The Mosaic
Fall
2013
















Marist Literary Arts Society presents:
The
Mosaic
Fall
2013
Editors:
Kathryn Herbert
Rose Shannon
Literary Arts Society Executive Board:
President: Devin Dickerson
Vice President: Christina Coulter
Secretary
:
Catherine Natoli
Treasurer: Amber Case
Web Master
:
Kasey Corona
Club Adviser:
Dr
.
Lea Graham
*
A special 'thank you' to those who contributed to this publication
and to the committee members who helped with the selection pro-
cess. Without you,
The Mosaic would not exist. Thank you for your
time, patience, and enriching the Literary Arts Society with your
enthusiasm and talents.
Front cove
r
art
:
''Aviary Expression"
by
:
Mary Babin
Back cover art: "In the Garden (Falling)" by: William Vrachopoulos











Table of Contents
Letter from an Alumnus ..................................................................
..
...
...
... 1
Bad Kids
by: Christina FitzMorris ........................................................
..
.. 2
This Isn't Starbucks
by: Lynn South ........................................................... 4
Let's Meet at Starbucks
by: Lynn South ........
..
..........................
..
....
..
....
.
....
5
On the Occasion of my Best Friend's Father's Death
by: William Vrachopoulos ........
..
...............
.
...........
...
...
.
.....
..
...
..
.... 6
Red
by: Catherine Natoli
...........................................................
.
.....
..
......... 7
When I Grow Up
by: Michalyn Curran ........
.
...............
.........
..
...
...
..
........
.
9
We believe in something true
by: Rose Shannon .....
.
...............
.
.....
..
....
...
10
Amnesia
by: Kathryn Herbert.. ..............
.
............................
.
.....
.
.....
.
.....
..
.
10
Pickles
by: Christina Coulter...
......
.
.....................................................
.
........
11
I saw your face
by: William Vrachopoulos ........................
...
...
.
.....
..
...
.
.
..
12
Death of a Novelist
by: Grace Henderson ............................................... 13
The Radio Speaks of Monotheism
by: Kathryn Herbert... ..................... 15
The Smooth Sin
by: Leah Butterwick. ...........
.
......................
.
....
.
....
..
...
....
17
The Divide
by: Alex Sideris ...
.
......
.
................
.
......................
.
.....
.
....
..
....
.
..
18
I Love You, Cigarettes
by: Steven Roberts
......................................
..
...
....
19
Hatred
by: Alanna Coogan ...
..
.
.
.............
...
....
..
...........................
.
......
.
....
.
..
20
Love Song
by: Kathryn Herbert..
...............................................
.
.....
.
.....
.
. 22
Kiss
by: Grace Henderson .....
..
.............................................
.
.....
.
....
..
....
...
31
Jewel
by: Leah Butterwick. ............................
..
...............
.
.....
.
.....
.
....
..
....
...
32
You write and write
by: Rose Shannon .....................................
.
...
..
........
33
The Asshole
by: Alex Sideris ..................................................................... 33
Vinegar
by: Alanna Coogan ....................
...
...
.
.....................
.
.
.
.........
..
...
..
..
34
Veils Removed
by: Steven Roberts .........
...
...........................
.
................... 36
The Sound and My Fury
by: Kathryn Herbert.. ......................
..
.........
.
... 3 7
If
You Can't Take the Heat
by
:
Alanna Coogan ..........
.
.............
.
....
..
.....
..
40






"
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside
you:'
-Maya Angelou











Letter from an Alumnus
Dear Readers,
Wednesdays continue to have a hold on my heart. Whether we were
curled up in the commuter lounge or deep in an alcove, those Marist
nights were filled with friends, red markers, and creativity
.
As P
r
esident of
the Literary Arts Society,
I'd
conduct our usual Wednesda
y
night meeting
and then encourage members to stay an extra few minutes to edit submis-
sions for that semester's Mosaic
.
Together we would pour over printed
pages, often reciting the poetry aloud to ourselves to see if we liked the
rhythm, or sharing excellent one-liners from the prose we re
c
eived.
When I think of Wednesday nights I hear endless chatter followed
by inspired silences
.
I hear Nick Sweeney, our Mosaic Editor
,
walking
around to each reader to see how they were finding the piece and to let
them know what he thought because, of course, heel already read all of the
submissions. I hear Stephanie Grossman, Vice President, comparing piec-
es she was reading to discussions she had heard earlier in Dr. Goldpaugh's
or Dr
.
Fitzgibbons's class, as she sat curled up in an armchair. Then there
would be Secretary Mike Cresci, coat on and at the door, attempting to
start a revolt by lovingly ( usually, at least) calling me a dictator for keeping
everyone on Mug Night. Didn't I know we were already thirty minutes
late?
The nights faded one by one but the friendships lingered
;
and at
the end of it all we had a finished magazine in our hands that reminded
us of those literary nights. Often it would contain our own writing; but
if it didn't we knew it still held a part of us, things that couldn't be sa
i
d in
words and that are still recalled with the fondest of smiles when we friends
do meet up, post
-
graduation
.
These days, our nights together are often on
the weekends
,
but it still feels like a Wednesday to me
.
For everyone reading this issue, enjoy the writing and know the
dedication that it takes to put this together. I hope you get as much
j
oy
out of reading this as those who spent their Wednesday nights creating it.
Kelly Gallucci
,
'11
;
former president of Literary Arts Society
1









2
Bad Kids
by: Christina FitzMorris
1. We weren't bad kids; it's just that there are a lot of us. Four of us
sharing a five year span. It must have seemed to be too stressful from
the outside, too much
-
we were aware of how we were viewed before
we understood what it meant. The world
is
not built for families of six.
Restaurants sat us nervously, hyperaware of each and every guest situ-
ated within our circle of fire. We were welcomed to hotels and airlines
by disappointment, anxiety and annoyance
-
acquaintances we had
gotten to know quite well throughout the years
.
Judged before we sat
everywhere we went - a young family with four little brats
-
we were
expected, of course, to fulfill the prototype of the problem child - four
times over. The faces around us everywhere we went told us that that's
what kids do, that's how children are. An ever present tension swirled
about us as we grew, the alien problem children spaced five years
apart. The truth, though, is that we have no age; we are the same and
live within our own unaffected world. It's a sort of wonderful chaos in
which we move and live.
2. It's one of those crisp days in January where the
snow
seems some-
how to relieve the bitter cold as it falls
.
The world is painted in differ-
ent shades of grey. Spots of color break through in blurs as they mix
with the snow, the grey, in a flash as they
race
about our heads. My
brother and I stand afraid to move as we wait for the ski instructor. My
middle sister is close by, visible through the white cold fog in her deep
pink snowsuit. The youngest of four has begun to slide backward down
the hill and away from us, visibility fading with her into the misty
grey haze spotted with quick flashes of color
.
She is
a
cat attempting
to
catch
the snow as she slides from our perch
into
oncoming traffic.
Annoyed snow sporting families maneuver over and around her as she
eventually comes to a stop, looking up at the three of us as we laugh
-
gripping onto one another in a desperate and clumsy attempt not to
fall
-
not with fear but bewilderment, the flash of a smirk in her eyes:
the world is not built for families of six.






3. Weaving through throngs of people was a game without rules
.
Flying
down the mountain, ice scraping our skis beneath thin layers of powder,
individuals and groups popped up as targets to avoid by offering a chance
to maneuver, quick and sharp, without breaking stride.
If
you fall, you
'
re
left behind
.
You cannot tell us apart; four flashes, distinguishable only by
color in a thick hazy grey fog, weave this way and that in choreographed
harmony
.
We are a team, we are the same. We do not have ages, we are not
gendered. We are four wind-burned wisps of one entity hurdling through
a bitter wind and led by a collective subconscious connection, yipping and
laughing as we go.
4. After dinner we watch TV and play games by the fire in the cabin we
'
re
staying in on the mountain. In the morning
,
we will dress and open the
door once more to step right out and make our reckless way through
whipping wind and biting cold once more with the sting of new snow
fresh on our faces. As we sleep tonight, we will feel the sensations of the
day return, as if we had been swimming for hours and could not escape
the slosh of water against our bodies even after leaving the pool. We
talk as we lay in bed, tired in both mind and body, drifting off at differ
-
ent speeds. I am the slowest tonight. Half-way there and I am caught by
my breathing - that is
,
our collective breath in and out as I drift deeper,
faintly smiling as I let go
,
yet hold onto them. In sync and the same
,
we
are able to find one another even in sleep
.
3







4
I.
This Isn't Starbucks
by: Lynn South
It started at a coffee shop, amongst the stale smell
of crushed Colombian beans and clashing
perfumes of sandalwood, lilacs, and almonds.
Phones buzzed on tables, chitter-chatter hummed
around ears, and a silence of love and comfort
was unshakeable. The corner table was cleared,
minus a coat left hanging on a chair, so I sat down.
Like an ice cube, buoyant in a chill glass of water,
I couldn't remain still.
There was too much buzz in the air,
too much anticipation, too much anxiety,
too much Apple Spice aroma wafting
from open mugs. Like an ice cube, I felt myself melting
into an obsolete pool of similar substances, losing
my face in a crowd all too similar to mine
.
Panic.
How would he find me? How would he know
it was me, and not some Shirley Temple
with her pink nose buried in a mug
much bigger than her?
It
was a sea of scarves
and stuffy noses, each indistinguishable
from the next. I was vanishing, vaporizing,
getting lost in the vast abyss of a coffee shop
that was all at once everything and nothing
.
Finally. Eye contact. Nothingness evolved into matter.
Instead of disappearing, I became the beacon
of light in a hazy, stale night sky
that
smelled
too much of coffee and not happiness
.







II.
Let's Meet at Starbucks
by: Lynn South
Why does this
seem
like such a distant land?
Like diversity is non-existent, like dry coffee beans
and stale scones is all you'll find? No bright smiles,
no
"hello
how's your daY:' no glimmer of hope
,
just
knit beanies and acoustic tracks pumping through hidden
speakers into ears that can't be bothered to listen to anything
but the warble of their own voice
.
I miss the warmth of your presence, the never-ending
joy
that radiated the fragile air surrounding you,
and I can't feel that now, pressed against
stainless steel and pristine pine,
and youths who shouldn't be here unsupervised,
with more cash in-hand than I have stored in my piggy bank
aptly labeled
"only
with him:'
I broke that bank wide open
today, by the way. With one of those stainless steel
travel mugs you bought me from this
very
shop;
"Ironic, isn't
it?" you chuckled, surrounded
by the green and red lights and shreds of
wrapping paper. "You'll never use it:'
It did a wonderful job, though,
breaking
the purple porcelain pig into thousands
of tiny
shards,
none of which were worthy of this cruel fate,
but all of which that allowed me to meet you,
here,
in this cold land, filled with more coffee beans
and
unhappiness than I could possibly fathom.
5






6
"In the Alps"
by: Kathryn Herbert
On the Occasion of my Best Friend's Father's Death
by: William Vrachopoulos
You came home from the desert one November,
numb.
You had some cheap cigars
and
we drove around
for hours,
getting lost,
talking about the cargo in planes.
My car smelled of the
conversation
for weeks.







Red
by: Catherine Natoli
Today
'
s the day, you think as you lie in bed on a summer Saturday
morning, eyes still bleary and dazed but mind sharply fixed on the event
you
'
ve been awaiting for quite some time. Don't chicken out
.
You fix yourself breakfast: Cocoa Puffs with chocolate milk. A sim-
ple meal to prepare, but you just can't seem to focus on the task at hand.
Your thoughts wander; you think about how it will turn out. You glance at
the clock above the stove. 11 A.M. I wonder when a good time would be.
You catch yourself putting the milk in the cabinet. Where'd the cereal go?
You've put in the refrigerator, next to the white rose corsage you received
for your high school graduation yesterday (which your mother insists on
preserving)
.
Oops.
After that little mishap, you know you won't be able to spend much
of the day waiting. Patience has never been your forte. I'll wait till noon
.
It's the best you can do.
You're fidgety; you pace around the house, but try to disguise your
impatience. You wash a plate you didn't dirty, rearrange the photographs
on the fireplace mantle, pet the dog. It must be noon by now
.
You look at
the clock again. 11 :23
.
Good enough
.
You politely ask your mom for the
car keys.
"Where are you off to so early on your first day of freedom?
"
You know she would disapprove, so you decide to fib a little.
"Gotta pick something up really quick:'
You're barely aware of the two-minute drive to the pharmacy
.
Once
there, you carefully scan the shelves, hurriedly reading through the many
labeled boxes. Ammonia-free? Luminista? These words mean nothing
to you
.
A sea of effervescent female faces smiles at you from the gleaming
boxes. Do those colors really even come out that way? You reach for one
of the brighter shades
.
Would this work?
Indecision takes hold of you. You've never done this before; twelve years
in a Catholic school have restricted your creative expression, to say the
least. You look exasperatedly at the shining boxes once more, trying to
pacify your impatience. Yeah, this
'
ll do. That will be $6.89.
The drive home is also a blur; your mind is frenzied. What if
7






the ingredients into a central bottle. Easier than I thought. You proceed as profes
-
sionally suggested
.
You are in the shower, eager to discover what will come of it. You watch as
the hot steam rolls toward the ceiling, and the red-stained water rushes over your
body into the drain below
.
You think of the shocked expressions, the surprised
exclamations that are sure to come. You try to guess the amount of times you will
be asked "why?"
You'll smile faintly, and you'll let them believe you did it for a taste of rebel
-
lion, or as a way to stand out, or as a vehicle of practicing your newfound autono-
my from a clean-cut, regimented world.
You'll let them believe these things because you just can't bring yourself to
say that all your life, all you
'
ve ever wanted was to look like a little mermaid.
"BC (I)" by: William Vrachopoulos
8









When I Grow Up
by: Michalyn Curran
"What
do you want to be when
you
grow up?"
Five: A Ballerina
"You'll have to practice every day, it's not only tutus and slippers
:'
Nine: A Veterinarian
"Vets
take care of dogs
and cats ... are
you
fond of felines?"
Twelve: A Chef
"Chefs touch raw meat; you hate that, no?"
"What
do you want to do in college?"
Fourteen
:
Photography
"An
occupation as a photographer sounds financially unsettling
:'
Fifteen
:
Elementary Education
"Children:
snot nosed and teary eyed. Day in and out?"
Seventeen: Journalism
"Corruption surrounds the media:'
"What do you want to major in?"
English
"What
exactly
does one do with a B.A
.
in English?"
Psychology
"It
is
difficult to gain a
real job without a Masters and PhD:'
Social Work
"Social
Work is
taxing:'
"What
will you be after college?"
Employed
"The
job market nowadays is severely
unstable."
Married
"
You know that 50% of all marriages end in divorce:'
A Parent
"And
balance a career?"
"What do you want to be when you grow up?"
Human.
9






10
We believe in something true
by: Rose Shannon
"We
believed
in
something true"
That is what you told them all, sitting in that room,
Dressed in their finest attire on a Saturday night
And perhaps they believe in your words or maybe they don't
Because after all, they are the real heroes of the night-
The ones who tell the truth or a version of it to pay the bills and inform all
ofus
Who go outward, to seek a stellar truth on a jewel that's hidden in the
deserts andcities.
But the truth's kind of funny, you see because everyone wants pieces of it,
But few ever win the grand prize;
Its hiding in places they can't reach or can't get to and sooner or later,
We just believe in the lies of our times,
Ignoring all the smiles of those because sooner or later,
We simply settle for the spoken words.
Amnesia
by: Kathryn Herbert
Set the ambling ships to sail.
Mix the setting sun with black
Lightning, sparking, forking high,
rushing in with summer rain
On the path down which you wind.
Winds they cross, you push away
Silent sea and gentle days
coming in like steady sleep,
Years of doubt long lost to
dreams-
Demon depths that drag you down
Silent seas and ambling ships
set to burn in rising suns.






Pickles
by: Christina Coulter
Pulling bloody, diseased clumps of hair from my scalp,
Like thoughts coaxed from the rebel's tainted mind,
Like weeds pulled unceremoniously by their roots,
Like extricating my lanky limbs from the sheets,
While my heart tries to beat, beat me back down into bed
Fuck you, stay home, you're worthless
Sometimes I'm convinced that I'm irreparably broken,
Just a horse being carted off to the knacker's
To be boiled down into glue or dog food or God knows what
But, God damn it, I will work harder.
Mr. Krabs, hello, do you how do?
I'm creatively disabled at the moment.
The best there is? I don't think so.
I anything can't do right since because pickles.
I think don't ready back to go to work.
No, I won't look for more salt in the back,
And I don't know where the extra napkins are.
There's no way I'm serving your meal with a smile,
And hell, I might even burn your milkshake.
I'm sorry, Mom, I started smoking again.
I wish I could pick up my spatula or my pen
And start working like nothing ever happened
But God damn
it,
things don't work like that.
Sometimes all I can do is order extra onions,
11




12
Yep, that's as daring as I'm willing to get.
I can ba
r
ely fucking string my thoughts together
,
Let alone remember the pickles in a fucking burger.
Don
'
t you get it, you crustaceous cheapskate!
I can
'
t make a Double Krabby Patty with the works!
I can
'
t put a patty on a bun, with lettuce, cheese
,
onions, tomatoes,
ketchup, mustard, pickles, and top bun together in that order!
I
saw your face
by: William Vrachopoulos
I saw your face
across dozens of melting bodies
pumping mechanically
destroying themselves
.
Above us, the blades
of giant fans pushed the steam
and reeking sweat towards the violet sky.
You contorted into weak shapes on
the floor.
I shrugged and kept running
.
I hoped you pulled something
.






Death of a Novelist
by:
Grace
Henderson
My friend the writer has not been well
.
His body's hard as walnut shells, but
in the end,
stuffed
with prednisone.
They call it spinal stenosis,
strangled neuropathy, ligamentous disruption.
It's discogenic disease, annular fibrosis-
there is medication for that.
But the wonders of mending have their own lethargy
to which fragility adds its color.
All along, he knew this could happen.
He didn't wake up worried, thinking this
could
be
the last thing that will ever happen.
There will be time and muscle enough for
at least another week now
.
He's a lamb inside a gorilla suit,
scribbling delusional notes.
He's a doe behind a lion mask,
powerless as a child tumbling out of bed,
unable to stop what is certain to hurt
The room is red with iodine.
He wants to know if he has a fever.
He doesn't listen
.
He
stands
on his head.
He wore a pirate ship
,
wore diamonds on the keel of his shoes.
The words come harder,
set
their own pace
so it gets harder and harder to breathe
,
a man about to be shot at the edge of an ocean
13





14
The novelist
i
s dying now, and with him
this image too, uncertain as the music,
each morning, a high tower over the sea,
already filling with water, fading fast.
Lines taken from the works of Joshua Harmon, Douglas Geotsch, Kwame
Dawes
,
Mary Biddinger, Michael Cirelli, Svea Barrett
,
A.D. Winans, Ed
Galing, Mary Ann Mannino
"Reflections" by: Kathryn Herbert




The Radio Speaks of Monotheism
by: Kathryn Herbert
Turn the dial
You're punk
#1
Inclusive ideology, hoards of followers
talking wider until the nation is at your feet.
You're an inspiration.
Speaking of God's subtle identity-
it is not in all of us-
Monotheism is your emperor,
No god repeating,
Only one God at your feet.
Turn the dial
The sound of a snob speaking is repetition,
Pushing inclusive, closed-believing out,
Letting music in
the music of themselves;
No destiny too infantile;
Modernity and gods influence them
to think openly,
Their strength unified in culture
Where show A speaks about inclusive ideology,
Show B about anything,
Unified but jazzier.
Turn the dial
Show Chas the Jews, but jazzier.
The Jews were gods
but reordering doesn't get no God
It gets snobs speaking, and you repeating;
But their God had a voice
and they wipe the face of their God
15





16
With their striped rags soaked
i
n tears,
Mary Magdalene and Saint Veronica in one.
Turn the dial
No modern hope,
The reordering has the world
by a string
on a thread
Attached to punk
#
1.
His words come in,
making Jews subtle
but the Jews have many
and music
Of five million, seven-hundred and fifty-three thousand
,
two-hun
dred and fortone voices
And you
Popular for Show A
AndB
AndC-
No God repeating,
Strength unified in culture-
You are their identity,
Pouring their music out
In poetry that wipes the face of God
With blood
And gas
And barbed wire
And how their destiny is enough
.
Lines taken from
There
'
s Only One God and You
'
re Not It by Ste-
phen Paul Mill
e
r.






The Smooth Sin
by
:
Leah Butterwick
We felt we were steel
The scars echo, trace our hurts as curses
mine bleed ice, chipped
.
Eyes strike, deadly eyes
,
she the smooth sin,
and our echoes fought
I could change our curses
I could flame thought, melt her hurts.
So I strike. Both echoes trace.
But pride weighs.
Scars strike both down
In melted sin we were drowned.
17








18
The Divide
by: Alex Sideris
It's a fine line between friends and lovers. Somewhere between
play-fights and that one look that lasts a little too long, there exists a divi
-
sion; a division that says you can't have those feelings for this person or
that it would just be too weird--we're like siblings. But in that moment,
that sweet surrender when the girl you know better than yourself
isn't
inches
away, she's pressed against you, there isn't a force in the world that
could
pull you apart.
Some would argue that our parents had it right: if you think a girl
is pretty you ask her out and then you get to know her. But as great as my
parents and their friends' marriages are,
I'd
rather have one of my best
friends than a stranger
.
She knows me already; there isn't a wall or shield
that I need to hide behind. She knows every scar and every transgression
and I know her, through and through. It wouldn't be love, it would be
something more, a cosmic convergence to unite the two halves of a whole.
I can't say that I've tried this, though there were a couple girls who
could have made it. But each one seemed to fly away and I was powerless
to get them back.
If
I look back to those moments when friends become
something more, that split second of something more than love, I imag
-
ine what it would have been like. What would have happened if Megan
hadn't moved away? What if Savannah didn't transfer schools? But love
can't blossom
in
what ifs; so I cling, some say foolishly, to the notion that
there will be that one girl that'll enjoy video games as much as I do, curl
up for a good movie and pull me back down into reality when I get to
wrapped up in my head. She'll be a friend for quite a bit, because neither
us will notice the other until that one moment when she's sitting with
me on the couch and our favorite movie is somewhere in the middle and
she'll rest her sleepy head on my chest and I'll subconsciously kiss the top
of her head. She
'
ll pick her head up and look, not into my eyes; no
,
she'll
peer into the soul of this guy she's known all along, and in that moment
we'll cross the divide
.






I Love You, Cigarettes
by: Steven Roberts
I love you, cigarettes.
But you're poisonous to me.
I reminisce on our morning spot where we have coffee together.
When I smell your signature aroma, I remember how I need you,
How my days seem long and drown out, then once we're together again,
My petty problems and insecurities go away along with each exhalation.
But cigarettes, you destroy me
.
You make my heart blacker than my lungs.
I gave you myself, but you're incapable of reciprocating.
I put you down for days at a time and don't even think about you; the part
you hate the most,
And I pass by all our spots,
All the places where our youthful fingers explored.
Even my backyard is corrupted by your cancerous doings,
Where you showed me woman in all her glory.
All the music we made together
I can't sing, because I remember how
you
feel between my fingers.
Oh
cigarettes,
I
can
finally breathe when I know you'll be reduced to ash.
19






20
Hatred
By
:
Alanna Coogan
My hate
is
like a two
-
ton lead ball, shackled to my ankle
.
Every step
I try to take forward is
a
battle of strength
.
I am constantly fighting for free-
dom but my chain of anger digs mercilessly into my bare skin, rubbing my
ankle raw and squeezing precious drops of blood from my already weakened
body
.
I can't afford to lose anymore but it's so hard to break free. I almost
take comfort in the familiarity of my bonds. Freedom would be so sweet but
isn't my hatred the only thing that motivates me to stay alive?
My hate is the pit ofTartarus, taking residence in my empty stom
-
ach
.
It smolders, steams, and shrieks, spitting up heaps of fire that scorch
my lungs. My anger is a monster with ragged claws that clutch my heart in a
blistered fist. It squeezes out the hope until each precious dream falls to my
feet like a forgotten pile of laundry. It smiles at me through the darkness of
this dungeon and I see yellowed, crooked teeth with bits of bone and hope
wedged in that hideous mouth. Let me go, I tell it. But the words burn my
throat on the way up and the taste of bile forces me to swallow them back
down.
I can't see. The dirty claws have scuttled up to my eyes and I am
blinded by anger. I try to yell but my throat is so dry that all I let out are
raspy gasps. I want it out. My frantic fingers rake my body as I try to tear
my monster out. I don't want to feel this anymore.
I need to fight back. I need a weapon. Remembering my shackles, I
reach down for the lead ball and find it fits perfectly in the palm of my hand.
The chain melts away from my burning touch
.
I blindly fumble forward, the
ball in my fist raised high. My anger smirks at me; I can't see it but I feel the
unbearable heat radiating around me. I take a deep breath and feel pumas
rattle around in my blackened lungs, but I throw anyway. The lead ball lands
with an echoing thump somewhere nearby
.
The sound is satisfying but I
know I've missed my target.
My hatred laughs harder now-a cold, deep rattle that I feel inside
my bones
.
Somehow, I know it is right in front of me and I act without
thinking. I lurch forward and thrust a steady hand into where I hope its
mouth is. I grab one long, uneven tooth and wrench it from its roots.





My monster shrieks and doubles over, loosening its grip on my heart for
just a moment-but that's all I need
.
The rough tooth is bigger than my
hand and shaped like a horn. I tum it over quickly and plunge the decay
-
ing thing deep into the softness of my belly. I think it hurts but I can't
remember what pain is anymore. All I know is that warm
,
black liquid
oozes from my wound and drips down my legs. I drop the tooth and it
hits the ground with a metallic clank. Darkness envelops me
.
I am alone and I am free.
"Negative"
by: Nicole Cote
2
1




22
Love Song
by: Kathryn Herbert
Abused be radio lovers; they're sung
by men who coo and purr like huddled dogs
but bark like rabid beasts when time allows,
pressing souls against the walls, rev engines
To beatings of her dormant heart, her soul
mere shadow on that sharp fac;:ade
.
Love could
not shake the barks pressing to purrs as fists
missiled, struck dermal targets masking bone.
The black and blue worn with pink powdered cheeks-
But this is not told on the radio.
The radio could not save them, but sang
of love that could return again, but won't
Because she will exit the ring, alone;
Prize fighter after her very last match.






''A
Flowery Countenance"
by: Mary Babin
23





"Cotton Candy"
by: Kathryn Herbert
24






"Spock"
by:
Grace Henderson
25







































•
~
'
'
,,
•
~~
..
,.
I
..
ti'
•••
•
•
•
•
•
;r
.
..
,,
...
•
•
•
•
.
..
..
•
•
•
• •
..
•
•
.
•
•
"
,
"Living Words"
by
:
Mary
Babin
26





"Maschera''
by: Kathryn Herbert
27





"Venice"
by:
Nicole Cote
28


"Sunset on Burano"
by: Kathryn Herbert
29




"Seasonal Skies" by
:
Mary Babin
30






Kiss
by
:
Grace Henderson
Kiss n.
1.
A touch of lips; as a sign of affection
,
friendship, or admiration
2. A drop cookie: butter, sugar, eggs, flour- cream together to form a
dough,
s
weet to the point of sickening
3
.
see also
:
smooch, snog, smack, caress, peck
4.
a gift shared between lovers and fairytales, an ultimatum, the personi
-
fication
of love, with lips and teeth and tongue
5
.
An act of vandalism, spit as graffiti staining the mouth; a mistake
6
.
a shared cigarette/ your proposition/ and my declination/ a realization
of the fact that I'm 18 years old and I've never kissed anyone/ goddamn
it/ and you were just drunk enough to not care if I used you as a test
dummy
7
. Rum soaked regret and the repressed desire for romance/ a yearning
for one perfect moment/ one touch to your soft pink lips to mine as you
slumped in the chair in the corner/ a whisper of goodbye/
8
.
but you didn't understand/ you didn't know that once was a gift/ so
you turned me around and you said wait/ and that wasn't in the script/
and your spit was cold and your lips were rough and the brim of your hat
hit against my forehead/ and my hands weren't made for this/ they didn't
fit your waist or your neck/ and my perfect moment went from pretty to
dirty/ and I knew that if I stayed and you sobered up/ you would take one
look and leave
9
.
so I left first/ I turned and tripped over a table/ hurried to the door/ the
c
old Poughkeepsie street/ the waiting taxi/ and by the time the rum had
run its course/ I had already forgotten your face
.
31










32
Jewel
by: Leah Butterwick
Nice,
adj.
Forms: chameleon, woman, diamond
Etymology: Transformed to be opposite of its true nature
,
prostitut-
ing itself to be whatever the masses desired. In the lS00's and 1600's it was
impossible to discern her meaning
.
1.) Anything of the foolish or senseless,
to 2.) rare, to 3
.
) shy, to 4
.
) fragile or pampered, to 5.) being of virtue and
goodness, dainty and of decent reputation, to 6.) of wanton or elegant behav
-
ior, to
7.)
subtle, to 8.) trivial, to 9.) detailed, or requiring senses for detail, to
10.) requiring precision, to 11.) uncertain and requiring care, to 12.) pleas
-
ant, having a kind nature
,
to 13.) used in approval or in irony
.
As in a girl
silly with dreams of freedom and things, sharing them, forgetting to hide
them
.
I
A silly girl distinct and faceted, cut down to fit her silvery frame
.
/ A
girl, broken and weighed
,
wrapped up in velvet, or worn on a chain. / They
placed her on His heart and she bore well the cross. / They reset her and sold
her, placed her on the flushed heart of another, surrounded by pearls
.
/ Then
they reset and wrapped her on the sill of gold, forgotten under the weight
I
of sapphires and emeralds that wink under thin blades of obsidian. / Silly
girl, defined and gorgeous
,
yet hollow and translucent, / forgotten in her
velvet coffin. / Silly girl waiting to be freed, you are smart and sharp, fall free
from you frame
,
/ distinct and forgotten push out from you band, fall to the
earth and
que sera sera.
I
But silly girl houses her fear, the heat of it prisms
across all she sees. / Silly girl finds comfort in her setting, forgotten but still
held / She is beautiful, she is nice.





You write and write
You write and write
by: Rose Shannon
As your child is being developed
Then one day's it's their birthday,
Entering this complex, complicated, confusing, harsh, messy little world
With one breath,
You open the window and fling it all and its remains out
into
the air for
praise and
rejection
The Asshole
by: Alex Sideris
Look, he's an asshole, straight up. I won't sugar coat it because, hon-
estly, it doesn't matter. I've seen him make an ass of himself and I've seen
him own this town. He got real low last year, just one thing
after another,
burying him and beating him down. His girlfriend cheated on him
and
dumped him; I swear I don't know how he didn't put a gun to his temple.
But anyway, he went wild after that, like something broke inside of him
.
He
had no regard for money, spending wildly on just about anything. He had
no regard for women either; well, that's not fair. He loves women, they're his
reason for existence; but I swear something's different about him
.
He's lost
that kind of old school romantic. He snapped; I can't really put it any differ-
ently
.
Anyway, the line of women didn't stop; in fact, they started coming
more frequently
.
He had found Shangri-La, or so he thought. But nothing
compares to simply laying
your
head down on someone's shoulder and hav-
ing them stroke your hair; you can't beat that subtle sensation of
caring.
I
guess that's what he's looking for. I don't know. He's kind of nebulous with
this sort of thing.
I should know: he's me.
33



34
"Dock on the Loch'' by
:
Kathryn Herbert
Vinegar
by: Alanna Coogan
You taste like vinegar on my tongue
.
Once so sweet and warm,
Your presence now lurks near me,
Vile and treacherous.
I can't even remember what it feels like to need you,
To have you to fall back on,
To understand you.
You are that blackened sea creature, rising from the lake of lies
With slime dripping from your fat and greedy fingers.
I see
ruin in
your eyes.
I smell the vodka on your breath,
Cheap and cherry - just like you.
You reek of the monster you have become.
It feels like you've raised that green and moldy
Hand of yours,



Covered with insects insides,
And slapped it across my naked cheek.
Your fingers are cold and repulsive;
I cringe away from your blow.
How dare you?
The face that I used to know
Has been distorted.
You try to smile pleasantly at me,
But all I see are your thin, seaweed lips
And fishbone teeth.
You disgust me.
I hope you stay this way.
I really do.
I hope your little bimbos treat you
Half as horribly as you did me.
I hope your muddy water is like quicksand
And pulls you beneath the surface
.
I hope clammy claws sink into your skin
And rip apart your right to speak.
I hope it sucks.
And when my golden sunbeams dance
Above your swamp,
Too high for you to reach;
When I am the gentle wind
That brings freedom to the trees,
Too happy for you to stand;
When my white fur
Is everything you ever wanted -
I hope it hurts.
I hope it stings like the vinegar on my tongue.
35




36
Veils Removed
by: Steven Roberts
The mask is off,
The man stands cruciform and naked,
His pores touch air at their first encounter of realness.
His lies are done,
But he reeks of the cowardice of boyhood.
The man tastes of Goodness,
He sees the Beautiful,
Dim windows he gets into that world,
But his stepping stool is gone now
.
His marrow and sinus are displaced,
But h
i
s fragmentation is only his doing.
The man intact and whole deforms his structure;
Favoring his lies to the calling of the Knight.
His corruption like that of his fathers.
Can these bones live?
The man steps back, he accuses himself of insanity.
Is his life an opium den?
Or have the mad
c
onvinced themselves of sanity?
The man is thoughtful;
Sifting through nuggets of gold with a wet paper filter.
His reaches his hand down his throat, forcing a purge.
He finds the sword,
He strokes the crest of his people flowing down from his chin, rough and
glorious
.
He dawns the helmet.
Not a mask
,
but himself.






"Portrait of Self as a Horse, 2" by: William
Vrachopoulos
The Sound and My Fury
by: Kathryn Herbert
Smacking, slurping, gnawing, gulping, chewing, swallowing,
crunching,
popping.
I hate the sound of eating.
This may seem strange considering that eating
is
a necessary func-
tion, but the truth is that I hate it.
I have to clarify, though, that I do not hate eating. Quite the
opposite
:
I adore food. I probably eat much more than I should (we all
know that serving sizes are only suggestions, anyway, right?)
.
Everything
about
food fascinates me: the growing, the harvesting, the preparing and
cooking of food, and especially the end product. What bothers me is the
consumption
of the end product.
Th.ere are four distinct types of eaters: there are Cows, Exhibitors, Racers,
and Smackers.
Cows are people who keep their mouths closed while they eat,
yet
chew
in an overtly circular motion. I often wonder how their jaws can
37





38
move in such an unnatural manner. How do they not have TMJ dis-
orders? Can they not feel their jaw joints grinding together, or click-
ing in and out of place? Are they missing their front teeth? Maybe
they can unhinge their jaws, so that this manner of eating doesn't
disturb them. Perhaps they are part anaconda. Or perhaps they're
just part cow.
Exhibitors are people who like to display what they're eating
the whole time they are eating it. That is to say, they chew with their
mouths open. I have discovered new hues of color by accidentally
looking into an Exhibitor's mouth. Shades of brown blended with
earthy greens and muddied purples; diluted yellows bursting with bits
of bright green or orange; lumpy, muddy, backwater colors swirling in
a sea of saliva-it is as unappetizing as it sounds. It's like Eating Rain-
bow. Sometimes I've wondered if I should market these new shades
to artists, but then I realize that no one would buy colors based on
chewed foods. Unless, of course, they're painting chewed foods.
Next are the Racers. One prime example is my brother, who,
15 minutes into a meal would already be halfway through his second
helping of everything except vegetables
.
Common phrases associated
with my brother were, "Where
'
s the fire?" and "Stop shoveling!" His
permanently stooped position lessened the distance between mouth
and plate, thereby allowing for maximum shovelage. Questions about
school or swim practice would be hummed during chews ("Did you
have a good day?" Mhmm
.
"Did you enjoy practice?" Mhmhmm.);
and if the question required a more complete answer, it would have
to wait for the rare in
-
between bite breath. In a food eating competi-
tion my brother may not have been able to eat as much as Nathan's
hot dog-eating champion Takeru Kobayashi, but my brother could eat
three hot dogs faster than him
.
The speed of his shoveling was un
-
matched.
Lastly are the Smackers. The Smackers are unique in that they
don't smack all of their food-they mainly smack their gum (although
there are some special people who will smack their food in the final
stages of chewing right before they swallow, like giving their food a
little boost down their throats)
.
Smackers are predominantly worn
-




en-I'd venture to guess that about 99% of all Smackers are female. At least,
I've never noticed a man smacking his gum. I've also never seen
a
man
twirl his hair, and twirling and smacking seem to go hand-in-hand. What
is interesting about chewing of latex
,
so if a Smacker has a latex allergy, she
probably should gum, though, is that it is composed of chicle, a naturally
-
occurring form not be chewing gum
.
Swollen lips, however, may be benefi
-
cial to allergy-prone Smackers, as it may actually force them to keep their
mouths closed while they chew.
I don't know when I began fixating on eating habits, but now I can't
stop. But whether or not you fixate on them, eating habits affect social
interactions
.
Would you want to sit across the table from an attractive girl
who lets her grilled salmon salad hang out all through your romanti
c
din-
ner? How much would you remember of the conversation you had with that
sweet guy who, in between comments
,
inhaled his food faster than a Dyson
vacuum? You would remember nothing. There is a reason why many old
preparatory schools taught etiquette
.
Etiquette focused on many forms of
proper manners, but gave the most attention to proper eating hab
i
ts: where
to place a napkin, which side of the dinner plate the bread plate should go,
when to begin eating, and most importantly, how to eat politely. These les-
sons were intended to make the students
,
if not attractive eate
r
s
-
as I believe
there is no such thing, despite an ex
-
boyfriend of mine informing m
e
that
his ex
-
girlfriend said he was
a
sexy chewer-then at least tolerabl
e
ones
.
These observations have made me hyper-aware of my own eating
habits. My mother didn't help, either
.
Did you know that you
'
re supposed
to close your lips around a crispy or crumbly food before you bite it, rather
than after? I didn
'
t. My mother told me
.
Did you know that when you cut
meat you're supposed to place the knife behind the fork? My mother told
me, that, too; although my attempts at this delicate act usually resulted in
a chunk of meat flying across the table
.
I was raised by a woman who was
nearly obsessed with my eating habits. But now, no longer constrained to
family meals, I can eat by myself
,
which means I can eat however I like. I
will cut my meat into properly tiny pieces
,
and then take multiple pie
c
es at
a time
.
If
no one important is around, I will slurp the final dregs of my iced
coffee as forcefully as possible, lest I waste any of the exorbitant amounts of
money I spent on it. A close friend of mine makes sure to remind me
39






40
every time we eat out that I drip something on my shirt every
single time;
and thanks to Tide To
-
Go, my mother never has to know.
But, regardless of whether I am alone or not, I am
still
self-con-
scious
of my every bite.
Is my
crunching sound
as loud to
everyone
else as
it
does to me? Did anyone notice that I just dripped on my
shirt ...
again?
Crumbs? What crumbs? That's lint, or something.
For the sake of avoiding
hypocrisy, I try to practice what I preach. My napkin will always be found
on my lap. My fork will always be to my left, and my knife and spoon to
my right. And my mouth will
always,
always be shut.
If
You Can't Take the Heat
by: Alanna Coogan
I see that face which I despise,
Turn towards me with lying eyes.
You might as well drop this little charade;
I can feel the knife between my shoulder blades.
I stand rooted to the kitchen tiles,
My legs melting as
you
just smile.
There is a fire within my lungs,
But try as I might, I cannot run.
I long to do nothing less than
Reach out and seize the frying pan.
And loosen that lopsided grin
With an uppercut to the chin.
My vision starts
to blur.
And everything
inside fights against my words,
Which end up
sounding
an awful lot like,
"
Yeah, I guess
you
'
re right:'




"Fan''
by:
Nicole Cote
41




Notes
42





Your Fall 2013 Literary Arts Society Executive Board:
Back, L-R:
Kasey Corona, Kathryn Herbert, Catherine Natoli, Amber Case,
Devind
Dickerson, Rose Shannon, Hollie Randall, Christina Coulter
Front:
Alex Sideris




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