Mosaic_F_2012.pdf
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Part of The Mosaic: Fall 2012
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Marist College Literary Arts
Society Presents:
THE
MOSAIC
Fall
2012
Mosaic Editors:
Kathryn Herbert
Catherine Natoli
Literary Arts Society Executive Board Members:
President:
Meg Flannery
Vice President:
Carolyn Rivas
Secretary:
Shannon Slocum
Treasurer:
Devin Dickerson
Web Master:
Victoria Huntsinger
Fox Forum Editors:
Miles Wellington- Deanda
Jessica Sturtevant
Mosaic Committee Members:
Stephanie Conte
Alexis DePuyt
Alanna Coogan
Rose Shannon
Michelle Crowe
*Special Thanks:
to Dr. Lea Graham, whose guidance made this
publication possible.
Front Cover art:
Grace Henderson, "Simplicity"
Back Cover art:
Victoria Huntsinger, "Bouquet"
Table of Contents
Letter from an Alumnus .........................................................................
.i
Life Sonnets
by: Daniel Wilson
Birth ............................................................................... 1
Childhood ......................................................................
7
Adolescence ...................................................................
11
Adulthood
................................................... ..................
23
Death ...........................
:
................................................. 34
Kermit the Frog
by: Ryan Zaccaro
.........................................................
2
The World Before Me
by: Michelle Zdunczyk
.....................................
3
Starfish Sonnet
by: Grace Henderson ...................................................
.4
Ether
by: Michelle Zdunczyk. .................................................................. 5
All in a Smile
by: Miles Wellington-Deanda ......................................... 6
Can't Help the Color!
by: Dani Ferrara ................................................. 8
Some of God's Tears
by: Grace Henderson ........................................... 9
Table Manners
by: Laura Matelsky ........................................................ 12
6-Word Short Stories
by: Meg Flannery
#l
...................................................................................
10
#2 ...................................................................................
21
Drunk
by: Dani Ferrara ........................................................................... 15
Words Alone
by: Katelyn Powers ........................................................... 20
Prayer
by: Grace Henderson ................................................................... 21
Hollow Parts 1-2
by: Miles Wellington-Deanda .................................. 22
Heartache
by: Kathryn Herbert. ............................................................ 23
Public Transportation
by: Taylor Foreman-Niko
...............................
24
My Heart is Heavy
by: Catherine Natoli
...............................................
25
Fred on Loneliness
by: Shannon Slocum
.............................................
26
Manor House
by: Taylor Foreman-Niko ................
.
............................. 29
Italian Poem
by: Nicholas Cipriano
......................................................
33
Letter from an Alumnus
First off, I am not a writer. Far from it: I'm a staff scientist within an environmen-
tal consulting firm, and I have not needed a sniff of writing skill for the last eight
months to function in any of the work I have done. At Marist, I took coursework
in three different majors, but none of them were English or Communications.
The first time I came to LAS I had no idea what to expect. I was lured in with the
promise of priority points and pretty girls with bookish quirks. Thankfully, I was
completely misinformed.
The club had me hooked from the start, and although my background involved
little writing, it became infused in everything I did for my first three years of
college. Looking back now, I don't know how I would have survived without it.
Writing was my outlet, my release from and into the inner workings of psychol-
ogy, biomedical sciences, and eventually, environmental sciences.
If
there had
been no prose or silly poems to translate my crazy days into something sensible,
I would not have graduated.
It
is easy to forget how personal writing is; that at its
base, writing is for the author, with or without an external audience. Even when
we are writing for the enjoyment of others, our writing has to come from our-
selves-we have to want to write or it simply will not appear upon the page. I was
fortunate enough to happen upon LAS with a small group of supportive indi-
viduals, who loved to express their innermost thoughts and were all-too-willing
to extract yours, as well. Past presidents like Marion Quirici, Alex Sutton, and
general members like Julia Stamburger, Kelly Gallucci, and Amy Wheeler were
beacons of personality and emotional vigor that encouraged me to write, submit,
and contribute to this very publication.
I am honored to have had anything submitted to the Mosaic at all, let alone be
writing to all of you now. I would be at a loss if I did not take the opportunity to
thank all of those who came before me, and also encourage the bright individuals
published within these pages now
.
It
is not easy to put our hard work and person-
al thoughts on paper, and it is even harder to have them laid bare upon pages for
everyone else to read, evaluate, and judge.
It
is a credit to everyone who has the
courage to find audience within themselves and open up for others to enjoy.
-Christopher Cho, Class of 2011
"Life is an opportunity, benefit
from it.
Life is beauty, admire it.
Life is a dream, realize it.
Life is a challenge, meet it.
Life is a duty, complete it.
Life is a game, play it.
Life is a promise, fulfill it.
Life is sorrow, overcome it.
Life is a song, sing it.
Life is a struggle, accept it.
Life is a tragedy, confront it.
Life is an adventure, dare it.
Life is luck, make it.
Life is too precious, do not
destroy it.
Life is life, fight for if'
-Mother Teresa
1
Birth
by:
Daniel Wilson
Into the world plunges a soul with no feet
Out of a place destined to decease
Crying in shame, his world was
so
elite
Now injected into life, torn away from his peace
Destiny or not, Fate what have
you
Herculean events are laid out on
your
path
Failure, an option, the easiest of a few
Luck, risk, temptation all applying their wrath
Small and fragile, embraced with security
Your first moments oflife, everything unknown
Life without error, a moment of purity
Just nine months ago, and oh have you grown
So lay while you can, savor this time,
Prepare for your journey, your first hill to climb.
Kermit the Frog
by: Ryan Zaccaro
No, it's not easy being green,
but life's challenges far exceed my complexion.
The life of a singtng frog looks glamorous, sure
The tuxedos, the musical numbers, the furry friends
The swooning swine, the inspirational messages.
But every day I am told to smile,
which is easier said than done when sodomized
by the hand of a greedy Jim Henson
Using me to enthrall America's children
Being tortured for ratings
Now in an utter state of confusion,
I don't know where to turn next.
After 57 years in the spotlight,
I seek a life of normalcy
Back in my wetland habitat.
And I'm not the only one.
Miss Piggy longs to return to the pen
And Gonzo for rhinoplasty
(which his contract forbids)
And Fozzie for a more masculine scarf.
So don't fall for my good cheer,
My smiles contrived by the puppeteer.
Madonna makes 54-year-old stardom look easy,
But had she grown up with a hand up her dark places
Her Vogue face might be more of a cringe.
2
3
The World Before Me
by: Michelle Zdunczyk
Me: Let me out.
The voice
:
Out of what?
Me: Out of this room.
The voice:
There is no
"out:'
Me: Is this a room?
The voice:
Yes.
Me: But there are trees.
The voice:
Yes.
Me: But trees do not just grow in rooms.
The voice:
Sure they do.
Me: Then explain the towers.
The voice:
Towers?
Me: Yes
,
the towers.
The voice:
They serve to remind you how small you are in the world.
Me: So this is the world, in its entirety, before me? Is there a world
beyond this room?
The voice
:
No.
Me: Is there a world beyond this life?
The voice
:
Define life
.
Me: After I have lived, is there consciousness or unconsciousness?
The voice:
After?
Me: It does not end?
The voice:
Do you want it to end?
Me: No, but ...
The voice:
Yes?
Me
:
Does it ever change?
The voice:
Change in what way?
Me: Do I get old? Do others replace me?
The voice:
Others?
Me: Are there others?
The voice
:
You are everyone; everyone is you.
Me: Do I have a career?
The voice:
Your sole job is to Regard the towers, Love the trees
.
Me: What is my pay?
The voice:
What need have you for compensation?
Me: Well, uh ... do I not need to eat?
The voice: Are you hungry?
Me:No,
At least not for food
.
The voice:
Well then, what do you hunger for?
Me
:
Something
.
The voice:
Is it a secret?
Me
:
No, it's something
.
The voice:
Care to share?
Me
:
I already have.
,
Starfish Sonnet
by: Grace Henderson
When I first saw you, five legs like sides of a
pentagram, I screamed: pitch treble-def.
Floating on the surface of the shade-cooled water,
I nearly inhaled half the ocean,
the rough skin of your back making
my own crawl with the tiny legs of a thousand jellyfish,
hoping the water would protect me from
your tiny mouth, filled with the terror
of tiny starfish teeth.
Half terrified, half mystified- I saw you later
on the wallpaper in my room
and on the edge of my towel
as if plucked from the ocean of Anguilla
and left to light my nightmares with stars.
4
Ether
by: Michelle Zdunczyk
Most can
Wave their fist through it,
Lift it up over their head.
Most can
Sip it without wondering,
Taste it without thinking.
Most can
Leave it behind,
Call it invisible.
But I feel
its burden
its Pain,
its blind glory,
Loneliness,
Resignation,
vain penetration,
its Forgotten appreciation,
Neglected adoration.
Chewed up, spit out;
Breathed in, pushed out;
Sharp inhalation
Fast exhalation
Held within
Discarded too soon;
Oh, the things we do to you!
What kind of friend would I be,
If I let you roam
ill-
fatedly?
5
Doomed to torment,
Every living thing your predator.
What you don't believe,
I'll prove to you.
You're work something.
You're worth something,
Despite the scale and the mirror
and the blank photograph.
People see through you, but not
me.
I know you're there,
Waiting for me to rise up and join
you one steamy day,
To travel the world
And become forgotten as the
wind.
r
All in a Smile
by: Miles Wellington-Deanda
Hope passed me by on the street
dressed in a dress of light and valiums
she gave me a sideways glance of relief
just enough smirk and smoky eyes
to draw my attention away from
the haunting of self
-
destructive self-reflection
I turned my head to catch her full force
hers turned to hit me with that smile
a ton of white ceramic bricks right to the brain
then she turned around walking to wherever
she goes
and so did I, a smile burning in my head
and the sun caressing my face.
"Hasselblad"
Victoria Huntsinger
6
7
Childhood
by: Daniel Wilson
Thinking and guessing, searching for meanings
Poking at crushes, and forts in the trees
No obligations to worry about, just parents intervening
A glorious lifestyle, time seemingly at a freeze
Waking each morning not afraid of the next
Your mind wandering elsewhere, to places unknown
Standing amidst creativity, different than all the rest
You're the maker of this world, and sitting at its throne
Little do you know of your quest that lies ahead
Or challenges that await you, contradicting what is now
You'll hear your own people screaming
"Off
with his head!"
If promises are broken, and you shatter your vow
For now that's all in front of you, but will soon start moving faster,
So indulge in what is now, exploring life and endless laughter.
"Untitled"Grace
Henderson
Can't Help the Color!
by: Dani Ferrara
How
m
a
ny mo
r
e day
s
until the smile simply stops,
Like
a cit
y
underneath oil-ring clouds and ifI try
To
giv
e
a
moment to each soldier then would I be a redundant
Anima
l
,
an aboriginal worthless in the dictionary?
If
you
cannot answer my questions, then you must not know
That I
a
m
s
peaking directly to you, my hands cupping
Your
dry-s
kin ear
,
or ears, both when I'm feeling especially
Infuria
t
ed,
for you, m
y
d
e
ar Earth, are infuriating,
And
im
m
e
asurabl
y, s
o do not - or do, for you presuppose
Even
the rush in my veins - insist any longer on rivers-long
Vesti
bul
e
s, vehicles, dictators with tolerance for candy-wrappers
Danci
ng
a
round a
s
tool, dapper older men in bars
With
w
i
v
es
,
demon-haunted gratification (which is only
An
a
bstract way of referring to prostitutes) and even less
Obvio
u
s
mannerisms like a wink that lasts for sixty-five
Years
in
se
p
i
a slow-motion. Allow
,
please permit,
This free
verse to flow
,
simile-less, a brigade across
A
ch
arming bridge above a hollow hole, with parenthesis
A
nd d
as
hes to lead the way. Magical human beings
Ca
n
a
ccrue themselves to accidents, but romances
An
d corporations know better. How else could feet
Bal
ance on wood on an ocean? Why the associations?
Tha
t
's
all I wanted to know, really, but it's difficult
To as
k such a simple question without invoking
All
the as
s
ociations.
8
Some of God's Tears
by: Grace Henderson
-after
Llamas with Hats
by
Jason Steele
It is red and sticky because Carl
is a sociopathic llama with a taste for human flesh.
That is the truth for sure.
It
is not, however, where the metaphor lies,
hidden beneath the ocean, screaming silence
of forgiveness.
It
is the small rubber lifeboats'
sticky metallic sweetness, God's tears.
When God created Man, carving him out like from a baked
potato, he poured in his melted butter, sour-cream tears.
Did God, overjoyed with his creation,
spill life into us through the holes of our halos?
Did he weep as he sent us off
to build cities and fences and social networks?
And is he disappointed in us, we ask ourselves.
Does he now weep for the cannibalism of his world
for the veins of hate and fear and sacrilege
that turned his tears red and made them sticky and
sweet in the bottom of this raft?
Does he curse with the thunder and send angels
to fill our dreams with ice
so we wake up with snowflakes
hanging from our eyelids?
Gunshots sound and wounds cry, seeping
back down into the Earth where God collects them
in plastic bags and puts them
back into His eyes.
9
'
I
I
6 Word
Short Story #1
by:
Meg Flannery
Just
in case, I pour two
.
.
~,~
]
·
-
'
·
•··
"
--
~
-
- -
-
_«_* _______
_
-
..
""
"It
Was You
I
Was lhinkin' Of"
Stephanie Conte
10
11
Adolescence
by: Daniel Wilson
As if life took its hand and moved it across your face
And spoke solemn words such as success and responsibility
Leaving you with nothing but the start of a seemingly endless race
Making you doubt yourself and your own capability
Once deep into this era of conquer and defeat
Do you accept what it's made of, and challenge yourself to succeed
No longer thoughts of failure, or calling cowardly retreat
Now staying at the front lines, willing to sweat and bleed
Embracing a patience once at its end
That will save your future from unwanted reality
Approaching you see your goals and dependable friends
Knowing what is now, and what can come out of thee
Steadily now, moving into a world of desire,
So rely on your heart and keep feeding your fire
Table Manners
by: Laura Matelsky
I am not Chinese. My ancestors are not from the Ming Tang Shang Happy
Dragon Dynasty.
I am not Japanese. I had sushi for the first time last month. I gagged on soy
sauce and seaweed.
I am not Taiwanese. I went to
-
summer school for math three summers in
high school. I usually skipped to see matinee movies instead.
I am American. I read twelve Babysitter Club books in one week in the 5th
grade
.
My diary entries for all of that year read "N*Sync Rules:' "Backstreet
Boys drool:'
My birthplace is Daejeon, Korea
.
My parents and their parents and their
parents were all born there. But English is the primary and only language I
speak.
I am American.
Sometimes I forget I don't look like apple pie and baseball. I'd even
settle for a mush of muddled European countries to look like and call my
own. Some dingy tenement on the Lower East Side that I can pretend my
Great Grandma Rosemarie lived in, swatting her piglet sons with a spoon
coated in tomato paste. The only thing my halmoni ever gave me was her
eyes. And halmoni doesn't count as speaking Korean. That's just what I've
always called her.
I must have especially forgotten what I look like a few Friday's ago.
The crowded nail salon was obnoxious and feigned relaxation, the workers'
hands picking at my feet. I was halfway through my pedicure when a 3:30
regular walked in
.
The Asian worker tossed my foot aside, ushering the
woman into a chair beside me.
I finish her first, then you.
12
I nodded. I didn't look up from the magazine I was reading for a good
twenty minutes. In the time that had passed, women were squeezed togeth
er on the couch politely bumping shoulders with one another. It reminded
me of the crowded lunch tables in my high school cafeteria. All of the girls
courteously shoving one another out of the circle, butt cheek to butt cheek
sharing chairs. I would laugh in spite of myself at my vacant table
,
picking
the large celery chunks out of my mother's latest attempt at a brown bag
lunch. Tuna fish
.
Don't you want some leftover kimchi, my love? She
would
ask every night. I told her the other girls at the table wouldn
'
t want to
smell
it.
One woman in the salon was leaning against the wall, fidgeting.
She
tossed her hair. Looked at her watch
.
Absentmindedly flipped through a
magazine. Checked her watch again. Tapped away furiously on her phone.
Finally she bulldozed past the front desk, flapping her thin flip flops
behind
her.
Hello, don't you think it's a little inappropriate to be on break
when
you have a line of people waiting
,
miss?
I looked over to the woman who had started my pedicure earlier.
But she was looking at me. Everyone was looking at me. They followed
the
stampeding woman's gaze right to me. Since then I've thought it might
have
been comical in a sitcom sort of way if I had gotten down on my knees
and started meticulously choosing my tools. Clipped the woman's toenails
.
Worked out the knots in the balls of her feet. Instead I let the magazine
slide off my lap into the bubbling water and left without putting my
shoes
back on
.
Since then I've been wondering if Asians or Americans annoy
me
more. It's hard for me to know.
I don't date Asians. When I was younger my father told me, daugh-
ter
,
don't marry someone who looks like me. Marry a man that wears suits
,
I don't know if I have been waiting for the man in the suit since I was six-
teen, or ifl've just been scarred from ten years of bad dates.
13
But I've dated. From the ones who think Asians are pretty and
"dif-
ferent" to the full blow fetishes. I once had a date ask me if I could smoke a
cigarette out of my vagina like he saw in an Asian porn video. Apparently I
wasn't only Asian, I was a show dog.
Meeting men like that always left me shoveling Thin Mints into my mouth
by the sleeve and inevitably thinking of Harrison. My last boyfriend.
Technically my only boyfriend. And in my mind, he was still the sixteen
year old that would feel me
U£
like he was squeezing a stress ball. And yet,
I still think of him. His family was from Korea, although I never found
out where. We didn't talk about family. We were sixteen, the point was to
ignore the fact that we had one.
We had been together for nine months before prom season was
upon us. We were at the mall spitting paper balls at the freshmen when his
sweaty palm grabbed my straw and he looked at me.
My parents want to meet you.
I think I met them at the preschool orientation day, oh, a good
twelve years ago?
No, but, they want to meet you meet you. You're my girlfriend now.
I didn't understand why he was so nervous. I now wonder if he
knew more about myself than I did.
If
he knew that when I met his family
they would steal concerned glances at each other when I didn't speak Ko-
rean. When I said I had never helped my mother make pa jun cakes when
company came over. When I thought I was being polite by asking for the
recipe.
I sat and picked apart my food after a twenty minute effort of at-
tempted conversation while Harrison's family reverted back to speaking
Korean to one another. Harrison was staring at his plate, contemplating his
own future of a duplicated generation of what he was now a part of. And I,
I found myself at another table where I didn't belong.
14
15
Drunk
by: Dani Ferrara
I'm interested in your river lining
.
I'm naked, completely.
Chalked up on whiskey and borrowed beer.
My ass
Sticks out in the light in the screen:
No two tears are the same, no
two spiritual milleniums.
The blues cure my hangovers;
Molecules, vision up and down, up and down.
"Swoosh"
Victoria Huntsinger
"Welcome to Hogwarts"
Mary Nickerson
"Burano"
Kathryn Herbert
16
17
"Bee"
Victoria Huntsinger
"Self-Portrait"
Mary Nickerson
"Runaway"
Lauren Zaknoun
"
"Venice Vines"
Meg Flannery
18
19
"Untitled"
William Vrachopoulos
►
Words Alone
by: Katelyn Powers
If
words alone could save
Or resurrect the souls
Resting in telling piles of ashes
I'd never cease speaking.
If
words alone could only prevent
The guns from being fired
Or the hearts from being torn
I'd scream upon every mountaintop
Until gravity sends the moon falling.
If
words alone could sculpt
A house back into a home
Or a credible apology
I'd fall on bended knee, begging for mercy,
Until the stars no longer shine in nighttime skies.
If
"I am sorry" alone could perpetuate
The rare bond of trust destroyed -
I cannot fathom how much
I'd give
To feel security once again
Or see familiar smiles return to their faces.
If
words alone could mend
That which has been broken
I'd never fall speechless
Or let my mouth fall silent.
If
only words alone could be sufficient.
I pray to God, these words tonight
May reach from my heart to yours in time.
20
21
6 Word Short Story #2
by: Meg Flannery
Red lips on your shirt; caught.
Prayer
by: Grace Henderson
I walked with Jesus across the K-Mart parking lot
where we waited for the six o'clock bus to Hoboken.
Jesus pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket
and offered one to me. I took it and broke it in half,
dropped the pieces to the ground and smeared the black carcinogen
insides onto the floor of the dingy bus terminal.
Jesus shrugged and lit the Marlboro hugging his bottom lip.
We stood there for a while with a woman named Sharron
whose son was shipped to Iraq a week earlier.
She asked Jesus to keep him safe.
Jesus said nothing, but nodded his head.
Sharron didn't ask anything else.
When the bus arrived, she boarded quickly,
but Jesus and I stayed inside the damp room.
He threw his cigarette butt on the grass outside
and sighed, watching the bus drive away.
"I try" he tells me, lifting his hands up
towards the dim sunlight, the holes in his palms
shining like stars. I put my arms around him
and he rests his head on my shoulder.
"I understand" I say into his ear as he begins to cry,
"we all do:'
Hollow: Part One
Hollow: Part Two
by: Miles Wellington-Deanda
Hollo
w
Scarecrow
boy dreaming
alone
a shell
of
straw,
of days left long
ago.
an empty
head full of
Drift
in a
sea you cannot see:
shadows
and air, lost to the past:
the
void.
hollow.
The
void
the
space between
where
memories
seep
through
li
k
e
tears from closed eyes
into
the
hollow
.
Hollow
beneath
your
clothes
and
under your
skin,
you
are
nothing but the forgotten
scarecrow.
"D'Orsay Clock''
Meg Flannery
22
23
Heartache
by: Kathryn
Herbert
Heart-ache,
n. 1.
Pain in the heart./
A white blindness like
nausea in
the chest./ An acuteness of
senses and accur
a
cy of memory, recall-
ing images, words, smells, tastes
,
sensations
, a
ccompanied
by nights
lit by LED and damp cotton headrests.
I
To
dread
what
is
to
hap-
pen because this is all
you
have,
or maybe this i
s
all you have
ever
wanted./ A longing unquenchable by
hunger or thirst,
because it is
so deep in the soul that no food nor drink
could remedy
the
ailment
that plagues your mind
even when the world conspires to distract
you; your heart proves insatiable,
scre
a
ming into your pounding
ears as you press your fists down
to drown out the noi
s
e of your
hurt. / A deepening crescendo
that pul
s
e
s
louder and louder until
2.
It
subsides.
Adulthood
by: Daniel
Wilson
All that is behind
you crafted your
being
Transforming a child with never
ending
dreams
Into six feet of uniqueness, and
a
different
way of seeing
Saying to yourself, "nothing is really
ever what it
seems:'
Questioning decisions that haunt
you from your past
And relishing the determination after making
such calls
Your father once told
you, "that's
how happiness lasts,
Breaking through barriers and dismissing the
falls:'
Searching for love or entangled
in
lust
Hoping life keeps its hand at its
side
Believing in yourself and those
who you
trust
To never let go, and distinguish
your
pride
But as memory fades, one question
stays afloat,
"When is my heart beat going to hit
its last
note?"
Public Transportation
by: Taylor Foreman-Niko
'Ihere is something profoundly sad about public transportation, all these
people with places to go and no way to get there. They stand on platforms,
sit on benches, and think, and their reflection thinks with them, flashing
by in window panes as the bus or train slows, a slideshow of their grief,
the deep sadness, long hurt that makes you stare out of windows hoping to
see something, more than your shuffling, static life: a quiet place, a faithful
book, a smile.
But all you see is yourself.
And the closeness of your breath does nothing but fog the glass, bereft of
the deafening silence of nearing, of being, fingers drawing fire across a
thrumming plain that burns you like a song, sunk deep and hot in your
ears, scalding your throat with that knot of doubt and hope, that knot that
chokes you, girds you, cheers you to bridge the gap, to take one small step,
to speak not with words, but in words, breath them into one another, twist-
ing like snakes in the universal language of tongues and sighs, CPR for the
soul, two souls, radiant like supernovas that will never fade, the afterimage
forever scorched upon your retinas, the memory crashing with all the fury
of igniting stars and fulfilled dreams, and there is no gravity as you touch,
no collapse, you are lifted, light fills you with its double meaning, bears
you up and there is no knot, nothing but the link between, and the twisting
and the burning and the questing of five-limbed runners across the New
World, the toppling as up become left and down becomes right, as feet give
way, and sheets embrace, and you breathe their hair and kiss their eyes,
cup their faces, as you laugh and cry and smile, smile, smile until your face
hurts, and despite everything, at that moment, as you look into their smil-
ing face, you know that they are hurting with you.
24
25
My Heart is Heavy
by: Catherine Natoli
My heart is heavy
Folding
Under the pressure of
Your walk trotting stepping
On the cracks of my ventricles.
Sodden with
Your saliva dripping
Mercilessly into the absorptive
Sponge walls.
Swollen with
Memories of cold nights spent huddled on
Stone walls watching stars
Peering
Into a big sheet of glass.
Bloated with emotions
Fleeting and
Undying yearning
For each second to be an hour
Spent in the perimeters of
Your gaze.
Steeped in muddled thoughts
Pouring through my atriums and drowning
Out the rhythmic noise
Of beating.
Fred on Loneliness
by: Shannon Slocum
Fred is an older man in his early eighties. He is seated, slumped, in a
weathered armchair. The stage is
·
set up like a living room, out of date, with
two windows on the back wall. Fred talks to the audience.
[FRED]
I've got a dog, Robbie. I wasn't too sure about him at first, he was a gift.
You see my kids are always giving me gifts, gifts that they think I need or
that will occupy my time. Befo,re Robbie it was a Keurig-the hell with that
piece of junk-and before the Keurig it was
...
what was it
.
.. some kind of ...
some kind of foot massager? One of those, you know, those slippers with
the batteries and the heat and the-it doesn't matter; the thing doesn't even
work. So they give me a dog. Me, a dog, at my age ... but the dog was better
than the Keurig and the slippers so I let him stay. Not that he hasn't had to
earn his keep. I told him, after he kept me up all night, that first night, yap-
ping, that he better straighten up if he wanted to stay here. And he did, the
little chump, he straightened right up. Give him a piece of cheese and he's
golden. He might gas a little, but who the hell doesn't, that's what I say.
[Pause]
And that Robbie, he's a good listener, too. I'll sit in my chair and he'll sit
at my feet, either looking up or looking down, but he's listening. I know
because his right ear twitches, you know, twitches at every word I say and
don't say. The kids, when they come, they give me all this junk and then
haul off, back to work, back to their appointments-appointments. That's
what they're always saying, "Pop, we've got so many appointments today,
maybe next time:' So I guess that's what they gave me Robbie, to ease the
guilt about them appointments ...
[Pause. Gazes past audience for a moment. Shakes it off]
26
But to hell with them. We've got appointments of our own. We get up in
the morning and we have our breakfast. The doctor has got me on a strict
diet, just bananas and yogurt and Cheerios for me, a real man's diet, you
know, but what he doesn't know is that I cook bacon for Robbie. That's
right, the dog gets the bacon and I get the Cheerios. Someone's got to eat
well in the house, that's what I say. And I might even nibble at a little, just
so I can hear Dr. Robins tell me how my cholesterol is leveling nicely with-
out all of that meat and fat. Puh. After breakfast -
[Interrupted by the sound of sirens]
Oh boy.
[The sirens are overlapped by the sounds of frantic barking]
Oh boy, oh boy.
[ Chuckling]
That's him barking, the nut. He loves the sirens. We've got the fire depart-
ment up the road so they're always going off. That reminds me-
[Slowly gets up from chair and shuffles around the stage, shutting win-
dows]
If
I don't shut these damn screens, even the windows, he'll bust right
through and go running for the hills. Shoulda' seen what he did when the
sirens came for me. When was that ... February ... no April...whenever I
had that cold ...
[Shuffles back to the chair and eases down]
Anyhow, he slipped out between their legs, right out the door, when they
had me strapped to the stretcher.
27
(Remembering fondly]
They had to make one of the younger guys chase him around the yard, that
little chooch. You see, he was trying to jump in the back of the ambulance,
so he could come along for the ride ...
[Shaking his head]
/
And they let him; they let him because I said everyone else has got ap-
pointments.
[Pause]
So now, after that fiasco, Dr. Robins said I can't sit for too long in this chair,
I've got to get my exercise. Bad heart, bad lungs, bad circulation-to hell
with those stockings-so we go to the park and walk around the trees and
sit by the pond and watch the families down there for a picnic. They don't
notice me much, sitting on the bench with Robbie alert and ready next to
me, but if they've got the grandparents with them, I'll get a wave and smile.
It's funny how forgetful they can get. You have 'em, you raise 'em and you
send 'em off so they can do the having and raising themselves. But with
Marie gone and my health ... well, it is what it is and it's not good ...
[Pause]
It's just nice to know that someone's listening out there, out there in the
shadows. Because, you know, I'm in the shadows, too. And it's lonely, it's
damn lonely, even with a dog.
28
"In the Alleyway"
Kathryn Herbert
29
Manor House
by: Taylor Foreman
-
Niko
Manor house
Flat plain
Lone house on
An old lane
Silence chokes
The air
Manor house
On a still plain
Beside crooked willow
With etched names
A rope still
Dangles there
Manor house
Quiet plain
Still faces
In a gold frame
They're screaming
Inside
In the manor house
On a wet plain
In a bathtub with
A plugged drain
A mother smiles
As the bubbles rise
To the manor house
On the changed plain
Early returned
In heavy rain
He finds her lover
In the hall
In the manor l}ouse
On the burning plain
With the marriage
Bed profaned
The lover won't
Answer her call
Dark manor house
On a dark plain
,
She wails at
The doorframe
As she sees
What's left
Manor house
Greying plain
He wades through
Tears feigned
His hands wrap
Around her neck
Empty manor house
On a red plain
He whispers her
Cursed name
As he mounts
The trembling bough
Ancient manor house
On an ugly plain
Rusted gate
Thick chain
They've long since
Stopped asking how
30
31
Stolid manor house
Pale plain
Candle flicker
Behind window pane
A face in the
Darkness lit
Manor house
Empty plain
A father
Driven insane
By the dreams of
His children's cries
In the manor house
On a drab plain
A broken father
With no name
Discovers his
Wife lies
Endless manor house
On unending plain
Years pass but
It's all the same
From the dark he
Whispers her name
Why did you do it, dear Lor-
raine?
Why did you do it, my Lor-
raine?
"
Untitled"
Shannon Slocum
32
Italian Poem
by: Nicholas Cipriano
Tutti invecchiamo e moriamo,
e
una parte naturale della vita.
Ma, quando
e
il mio tempo,
Saro da solo?
Quando io sono vecchio
e il mio corpo ha molto dolore,
avro una persona al mio fianco per aiutarmi e amarmi?
0
cadro ' e rimaroa freddo e senza vita, come la pietra sotto di me?
Quando io sono morto
e il mio corpo
e
sepolto sotto la pelle della terra madre,
sara le persone viene e mette le rose sulla mia tomba,
o sara coperta con erbacce e polvere?
Quando io saro morto da molto tempo
e il mio corpo
e
decomposto,
(English translation)
We all get old and die;
it is a natural part of life.
mia memoria scaldera i cuori degli altri
o scomparera come i nomi sulla lavagna?
But, when it is my time
will I be alone?
33
When I am an old man
and my body has much pain,
will I have a person at my side to hold me and love me
or will I fall, cold and lifeless, life the stone beneath me.
When I die
and my body is buried deep under the skin of Mother Earth,
will people come and put roses on my grave,
or will it be covered with dust and weeds.
After I have been dead for a long time,
and my body has become one with the earth,
will my memory warm the hearts of others
or fade away like names on a chalkboard?
Death
by: Daniel Wilson
Though some goals and aspirations were never achieved
And there are people you haven't met, and places unseen
Questions unanswered, losses that are grieved
You seized what life gave you, and found yourself a queen
Your last goodbyes are undying, standing the test of time
Traveling with you to share with those you have lost
Into an eternity of memory, your last hill to climb
Passing through the gates, your life is the cost
As your eyes begin to fade, and your vision turns to black
Images of forts in the trees, and moments unforgettable
Let you know you did okay and to never look back
Because your future is now made of the un-regrettable
So lay while you can, and savor the past
It's now the end of your journey; you've done all that was asked.
34
NOTES
De
ar
Re
aders,
Than
k you
so much for picking up a copy of The Mosaic! Hope-
full
y
yo
u enjoy
ed
the work we compiled in this issue, and that what you
saw
an
d rea
d here
will inspire you to begin your own creative journey-
lit
erary
artis
tic, or
otherwise. We hope you will continue to read The
Mosaic
in
the
future!
You
r E
ditors,
Kath
ry
n &
Cather
ine
;ack
L
-R: Shan
non Slocum,
Kathryn Herbert, Carolyn Rivas, Jessica Sturtevant
F~ont
L
-R:
Cather
ine Natoli, Miles
Wellington-Deanda, Devin Dickerson, Meg
annery,
Victoria
Huntsinger
Mosaic_F_2012_001
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Mosaic_F_2012_044
Society Presents:
THE
MOSAIC
Fall
2012
Mosaic Editors:
Kathryn Herbert
Catherine Natoli
Literary Arts Society Executive Board Members:
President:
Meg Flannery
Vice President:
Carolyn Rivas
Secretary:
Shannon Slocum
Treasurer:
Devin Dickerson
Web Master:
Victoria Huntsinger
Fox Forum Editors:
Miles Wellington- Deanda
Jessica Sturtevant
Mosaic Committee Members:
Stephanie Conte
Alexis DePuyt
Alanna Coogan
Rose Shannon
Michelle Crowe
*Special Thanks:
to Dr. Lea Graham, whose guidance made this
publication possible.
Front Cover art:
Grace Henderson, "Simplicity"
Back Cover art:
Victoria Huntsinger, "Bouquet"
Table of Contents
Letter from an Alumnus .........................................................................
.i
Life Sonnets
by: Daniel Wilson
Birth ............................................................................... 1
Childhood ......................................................................
7
Adolescence ...................................................................
11
Adulthood
................................................... ..................
23
Death ...........................
:
................................................. 34
Kermit the Frog
by: Ryan Zaccaro
.........................................................
2
The World Before Me
by: Michelle Zdunczyk
.....................................
3
Starfish Sonnet
by: Grace Henderson ...................................................
.4
Ether
by: Michelle Zdunczyk. .................................................................. 5
All in a Smile
by: Miles Wellington-Deanda ......................................... 6
Can't Help the Color!
by: Dani Ferrara ................................................. 8
Some of God's Tears
by: Grace Henderson ........................................... 9
Table Manners
by: Laura Matelsky ........................................................ 12
6-Word Short Stories
by: Meg Flannery
#l
...................................................................................
10
#2 ...................................................................................
21
Drunk
by: Dani Ferrara ........................................................................... 15
Words Alone
by: Katelyn Powers ........................................................... 20
Prayer
by: Grace Henderson ................................................................... 21
Hollow Parts 1-2
by: Miles Wellington-Deanda .................................. 22
Heartache
by: Kathryn Herbert. ............................................................ 23
Public Transportation
by: Taylor Foreman-Niko
...............................
24
My Heart is Heavy
by: Catherine Natoli
...............................................
25
Fred on Loneliness
by: Shannon Slocum
.............................................
26
Manor House
by: Taylor Foreman-Niko ................
.
............................. 29
Italian Poem
by: Nicholas Cipriano
......................................................
33
Letter from an Alumnus
First off, I am not a writer. Far from it: I'm a staff scientist within an environmen-
tal consulting firm, and I have not needed a sniff of writing skill for the last eight
months to function in any of the work I have done. At Marist, I took coursework
in three different majors, but none of them were English or Communications.
The first time I came to LAS I had no idea what to expect. I was lured in with the
promise of priority points and pretty girls with bookish quirks. Thankfully, I was
completely misinformed.
The club had me hooked from the start, and although my background involved
little writing, it became infused in everything I did for my first three years of
college. Looking back now, I don't know how I would have survived without it.
Writing was my outlet, my release from and into the inner workings of psychol-
ogy, biomedical sciences, and eventually, environmental sciences.
If
there had
been no prose or silly poems to translate my crazy days into something sensible,
I would not have graduated.
It
is easy to forget how personal writing is; that at its
base, writing is for the author, with or without an external audience. Even when
we are writing for the enjoyment of others, our writing has to come from our-
selves-we have to want to write or it simply will not appear upon the page. I was
fortunate enough to happen upon LAS with a small group of supportive indi-
viduals, who loved to express their innermost thoughts and were all-too-willing
to extract yours, as well. Past presidents like Marion Quirici, Alex Sutton, and
general members like Julia Stamburger, Kelly Gallucci, and Amy Wheeler were
beacons of personality and emotional vigor that encouraged me to write, submit,
and contribute to this very publication.
I am honored to have had anything submitted to the Mosaic at all, let alone be
writing to all of you now. I would be at a loss if I did not take the opportunity to
thank all of those who came before me, and also encourage the bright individuals
published within these pages now
.
It
is not easy to put our hard work and person-
al thoughts on paper, and it is even harder to have them laid bare upon pages for
everyone else to read, evaluate, and judge.
It
is a credit to everyone who has the
courage to find audience within themselves and open up for others to enjoy.
-Christopher Cho, Class of 2011
"Life is an opportunity, benefit
from it.
Life is beauty, admire it.
Life is a dream, realize it.
Life is a challenge, meet it.
Life is a duty, complete it.
Life is a game, play it.
Life is a promise, fulfill it.
Life is sorrow, overcome it.
Life is a song, sing it.
Life is a struggle, accept it.
Life is a tragedy, confront it.
Life is an adventure, dare it.
Life is luck, make it.
Life is too precious, do not
destroy it.
Life is life, fight for if'
-Mother Teresa
1
Birth
by:
Daniel Wilson
Into the world plunges a soul with no feet
Out of a place destined to decease
Crying in shame, his world was
so
elite
Now injected into life, torn away from his peace
Destiny or not, Fate what have
you
Herculean events are laid out on
your
path
Failure, an option, the easiest of a few
Luck, risk, temptation all applying their wrath
Small and fragile, embraced with security
Your first moments oflife, everything unknown
Life without error, a moment of purity
Just nine months ago, and oh have you grown
So lay while you can, savor this time,
Prepare for your journey, your first hill to climb.
Kermit the Frog
by: Ryan Zaccaro
No, it's not easy being green,
but life's challenges far exceed my complexion.
The life of a singtng frog looks glamorous, sure
The tuxedos, the musical numbers, the furry friends
The swooning swine, the inspirational messages.
But every day I am told to smile,
which is easier said than done when sodomized
by the hand of a greedy Jim Henson
Using me to enthrall America's children
Being tortured for ratings
Now in an utter state of confusion,
I don't know where to turn next.
After 57 years in the spotlight,
I seek a life of normalcy
Back in my wetland habitat.
And I'm not the only one.
Miss Piggy longs to return to the pen
And Gonzo for rhinoplasty
(which his contract forbids)
And Fozzie for a more masculine scarf.
So don't fall for my good cheer,
My smiles contrived by the puppeteer.
Madonna makes 54-year-old stardom look easy,
But had she grown up with a hand up her dark places
Her Vogue face might be more of a cringe.
2
3
The World Before Me
by: Michelle Zdunczyk
Me: Let me out.
The voice
:
Out of what?
Me: Out of this room.
The voice:
There is no
"out:'
Me: Is this a room?
The voice:
Yes.
Me: But there are trees.
The voice:
Yes.
Me: But trees do not just grow in rooms.
The voice:
Sure they do.
Me: Then explain the towers.
The voice:
Towers?
Me: Yes
,
the towers.
The voice:
They serve to remind you how small you are in the world.
Me: So this is the world, in its entirety, before me? Is there a world
beyond this room?
The voice
:
No.
Me: Is there a world beyond this life?
The voice
:
Define life
.
Me: After I have lived, is there consciousness or unconsciousness?
The voice:
After?
Me: It does not end?
The voice:
Do you want it to end?
Me: No, but ...
The voice:
Yes?
Me
:
Does it ever change?
The voice:
Change in what way?
Me: Do I get old? Do others replace me?
The voice:
Others?
Me: Are there others?
The voice
:
You are everyone; everyone is you.
Me: Do I have a career?
The voice:
Your sole job is to Regard the towers, Love the trees
.
Me: What is my pay?
The voice:
What need have you for compensation?
Me: Well, uh ... do I not need to eat?
The voice: Are you hungry?
Me:No,
At least not for food
.
The voice:
Well then, what do you hunger for?
Me
:
Something
.
The voice:
Is it a secret?
Me
:
No, it's something
.
The voice:
Care to share?
Me
:
I already have.
,
Starfish Sonnet
by: Grace Henderson
When I first saw you, five legs like sides of a
pentagram, I screamed: pitch treble-def.
Floating on the surface of the shade-cooled water,
I nearly inhaled half the ocean,
the rough skin of your back making
my own crawl with the tiny legs of a thousand jellyfish,
hoping the water would protect me from
your tiny mouth, filled with the terror
of tiny starfish teeth.
Half terrified, half mystified- I saw you later
on the wallpaper in my room
and on the edge of my towel
as if plucked from the ocean of Anguilla
and left to light my nightmares with stars.
4
Ether
by: Michelle Zdunczyk
Most can
Wave their fist through it,
Lift it up over their head.
Most can
Sip it without wondering,
Taste it without thinking.
Most can
Leave it behind,
Call it invisible.
But I feel
its burden
its Pain,
its blind glory,
Loneliness,
Resignation,
vain penetration,
its Forgotten appreciation,
Neglected adoration.
Chewed up, spit out;
Breathed in, pushed out;
Sharp inhalation
Fast exhalation
Held within
Discarded too soon;
Oh, the things we do to you!
What kind of friend would I be,
If I let you roam
ill-
fatedly?
5
Doomed to torment,
Every living thing your predator.
What you don't believe,
I'll prove to you.
You're work something.
You're worth something,
Despite the scale and the mirror
and the blank photograph.
People see through you, but not
me.
I know you're there,
Waiting for me to rise up and join
you one steamy day,
To travel the world
And become forgotten as the
wind.
r
All in a Smile
by: Miles Wellington-Deanda
Hope passed me by on the street
dressed in a dress of light and valiums
she gave me a sideways glance of relief
just enough smirk and smoky eyes
to draw my attention away from
the haunting of self
-
destructive self-reflection
I turned my head to catch her full force
hers turned to hit me with that smile
a ton of white ceramic bricks right to the brain
then she turned around walking to wherever
she goes
and so did I, a smile burning in my head
and the sun caressing my face.
"Hasselblad"
Victoria Huntsinger
6
7
Childhood
by: Daniel Wilson
Thinking and guessing, searching for meanings
Poking at crushes, and forts in the trees
No obligations to worry about, just parents intervening
A glorious lifestyle, time seemingly at a freeze
Waking each morning not afraid of the next
Your mind wandering elsewhere, to places unknown
Standing amidst creativity, different than all the rest
You're the maker of this world, and sitting at its throne
Little do you know of your quest that lies ahead
Or challenges that await you, contradicting what is now
You'll hear your own people screaming
"Off
with his head!"
If promises are broken, and you shatter your vow
For now that's all in front of you, but will soon start moving faster,
So indulge in what is now, exploring life and endless laughter.
"Untitled"Grace
Henderson
Can't Help the Color!
by: Dani Ferrara
How
m
a
ny mo
r
e day
s
until the smile simply stops,
Like
a cit
y
underneath oil-ring clouds and ifI try
To
giv
e
a
moment to each soldier then would I be a redundant
Anima
l
,
an aboriginal worthless in the dictionary?
If
you
cannot answer my questions, then you must not know
That I
a
m
s
peaking directly to you, my hands cupping
Your
dry-s
kin ear
,
or ears, both when I'm feeling especially
Infuria
t
ed,
for you, m
y
d
e
ar Earth, are infuriating,
And
im
m
e
asurabl
y, s
o do not - or do, for you presuppose
Even
the rush in my veins - insist any longer on rivers-long
Vesti
bul
e
s, vehicles, dictators with tolerance for candy-wrappers
Danci
ng
a
round a
s
tool, dapper older men in bars
With
w
i
v
es
,
demon-haunted gratification (which is only
An
a
bstract way of referring to prostitutes) and even less
Obvio
u
s
mannerisms like a wink that lasts for sixty-five
Years
in
se
p
i
a slow-motion. Allow
,
please permit,
This free
verse to flow
,
simile-less, a brigade across
A
ch
arming bridge above a hollow hole, with parenthesis
A
nd d
as
hes to lead the way. Magical human beings
Ca
n
a
ccrue themselves to accidents, but romances
An
d corporations know better. How else could feet
Bal
ance on wood on an ocean? Why the associations?
Tha
t
's
all I wanted to know, really, but it's difficult
To as
k such a simple question without invoking
All
the as
s
ociations.
8
Some of God's Tears
by: Grace Henderson
-after
Llamas with Hats
by
Jason Steele
It is red and sticky because Carl
is a sociopathic llama with a taste for human flesh.
That is the truth for sure.
It
is not, however, where the metaphor lies,
hidden beneath the ocean, screaming silence
of forgiveness.
It
is the small rubber lifeboats'
sticky metallic sweetness, God's tears.
When God created Man, carving him out like from a baked
potato, he poured in his melted butter, sour-cream tears.
Did God, overjoyed with his creation,
spill life into us through the holes of our halos?
Did he weep as he sent us off
to build cities and fences and social networks?
And is he disappointed in us, we ask ourselves.
Does he now weep for the cannibalism of his world
for the veins of hate and fear and sacrilege
that turned his tears red and made them sticky and
sweet in the bottom of this raft?
Does he curse with the thunder and send angels
to fill our dreams with ice
so we wake up with snowflakes
hanging from our eyelids?
Gunshots sound and wounds cry, seeping
back down into the Earth where God collects them
in plastic bags and puts them
back into His eyes.
9
'
I
I
6 Word
Short Story #1
by:
Meg Flannery
Just
in case, I pour two
.
.
~,~
]
·
-
'
·
•··
"
--
~
-
- -
-
_«_* _______
_
-
..
""
"It
Was You
I
Was lhinkin' Of"
Stephanie Conte
10
11
Adolescence
by: Daniel Wilson
As if life took its hand and moved it across your face
And spoke solemn words such as success and responsibility
Leaving you with nothing but the start of a seemingly endless race
Making you doubt yourself and your own capability
Once deep into this era of conquer and defeat
Do you accept what it's made of, and challenge yourself to succeed
No longer thoughts of failure, or calling cowardly retreat
Now staying at the front lines, willing to sweat and bleed
Embracing a patience once at its end
That will save your future from unwanted reality
Approaching you see your goals and dependable friends
Knowing what is now, and what can come out of thee
Steadily now, moving into a world of desire,
So rely on your heart and keep feeding your fire
Table Manners
by: Laura Matelsky
I am not Chinese. My ancestors are not from the Ming Tang Shang Happy
Dragon Dynasty.
I am not Japanese. I had sushi for the first time last month. I gagged on soy
sauce and seaweed.
I am not Taiwanese. I went to
-
summer school for math three summers in
high school. I usually skipped to see matinee movies instead.
I am American. I read twelve Babysitter Club books in one week in the 5th
grade
.
My diary entries for all of that year read "N*Sync Rules:' "Backstreet
Boys drool:'
My birthplace is Daejeon, Korea
.
My parents and their parents and their
parents were all born there. But English is the primary and only language I
speak.
I am American.
Sometimes I forget I don't look like apple pie and baseball. I'd even
settle for a mush of muddled European countries to look like and call my
own. Some dingy tenement on the Lower East Side that I can pretend my
Great Grandma Rosemarie lived in, swatting her piglet sons with a spoon
coated in tomato paste. The only thing my halmoni ever gave me was her
eyes. And halmoni doesn't count as speaking Korean. That's just what I've
always called her.
I must have especially forgotten what I look like a few Friday's ago.
The crowded nail salon was obnoxious and feigned relaxation, the workers'
hands picking at my feet. I was halfway through my pedicure when a 3:30
regular walked in
.
The Asian worker tossed my foot aside, ushering the
woman into a chair beside me.
I finish her first, then you.
12
I nodded. I didn't look up from the magazine I was reading for a good
twenty minutes. In the time that had passed, women were squeezed togeth
er on the couch politely bumping shoulders with one another. It reminded
me of the crowded lunch tables in my high school cafeteria. All of the girls
courteously shoving one another out of the circle, butt cheek to butt cheek
sharing chairs. I would laugh in spite of myself at my vacant table
,
picking
the large celery chunks out of my mother's latest attempt at a brown bag
lunch. Tuna fish
.
Don't you want some leftover kimchi, my love? She
would
ask every night. I told her the other girls at the table wouldn
'
t want to
smell
it.
One woman in the salon was leaning against the wall, fidgeting.
She
tossed her hair. Looked at her watch
.
Absentmindedly flipped through a
magazine. Checked her watch again. Tapped away furiously on her phone.
Finally she bulldozed past the front desk, flapping her thin flip flops
behind
her.
Hello, don't you think it's a little inappropriate to be on break
when
you have a line of people waiting
,
miss?
I looked over to the woman who had started my pedicure earlier.
But she was looking at me. Everyone was looking at me. They followed
the
stampeding woman's gaze right to me. Since then I've thought it might
have
been comical in a sitcom sort of way if I had gotten down on my knees
and started meticulously choosing my tools. Clipped the woman's toenails
.
Worked out the knots in the balls of her feet. Instead I let the magazine
slide off my lap into the bubbling water and left without putting my
shoes
back on
.
Since then I've been wondering if Asians or Americans annoy
me
more. It's hard for me to know.
I don't date Asians. When I was younger my father told me, daugh-
ter
,
don't marry someone who looks like me. Marry a man that wears suits
,
I don't know if I have been waiting for the man in the suit since I was six-
teen, or ifl've just been scarred from ten years of bad dates.
13
But I've dated. From the ones who think Asians are pretty and
"dif-
ferent" to the full blow fetishes. I once had a date ask me if I could smoke a
cigarette out of my vagina like he saw in an Asian porn video. Apparently I
wasn't only Asian, I was a show dog.
Meeting men like that always left me shoveling Thin Mints into my mouth
by the sleeve and inevitably thinking of Harrison. My last boyfriend.
Technically my only boyfriend. And in my mind, he was still the sixteen
year old that would feel me
U£
like he was squeezing a stress ball. And yet,
I still think of him. His family was from Korea, although I never found
out where. We didn't talk about family. We were sixteen, the point was to
ignore the fact that we had one.
We had been together for nine months before prom season was
upon us. We were at the mall spitting paper balls at the freshmen when his
sweaty palm grabbed my straw and he looked at me.
My parents want to meet you.
I think I met them at the preschool orientation day, oh, a good
twelve years ago?
No, but, they want to meet you meet you. You're my girlfriend now.
I didn't understand why he was so nervous. I now wonder if he
knew more about myself than I did.
If
he knew that when I met his family
they would steal concerned glances at each other when I didn't speak Ko-
rean. When I said I had never helped my mother make pa jun cakes when
company came over. When I thought I was being polite by asking for the
recipe.
I sat and picked apart my food after a twenty minute effort of at-
tempted conversation while Harrison's family reverted back to speaking
Korean to one another. Harrison was staring at his plate, contemplating his
own future of a duplicated generation of what he was now a part of. And I,
I found myself at another table where I didn't belong.
14
15
Drunk
by: Dani Ferrara
I'm interested in your river lining
.
I'm naked, completely.
Chalked up on whiskey and borrowed beer.
My ass
Sticks out in the light in the screen:
No two tears are the same, no
two spiritual milleniums.
The blues cure my hangovers;
Molecules, vision up and down, up and down.
"Swoosh"
Victoria Huntsinger
"Welcome to Hogwarts"
Mary Nickerson
"Burano"
Kathryn Herbert
16
17
"Bee"
Victoria Huntsinger
"Self-Portrait"
Mary Nickerson
"Runaway"
Lauren Zaknoun
"
"Venice Vines"
Meg Flannery
18
19
"Untitled"
William Vrachopoulos
►
Words Alone
by: Katelyn Powers
If
words alone could save
Or resurrect the souls
Resting in telling piles of ashes
I'd never cease speaking.
If
words alone could only prevent
The guns from being fired
Or the hearts from being torn
I'd scream upon every mountaintop
Until gravity sends the moon falling.
If
words alone could sculpt
A house back into a home
Or a credible apology
I'd fall on bended knee, begging for mercy,
Until the stars no longer shine in nighttime skies.
If
"I am sorry" alone could perpetuate
The rare bond of trust destroyed -
I cannot fathom how much
I'd give
To feel security once again
Or see familiar smiles return to their faces.
If
words alone could mend
That which has been broken
I'd never fall speechless
Or let my mouth fall silent.
If
only words alone could be sufficient.
I pray to God, these words tonight
May reach from my heart to yours in time.
20
21
6 Word Short Story #2
by: Meg Flannery
Red lips on your shirt; caught.
Prayer
by: Grace Henderson
I walked with Jesus across the K-Mart parking lot
where we waited for the six o'clock bus to Hoboken.
Jesus pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his coat pocket
and offered one to me. I took it and broke it in half,
dropped the pieces to the ground and smeared the black carcinogen
insides onto the floor of the dingy bus terminal.
Jesus shrugged and lit the Marlboro hugging his bottom lip.
We stood there for a while with a woman named Sharron
whose son was shipped to Iraq a week earlier.
She asked Jesus to keep him safe.
Jesus said nothing, but nodded his head.
Sharron didn't ask anything else.
When the bus arrived, she boarded quickly,
but Jesus and I stayed inside the damp room.
He threw his cigarette butt on the grass outside
and sighed, watching the bus drive away.
"I try" he tells me, lifting his hands up
towards the dim sunlight, the holes in his palms
shining like stars. I put my arms around him
and he rests his head on my shoulder.
"I understand" I say into his ear as he begins to cry,
"we all do:'
Hollow: Part One
Hollow: Part Two
by: Miles Wellington-Deanda
Hollo
w
Scarecrow
boy dreaming
alone
a shell
of
straw,
of days left long
ago.
an empty
head full of
Drift
in a
sea you cannot see:
shadows
and air, lost to the past:
the
void.
hollow.
The
void
the
space between
where
memories
seep
through
li
k
e
tears from closed eyes
into
the
hollow
.
Hollow
beneath
your
clothes
and
under your
skin,
you
are
nothing but the forgotten
scarecrow.
"D'Orsay Clock''
Meg Flannery
22
23
Heartache
by: Kathryn
Herbert
Heart-ache,
n. 1.
Pain in the heart./
A white blindness like
nausea in
the chest./ An acuteness of
senses and accur
a
cy of memory, recall-
ing images, words, smells, tastes
,
sensations
, a
ccompanied
by nights
lit by LED and damp cotton headrests.
I
To
dread
what
is
to
hap-
pen because this is all
you
have,
or maybe this i
s
all you have
ever
wanted./ A longing unquenchable by
hunger or thirst,
because it is
so deep in the soul that no food nor drink
could remedy
the
ailment
that plagues your mind
even when the world conspires to distract
you; your heart proves insatiable,
scre
a
ming into your pounding
ears as you press your fists down
to drown out the noi
s
e of your
hurt. / A deepening crescendo
that pul
s
e
s
louder and louder until
2.
It
subsides.
Adulthood
by: Daniel
Wilson
All that is behind
you crafted your
being
Transforming a child with never
ending
dreams
Into six feet of uniqueness, and
a
different
way of seeing
Saying to yourself, "nothing is really
ever what it
seems:'
Questioning decisions that haunt
you from your past
And relishing the determination after making
such calls
Your father once told
you, "that's
how happiness lasts,
Breaking through barriers and dismissing the
falls:'
Searching for love or entangled
in
lust
Hoping life keeps its hand at its
side
Believing in yourself and those
who you
trust
To never let go, and distinguish
your
pride
But as memory fades, one question
stays afloat,
"When is my heart beat going to hit
its last
note?"
Public Transportation
by: Taylor Foreman-Niko
'Ihere is something profoundly sad about public transportation, all these
people with places to go and no way to get there. They stand on platforms,
sit on benches, and think, and their reflection thinks with them, flashing
by in window panes as the bus or train slows, a slideshow of their grief,
the deep sadness, long hurt that makes you stare out of windows hoping to
see something, more than your shuffling, static life: a quiet place, a faithful
book, a smile.
But all you see is yourself.
And the closeness of your breath does nothing but fog the glass, bereft of
the deafening silence of nearing, of being, fingers drawing fire across a
thrumming plain that burns you like a song, sunk deep and hot in your
ears, scalding your throat with that knot of doubt and hope, that knot that
chokes you, girds you, cheers you to bridge the gap, to take one small step,
to speak not with words, but in words, breath them into one another, twist-
ing like snakes in the universal language of tongues and sighs, CPR for the
soul, two souls, radiant like supernovas that will never fade, the afterimage
forever scorched upon your retinas, the memory crashing with all the fury
of igniting stars and fulfilled dreams, and there is no gravity as you touch,
no collapse, you are lifted, light fills you with its double meaning, bears
you up and there is no knot, nothing but the link between, and the twisting
and the burning and the questing of five-limbed runners across the New
World, the toppling as up become left and down becomes right, as feet give
way, and sheets embrace, and you breathe their hair and kiss their eyes,
cup their faces, as you laugh and cry and smile, smile, smile until your face
hurts, and despite everything, at that moment, as you look into their smil-
ing face, you know that they are hurting with you.
24
25
My Heart is Heavy
by: Catherine Natoli
My heart is heavy
Folding
Under the pressure of
Your walk trotting stepping
On the cracks of my ventricles.
Sodden with
Your saliva dripping
Mercilessly into the absorptive
Sponge walls.
Swollen with
Memories of cold nights spent huddled on
Stone walls watching stars
Peering
Into a big sheet of glass.
Bloated with emotions
Fleeting and
Undying yearning
For each second to be an hour
Spent in the perimeters of
Your gaze.
Steeped in muddled thoughts
Pouring through my atriums and drowning
Out the rhythmic noise
Of beating.
Fred on Loneliness
by: Shannon Slocum
Fred is an older man in his early eighties. He is seated, slumped, in a
weathered armchair. The stage is
·
set up like a living room, out of date, with
two windows on the back wall. Fred talks to the audience.
[FRED]
I've got a dog, Robbie. I wasn't too sure about him at first, he was a gift.
You see my kids are always giving me gifts, gifts that they think I need or
that will occupy my time. Befo,re Robbie it was a Keurig-the hell with that
piece of junk-and before the Keurig it was
...
what was it
.
.. some kind of ...
some kind of foot massager? One of those, you know, those slippers with
the batteries and the heat and the-it doesn't matter; the thing doesn't even
work. So they give me a dog. Me, a dog, at my age ... but the dog was better
than the Keurig and the slippers so I let him stay. Not that he hasn't had to
earn his keep. I told him, after he kept me up all night, that first night, yap-
ping, that he better straighten up if he wanted to stay here. And he did, the
little chump, he straightened right up. Give him a piece of cheese and he's
golden. He might gas a little, but who the hell doesn't, that's what I say.
[Pause]
And that Robbie, he's a good listener, too. I'll sit in my chair and he'll sit
at my feet, either looking up or looking down, but he's listening. I know
because his right ear twitches, you know, twitches at every word I say and
don't say. The kids, when they come, they give me all this junk and then
haul off, back to work, back to their appointments-appointments. That's
what they're always saying, "Pop, we've got so many appointments today,
maybe next time:' So I guess that's what they gave me Robbie, to ease the
guilt about them appointments ...
[Pause. Gazes past audience for a moment. Shakes it off]
26
But to hell with them. We've got appointments of our own. We get up in
the morning and we have our breakfast. The doctor has got me on a strict
diet, just bananas and yogurt and Cheerios for me, a real man's diet, you
know, but what he doesn't know is that I cook bacon for Robbie. That's
right, the dog gets the bacon and I get the Cheerios. Someone's got to eat
well in the house, that's what I say. And I might even nibble at a little, just
so I can hear Dr. Robins tell me how my cholesterol is leveling nicely with-
out all of that meat and fat. Puh. After breakfast -
[Interrupted by the sound of sirens]
Oh boy.
[The sirens are overlapped by the sounds of frantic barking]
Oh boy, oh boy.
[ Chuckling]
That's him barking, the nut. He loves the sirens. We've got the fire depart-
ment up the road so they're always going off. That reminds me-
[Slowly gets up from chair and shuffles around the stage, shutting win-
dows]
If
I don't shut these damn screens, even the windows, he'll bust right
through and go running for the hills. Shoulda' seen what he did when the
sirens came for me. When was that ... February ... no April...whenever I
had that cold ...
[Shuffles back to the chair and eases down]
Anyhow, he slipped out between their legs, right out the door, when they
had me strapped to the stretcher.
27
(Remembering fondly]
They had to make one of the younger guys chase him around the yard, that
little chooch. You see, he was trying to jump in the back of the ambulance,
so he could come along for the ride ...
[Shaking his head]
/
And they let him; they let him because I said everyone else has got ap-
pointments.
[Pause]
So now, after that fiasco, Dr. Robins said I can't sit for too long in this chair,
I've got to get my exercise. Bad heart, bad lungs, bad circulation-to hell
with those stockings-so we go to the park and walk around the trees and
sit by the pond and watch the families down there for a picnic. They don't
notice me much, sitting on the bench with Robbie alert and ready next to
me, but if they've got the grandparents with them, I'll get a wave and smile.
It's funny how forgetful they can get. You have 'em, you raise 'em and you
send 'em off so they can do the having and raising themselves. But with
Marie gone and my health ... well, it is what it is and it's not good ...
[Pause]
It's just nice to know that someone's listening out there, out there in the
shadows. Because, you know, I'm in the shadows, too. And it's lonely, it's
damn lonely, even with a dog.
28
"In the Alleyway"
Kathryn Herbert
29
Manor House
by: Taylor Foreman
-
Niko
Manor house
Flat plain
Lone house on
An old lane
Silence chokes
The air
Manor house
On a still plain
Beside crooked willow
With etched names
A rope still
Dangles there
Manor house
Quiet plain
Still faces
In a gold frame
They're screaming
Inside
In the manor house
On a wet plain
In a bathtub with
A plugged drain
A mother smiles
As the bubbles rise
To the manor house
On the changed plain
Early returned
In heavy rain
He finds her lover
In the hall
In the manor l}ouse
On the burning plain
With the marriage
Bed profaned
The lover won't
Answer her call
Dark manor house
On a dark plain
,
She wails at
The doorframe
As she sees
What's left
Manor house
Greying plain
He wades through
Tears feigned
His hands wrap
Around her neck
Empty manor house
On a red plain
He whispers her
Cursed name
As he mounts
The trembling bough
Ancient manor house
On an ugly plain
Rusted gate
Thick chain
They've long since
Stopped asking how
30
31
Stolid manor house
Pale plain
Candle flicker
Behind window pane
A face in the
Darkness lit
Manor house
Empty plain
A father
Driven insane
By the dreams of
His children's cries
In the manor house
On a drab plain
A broken father
With no name
Discovers his
Wife lies
Endless manor house
On unending plain
Years pass but
It's all the same
From the dark he
Whispers her name
Why did you do it, dear Lor-
raine?
Why did you do it, my Lor-
raine?
"
Untitled"
Shannon Slocum
32
Italian Poem
by: Nicholas Cipriano
Tutti invecchiamo e moriamo,
e
una parte naturale della vita.
Ma, quando
e
il mio tempo,
Saro da solo?
Quando io sono vecchio
e il mio corpo ha molto dolore,
avro una persona al mio fianco per aiutarmi e amarmi?
0
cadro ' e rimaroa freddo e senza vita, come la pietra sotto di me?
Quando io sono morto
e il mio corpo
e
sepolto sotto la pelle della terra madre,
sara le persone viene e mette le rose sulla mia tomba,
o sara coperta con erbacce e polvere?
Quando io saro morto da molto tempo
e il mio corpo
e
decomposto,
(English translation)
We all get old and die;
it is a natural part of life.
mia memoria scaldera i cuori degli altri
o scomparera come i nomi sulla lavagna?
But, when it is my time
will I be alone?
33
When I am an old man
and my body has much pain,
will I have a person at my side to hold me and love me
or will I fall, cold and lifeless, life the stone beneath me.
When I die
and my body is buried deep under the skin of Mother Earth,
will people come and put roses on my grave,
or will it be covered with dust and weeds.
After I have been dead for a long time,
and my body has become one with the earth,
will my memory warm the hearts of others
or fade away like names on a chalkboard?
Death
by: Daniel Wilson
Though some goals and aspirations were never achieved
And there are people you haven't met, and places unseen
Questions unanswered, losses that are grieved
You seized what life gave you, and found yourself a queen
Your last goodbyes are undying, standing the test of time
Traveling with you to share with those you have lost
Into an eternity of memory, your last hill to climb
Passing through the gates, your life is the cost
As your eyes begin to fade, and your vision turns to black
Images of forts in the trees, and moments unforgettable
Let you know you did okay and to never look back
Because your future is now made of the un-regrettable
So lay while you can, and savor the past
It's now the end of your journey; you've done all that was asked.
34
NOTES
De
ar
Re
aders,
Than
k you
so much for picking up a copy of The Mosaic! Hope-
full
y
yo
u enjoy
ed
the work we compiled in this issue, and that what you
saw
an
d rea
d here
will inspire you to begin your own creative journey-
lit
erary
artis
tic, or
otherwise. We hope you will continue to read The
Mosaic
in
the
future!
You
r E
ditors,
Kath
ry
n &
Cather
ine
;ack
L
-R: Shan
non Slocum,
Kathryn Herbert, Carolyn Rivas, Jessica Sturtevant
F~ont
L
-R:
Cather
ine Natoli, Miles
Wellington-Deanda, Devin Dickerson, Meg
annery,
Victoria
Huntsinger
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