t fight for the Love.

So’s the life of an android.22

Archway Abena Poku

23



24 25

Smoke and AshMichelle Lee

It was a warm day in August when your parents dropped you, two suitcases, a

hamper full of sheets, and a box full of food off at college a few hours outside

of your hometown. Mom insisted on helping you set up the room, and Dad

stood in the corner mumbling about how you were growing up and needed to

figure out how to put on a fitted sheet by yourself. They hugged you in front of

your dorm building before leaving and you tried to remember the floral scent

of your mother’s perfume even though you knew you would be seeing them in

a few weeks during Family and Friends Weekend. When Mom was distracted

by parents she sometimes plays tennis with, Dad told you he had snuck a box of

condoms into your suitcase, and you’re still pretty scarred from that experience.

You met her during orientation for first years (the administration and a ma- jority of the students were against the term “Freshmen” because they didn’t be-

lieve in conforming to the institutionalized sexism in academia), when you were

placed in the same group as her. Max, cool senior and group leader, said, “I

know people hate ice breakers because they’re awkward as fuck but it’s an oc-

currence in life that you will have to accept like taxes... or free radicals. So, name

and fact. I’ll start off. I’m Max and my mother used to make me wear dresses

because she wanted a daughter. Next.”

You said your name was George, and you didn’t like the taste of caramel be-

cause that was the first thing that ever burnt your tongue. And before Max could

move on, the girl sitting next to you asked if anyone called you Georgie and you

said a couple people had tried, but it never stuck. It still never sticks. She told

everyone to call her “Jack” because her real name reminded her too much of

her father’s side of the family. Plus, she was against the idea that names had to

be gendered, and you thought she was so amazing that you just nodded along

and said, “Cool.”She looked at you with a raised eye, took out a pack of cigarettes, and said, “I

would offer all of you one, but I’m a st ingy bitch and can’t really afford to give

the fifteen of you all a smoke. There’s my fact,” before lighting it. The smoke

burned your eyes, but you didn’t really mind because you had never met some-

one like her and she was so impressive it scared you. From her black leather

jacket to her fraying jean shorts and her chipped black nails, you thought she

screamed nonconforming rebel. But then again, you never were any good at

reading people.

Thanks to a couple shared classes and close living quarters, you were pretty

confident that you could call her a friend to other people without her reacting

negatively. Sometimes you thought you were her only friend, but then you would

see her laughing with a group of girls and when you caught her eye and waved,

24

her smile would falter and it would be like she just stared right past you. Other

times, she would hold your hand and lead you around campus to do her errands

with her.

By Thanksgiving break, you could have told a stranger her favorite song and

season, her favorite brand of smokes and tights, but you couldn’t, for all that you

tried, understand where all her darkness came from. To be fair, teachers always

said you never lived up to your full potential.

Your first fight happened during finals week just before your first semester

ended, when you were in your room, studying the only thing standing between

you and sleeping for a week. Your roommate spent all his time in his boyfriend’s

room and thank fuck, because that meant you could blast shitty pop punk music

and cry over your biology notes in solitude. She slammed your door open and

started talking about how her philosophy professor was a fascist. You could feel

the tension manifesting itself into a headache at the base of your skull when you told her you didn’t have time to deal with her fictitious problems right now

so she poured her tea over your sheets. You slept on a makeshift bed made of

sweatshirts that night.

When you went home for winter break, Mom asked when you started biting

your nails again and said how she wished you wouldn’t because it had taken you

so long to break the habit. You didn’t talk to Jack for the rest of break because

you lacked the nerve and she was too stubborn to admit to any wrongdoing.

Once you thought about sending a text that said, “Hey,” but even that seemed

like too much.

When you got back to your room after the first day of classes, she was sitting

on your bed with a bag of chips talking about how no one has the decency to

be honest anymore and the potatoes might have been grown environmentally

friendly, but what about the undocumented workers that worked on the farm?

Jack hated spring. She hated how the wind got in the way of a sunny day. She

hated how there was mud everywhere. She hated how the ants had started to

come out, and she hated how much spring reminded her of change.

On Thursday nights, you watched the newest episode of some inane televi-

sion show about teenage werewolves because Jack insisted it was no fun to watch

alone. She would provide popcorn and lie on the bed with her elbow propped

up while you sat on the rug, squinting your eyes and trying to figure out the plot.-

One night, when your girlfriend asks about the last person who broke your

heart with nothing but honest curiosity in her voice, and despite how long it’s

been, you can only think about Jack. You think about the late nights spent in

her room telling her how organisms are categorized over illegally obtained wine

in lieu of actually studying for the exam. Sometimes she would bring up Gloria

Steinem and Judith Butler, but they didn’t really mean anything to you, so you

25



26 27

would nod and listen to her voice and feel her fingers run through your hair.

You can’t remember the sound of her voice or the color of her eyes and you

realize you didn’t really know her at all. You can’t remember her mother’s name

or where she grew up because you don’t think she ever told you. You know her

relationship with her father fell apart sometime during high school, but you can’t

remember why.

It’s only been six years since graduation but lying in your bed, staring into

Veronica’s brown eyes, remembering Jack, seems like trying to remember a

dream. Bits and pieces are clear, but so much seems to be missing. And when

you tell her about Jack, Veronica smiles and laughs and says she must have been

one hell of a woman and you think the two of them would have gotten along.

-

You get the invite for your ten-year college reunion, and you can’t really

process how much has changed. You wonder if she’ll be there. You wonder if

she still thinks about you.

-

“George.” You hear her voice and can’t remember how you could forget it.

It’s still confident but a little huskier, and you think she might not have stopped

smoking. You turn around and see her, still looking amazing and still wearing

mostly black.

“Jack-”

“Fuck, no one’s called me that in ages.” She smiles at you and runs her hand

through her hair, still long and a little darker.

“When’d you stop going by Jack?”

“When I hit grad school. I go by Emily now, but call me Jack tonight. For old

time’s sake.” She laughs and the smile lingers on her face but her eyes drift off

past your shoulder.

She looks back at you and says, “So. Did you do the whole married by 25,

white picket fence, 2.5 kids and a dog business? Tell me about your life, George.”

“Um, well.” You rub the back of your neck before continuing, “Yeah. I teach

high school biology, and I love it. You know, I love the kids, and I got married a

couple years ago. Veronica. She’s amazing. You should meet her!”

She gives a shrug and says, “Sure.” But you won’t hold her to it. You wonder

if you still have her number in your phone. Jesus, you wonder if she even has

the same number. You can’t remember deleting it, but you can’t remember not

deleting it so you make a note to check after. She looks at you with a half smile

still on her face, so you keep talking.

“And she would be here right now, but the doctor ordered bed rest and travel

isn’t good for someone as pregnant as she is.”

“Congratulations. When’s she due?”

“In a couple weeks, actually. Do you want to see a picture?”26

You’re halfway to getting your wallet, when you hear her say, “Maybe later.

Do you want a smoke?” You let out a laugh, loud and only a little forced because

under Emily is a hint of Jack.

“No. I’m okay. Thanks though. So how did your life turn out? You said you

went to grad school? I don’t think I even remember you applying.” And you

can’t. You can’t remember if she applied or what her thesis was about. In all

honesty, you can’t remember why you stopped talking.

She gives a small shrug and lights her cigarette. “Yeah. Took a year off and

traveled. Went to grad school. Figured my shit out. Worked out family prob-

lems. Life’s been good. I write screenplays and it’s great.”

She looks at you and you look right back and you doubt you’ll see her again

outside of reunions so you tell her the thing that kept you up more nights than

writing papers during school.

“Jack, you know, all those years ago, I think I loved you.”She sighs and gives you a sad smile. “Oh, Georgie.” She stamps out her ciga-

rette and places a hand on your cheek. You can smell the nicotine on her fingers

and the honey sweet smell of her perfume clinging to her wrist. “You can’t put

someone on a pedestal and call it love.”

Blue Skies and Dusty BootsIndy Harringtion

27



28 29

For Those Who Need A True Story Atiya Jordan

of most strange haunting

a photograph

the man a momenthistory begin

Bronxin its 30’s

disturbed a white poet over the edge over the edge for days into music

painfullyBillie sing:

Southern bear Blood leaves Blood Black body swinging

Strange fruit Bulging twisted

magnolia sweet fresh burning flesh

crows pluck

for the sun rot a Bitter crop

like stillborn fruit yet head

lines old maple

seedlings dug up lined along

hundreds in his own

garden.28

Coal MineKatt Corah

The mood was as dead as Harvey Wright, Loving Father, Rest in Peace....Too soon?

I am given a withering glare from my sister.I shrug.

She knows by now that I deal with my grief through the power of laughter. I suppose she was right in a way I wasn’t actually excited to be going to my

father’s funeral.I am not, after all, a horrible person.

It just sounded like a fun thing to say in my head, and I lack the control to notsay it. Words tumble from my mouth, a waterfall of improperly chosen words

in improperly chosen ways.

My grandmother is giving me the stank eye.I give her a halfsmile and a wink. She sniffs, holds her pocketbook to her chest as if I am planning on stealing

it from her,and turns away from me to stare at the open grave, above which hangs the darkly

painted coffin. Within is my father.More precisely, the corpse of my father.

I don’t truly think we can claim people are still the same when they no longerhave the ability to connect neurons.

To speak, to breath, to touch. When you die, you aren’t a person anymore.

Your body goes cold and stiff, the life that made it buoyant seeping from theflesh in

search of something more. Your skin shrivels and decays.

But before the decay sets in, people fawn over how you look like you’resleeping. Nonsense.

My father never slept in a tuxedo.

When you die you become an object. All the things that made you who you were are no longer there.I think people should just not have funerals.

Should remember the last time they saw their loved one alive, breathing, vibrant, warm. The last memory of what was my father should not be this

unearthly thing. This frozen doll, silent and cold, empty flesh in a tuxedo, surrounded by

flowers that I amallergic to.

(He was allergic to these flowers, too, but it doesn’t matter anymore because hisbody no

longer produces the reaction necessary for allergies.Death is the ultimate antihistamine.)

People are crying.I am not.

My father wouldn’t want people crying over his body, and even though these29



30 31

peopleknow that, they can’t help themselves.

Struck down in the prime of life.So said the newspapers, anyway.

The prime of life is really more along the lines of 30. He was 50.He liked to say 50 was the age at which people used to be dead by.

I think talking like that became something of a selffulfilling prophecy.Maybe the guy who murdered him heard him say i t once, gave him the idea.

(That guy, what’shisname, fancied himself a supervillain.Like those even exist.

My father was no superhero.He was a detective.

Not the World’s Greatest Detective, either. Just a detective.

In all honesty he was a pretty shitty one, I mean who can call themselves

a detective andnot be able to tell when their child is contemplating becoming one with thesidewalk.)

The priest is intoning something about ashes and dust.My father was an atheist.

He would be pretty pissed to know that some guy was sermonizing over hiscorpse. But my grandmother is Catholic as the day is long, and wouldn’t listen

to anything my sister and I said to the contrary when it came to how and where he was to be

buried. He wanted to be cremated.To avoid the grasping ground, the greedy pull of maggots.

But here he is, mannequinstill and preserved like a leaf pressed between bookpages. When you live to be as old as my grandma, I guess you get the right to be

an entitled assand completely disregard the wishes of your dead kid.

My sister whispers to me, tells me that I’m glaring at my grandma.I am.

I shrug and turn my attention back to the coffin.

I remember my father before he was a stiff cadaver, laid out before the eyesof my

extended family like a painting to be viewed.They all talked about how great he was, but they never mentioned the bad.

It was disingenuous.My father hated when people were disingenuous.

(He had said once that if you never mentioned a person’s faults, never noticedthem, then

you could never truly love them.Because love means loving someone despite all their faults.

Accepting them, working with them.He said a person is the sum of their faults.)

For his sake, I calculate the sum of his faults:He was always working.

He never had time for his kids.Never had time to speak or connect or care.

30

(I think he didn’t care, but he probably did in his own, distant, way. After all, it’s hard to be a single parent.

But when the hospital called him, after I had a ride with the cops, a millionquestions

about why I was at the edge of the apartment roofhe had stared at me like I was a stranger wearing the skin of his son.

He never asked me why I wanted to die.I don’t think I’ve ever gotten over that.

The only person who asked me that question was the hospital mandatedtherapist.

I couldn’t answer.There wasn’t an answer.

Sometimes, you just do things, even if they’re stupid, or if they hurt, because you can. Sometimes, it even feels like the right thing to do.

But after the fact, the reason was long gone.

The answer was the action itself.I think I know that now.)He was too loud in the quiet, too quiet in the loud.

Cared too much for strangers and too little for family....I think that’s what drove mom away in the end.

I don’t even know where she went.No one does.

She evaporated from my life like water in the sun.Not a trace left of her existence.

I don’t remember what she looked like.There are no photos of her in the house.

I think she really broke my father’s heart, smashed it into pieces so small thathe couldn’t

piece it back together, not even for his children. My father was sad.I inherited his sadness.

My sister, meanwhile, had dodged that particular inheritance. She could manage to be sun on a cloudy day with no effort needed. (But not

today, and not the day before, nor the day before that.

She had been thundering since they found dad’s body.)The priest is wrapping up his sermon, thank whatever.I think that whole “ashes to ashes” thing is outdated, anyway.

My father had not been born of ashes.He had been fire.

He burned.He burned out.

They lower the coffin, and with it I feel a sense of unresolved issues. Well, they’re not getting resolved now.

Grandma is blowing her nose noisily into her cloth handkerchief. Who even has those anymore, I ask my sister.

She elbows me in the gut.I want to roll with the hit, fall to the ground.

I don’t, because I don’t want more relatives thinking I’m a nutcase.I feel like I’m not sad enough.

But I’m sad everyday and have to fight to get out of bed, to be more than the31



32 33

tempest inbetween my ribs.

Grief isn’t onesizefitall, anyway.Perhaps my grief is its absence.

Maybe it will hit me tomorrow that my father is dead.Or maybe next year.

Or when I walk down the aisle, watching my bride or groom being walked bytheir father,

will I break down then, with the sudden realization that my father will never dothe same for those of us left behind?

My father had not believed in an afterlife, and neither do I. I believe we live andthen we die.

Lather, rinse, repeat.Maybe we’re reborn into something new.

I think my father will be reborn as a canary used in a mine. Able to detect the

deadly. Also the first to die.My father will be reborn as a canary.

It’s a thought so ridiculous that I choke on it, and then realize that I’m sobbing,despite my best efforts to keep my eyes dry.

My father as a canary.He fucking hated birds.

Straying with the Night (Tasmania, Australia)Kylie Nishioka

32

how to bake bread.Michelle Lee

gather a stone from all fifty states

bottle storm water from a shore

hold the salty sea breeze in your

alveoli while counting the steps

from here to there take that

number and divide by the years,

by the days, by the hours you

have waited in a house built

of birch wood where you have

answered every telemarketer to

build good credit with the universe

taken in the stray spiders swaying

in windows placed on looms half strung

with yarn made from your mother’s

mother’s silver hair unleash the

breath molding in your lungs

when you lay tonight under a

patchwork roof dripping starlight

stare at the glare of the moon and

whisper all the secrets curdled in

the lining of your skin making

muck out of your veins.

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Back Cover Design by Kylie Nisioka



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Fall 2015 Chronicle