The Plume 2016 Fall

Started in the 1980s by the late Keystone College professors
Susan R. Ide and Karen Blomain, The Plume is a student-run
publication that seeks to showcase the literary and artistic works

of the College community.

Copyright © 2016 Keystone College

Cover photos by Rainy L. Pritchett
Cover design by Kimberly Boland, Victoria M. Eremo, and Raymond P. Hammond
Logo design by Alexsandra Pomeroy
Printing by Ed Nowakowski

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

Editorial Staff

Kimberly Boland Alexandra Grace Rizzuto
Victoria M. Eremo Sephora VanOrden
Shea E. Hodder Siara M. Valentine
Kristy E. Keller
Art Director
Editor-in-Chief
Sephora VanOrden
Kimberly Boland

Assistant Editor-in-Chief PR Manager

Victoria M. Eremo Kristy E. Keller

Amanda J. Bradley Faculty Advisors

Raymond P. Hammond

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

Table of Contents

Semester One by Shea E. Hodder..................................................................... 8
The Keys by Mariana Corrêa Costa ............................................................... 10
Creep Out by Amanda J. Bradley .................................................................... 13
She stowed you by Victoria M. Eremo........................................................... 14
Lurking by Kailey L. Richie.............................................................................. 14
Serenity by Alexandra Grace Rizzuto ............................................................. 16
Next Year’s Leaves by Benjamin Hawes ...........................................................17
There are three kinds of goodbye by Tiffany L. Dewitt ................................ 18
Invisible by Bruce Wiley................................................................................... 19
Just Let Me by Nyasia Smith ............................................................................ 20
The best sweet corn by Jane Julius Honchell.................................................. 21
Moment During Finals by Sherry S. Strain.................................................... 23
Roommate by Jordan Harris ............................................................................ 26
Breathing for a Cause by Kristy E. Keller ...................................................... 28
Home Sweet Home by Shea E. Hodder ......................................................... 29
Gazebo by Anonymous.................................................................................... 31
Dear Past Me by Anonymous ......................................................................... 32

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

Table of Contents

Apology to the Students I Did Not Teach by Sherry S. Strain.................... 33
Dissipate by Nyasia Smith ................................................................................ 34
This Was It by Kimberly Boland...................................................................... 35
The Twin I Never Had by Cassandra K. Caputo ........................................... 37
Option Three by Anonymous .......................................................................... 38
An Alliteration by Don Catlett ........................................................................ 39
They're Right by Amanda J. Bradley ............................................................... 40
Grandma Ruth and the tapir by Jane Julius Honchell .................................. 41
Night Bird, Sweet Bird by Bruce Wiley........................................................... 42
You abandoned her, by Victoria M. Eremo.................................................... 42
Tokens of the Night by Haley Salak ................................................................ 44
That Forever Moment by Siara M. Valentine................................................. 46
Mend Your Broken by Siara M. Valentine...................................................... 47
California, Here We Come! by Maria I. Henehan......................................... 48
An Immortal War by Dominic Wayman........................................................ 50
Chrysalis by Alexandra Grace Rizzuto............................................................52
The Forest and the Trees by Kimberly Boland............................................... 53

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

Semester One

By: Shea E. Hodder

You learn that your roommate is on the soccer team
The team then spends time in your suite and you make friends with athletes
Even though you haven’t touched a ball since that one day in gym class

You learn the best conversations to overhear
Are the ones about hunting and fishing
Because they remind you of home

You learn that there’s this kid that walks around campus
With a ukulele and sings whatever inspires him
He sits on the lawn and plays to his heart’s content

You learn that new artwork is added around campus overnight
What’s that weird couch thing in front of the library
No one really knows

You learn the library has a fourth floor
The books are kept there
And it’s a nice quiet spot to study

You learn what homesickness really feels like
Even if you go home every weekend
Staying the week away is hard

You learn what midterms are really like
Nightmares come alive and haunt the test questions
But when you get the grades back, they aren't so bad

You learn the best places to take a nap
Are the couches in the library
Where making people stop snoring without waking them up is a skill

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You learn that having a car on campus is essential
For getting things done
Even if it’s just a 3 a.m. Sheetz run
You learn what it feels like to have a squirrel run over your feet
When you’re wearing only flip-flops
And sitting on the patio
You learn how to survive the cold
When the heat is set at 80
But feels like 49
You learn that skipping breakfast isn’t that bad
Just keep some breakfast bars in your room
You get an extra 20 minutes of sleep
You learn the true meaning of friends
As the ones you’ve known since middle school leave for Florida
And you bond with those you’ve never met over Harry Potter and

hot chocolate
You learn
You learn that future teachers are the best
Okay, maybe I’m biased
But I couldn’t ask for a better set of peers

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

TheKeys

By: Mariana Corrêa Costa

It was the end of a hot summer day, and the suburbs of Elm Grove,
Wisconsin were lit by the sun with an orange tinge. I admired the beautiful
French architecture of the brick house as we pulled into the garage — a place
that I thought I would call home with my husband, Josh, and fill with little kids
running around inside. I exhaled a long breath and felt relieved to finally be able
to clear my mind and just lie in bed. Josh opened the passenger door for me. I
climbed out of our white Chevy Suburban and aimlessly walked towards the tall,
dark blue front door.

Josh stood in front of the Chevy. He always looked like a giant to me, and
he had a strength that seemed like nothing would ever break him. He wore a
green T-shirt that made his deep gray eyes stand out. Those eyes had always
given me a boost of courage once they met mine. Those eyes glistened when he
received the big news, as he stared at me so intently. Those eyes avoided mine
when we received the worst news of our lives. I knew that, in reality, he wasn’t
necessarily strong. I knew that he simply hid his emotions extremely well — we
both did.

I saw Josh check his pockets, and I looked at him when I realized it took
him too long to grab his keys. My eyes met his wide open eyes, and we looked at
each other for what felt like hours.

“I-I forgot my keys,” Josh stammered. His shoulders were raised and he
looked at me, waiting for a response.

“Oh, that’s just great!” I pulled my hair into a ponytail, leaned on the nearest
wall and closed my eyes. My dark, oversized hoodie tugged at my neck and I
pulled it down.

“You’re just gonna stand there?” Josh asked. He sounded disappointed.
“Well, yeah….It’s not my fault that you have the ridiculous habit of not
keeping your house keys with your car keys!” I told him, still not having opened
my eyes.
“Where are yours then, honey?” He said, in a high pitched voice at the
word honey that made my whole body tingle.

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“Oh! I’m sorry I don’t have my keys! I had to rush out the door and could
barely think about the fucking keys!” I answered and kept my voice calm while
my heart beat faster than ever. My head got cloudy, but I tried my best not to
show it.

“Well, you coulda asked me about the keys or something!” Josh said, as he
tried to find a excuse to put the blame on me.

“I am so sorry that for once I wasn’t the responsible adult in this ridiculous
marriage!” My chest ached. I felt an unbelievable pressure in my head that made
my eyes water and the emptiness in my stomach seemed to be even bigger.

“I’m done!” Josh yelled, as he ran off and grabbed his phone. Meanwhile,
I slid down the wall and sat on the floor, wrapped my arms around my legs and
laid my head on my knees.

“I called my mom, and she’s coming to let us in,” Josh told me. This time
his voice was a lot calmer.

“Good.”
I only stood back up once Judy, Josh’s mom, arrived to let us in the house.
Judy stretched her delicate, skinny arms, embraced me, and gave me a kiss on the
cheek. She assured me, in her fragile voice, that everything would be okay. Once
she left, I took in all of the details of the pristine monstrosity of the inside of the
house. The beautiful furniture that Ashley, my sister, picked out so thoughtfully,
making sure that the spacious house felt like a home. I let out a sigh and walked
inside.
Josh made his way into the kitchen, opened the double doors of the tall
fridge and frantically looked for something to eat. I made my way into the master
bedroom, and looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the
wall right in front of the bathroom. My under-eyes were tinted dark purple, and
I still saw traces of dark makeup from the night before. I pulled my hoodie up to
find my flat stomach, and a rush of rage and disappointment darted through my
brain.
I took off the leggings that hugged my skinny legs tightly and made my way
into the king size bed, and hid under the silky white comforter. I couldn’t sleep,
but I stayed there until Josh came to bed. He didn’t exchange one word with me.
I felt extremely empty inside. It felt like I had no importance, no purpose in the
world. That night, I cried until I fell asleep. Josh was right by my side, but he
pretended not to listen.
“Goodbye, little one. I will always love you,” I whispered into the darkness.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

Photo by: Cassandra K. Caputo

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

CreepOut

By: Amanda J. Bradley

And I know John would think it absurd. But I must say what I feel and think in
some way — it is such a relief!

~Charlotte Perkins Gilman, “The Yellow Wallpaper”

The father of a friend of a friend came home
from work into retirement, planted himself
in the La-Z-Boy, turned on the TV, ate
sandwiches and Cheetos and ice cream
and barely moved until he died.

What is a sane response to an insane world? Can you see
the strings attached to your elbows? Can you feel
them train your synapses to fire in alignment with it?

Wake up and gasp for air. You are living in a nightmare.
Call the ambulance and let the sirens sing their alluring song.
Doctor knows best. He’ll shine his penlight in your eyes
when you arrive and smile coyly when you share your thoughts.

Part of me resents the slowly dripping
faucet, how we all react to its drip, drip, drip.
I can feel our steadiness wane, our rage
careen beneath the surface. I, too, am in a room
with yellow wallpaper, and I cannot creep out.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

She stowed you

By: Victoria M. Eremo

in her
maroon corduroy pocket—
where she gathered all
her demons.

You sought out
suffocation,
yearned for loss of breath,
and wrestled with
maroon
collapsing your throat.

Then you
smothered
yourself.

Lurking

By: Kailey L. Richie

You look like a family man, dad.
I only know this from your profile pictures.

Can I Photoshop myself in, dad?
Would you still be smiling?
Would I?

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

Photos by: Joanna E. Wallace

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

Serenity

By: Alexandra Grace Rizzuto

Serenity was in closing my eyes
Holding my breath
And waiting for you to take me there
It was in bad cups of tea and an overdose of sugar on your part
But I grew to like the way it tasted on your lips and so that's how I chose to take

mine, too
Serenity was in your softhearted embrace
And in clandestine rendezvous that lasted a few hours longer than they were

supposed to
Serenity was in the long silence after getting to hold you for the first time in

weeks and in flowers you left on the windshield of my car
Serenity was in your smile glistening in my eyes and radiating back your

sweetness in their reflection
It was long car rides to nowhere and staying up late on a school night eating

burnt popcorn while watching shitty Netflix
It was in the long showers you took that drove me crazy —

little did you know that long after I left you in the shower, I would peer glances
at you gracefully washing your body or shaving your beautifully crafted legs
It was in seeing how content that made you — to forget the world for a while and
cleanse yourself of a long day
It was in laughing at all of your quirky jokes and in seeing you exist so serenely
A calm existence most times, slightly disturbed and disrupted by the corruption
of the world
It was in seeing another pure soul that could finally match mine and somehow
make this world better with its mere existence
It was in finding your sadness in between belting laughter
And in patching the wounds you kept hidden for so long
It was in holding you close to my body and closer to my heart that I found peace
Serenity is not me, but rather it is me when I am with you

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

NextYear’sLeaves

By: Benjamin Hawes

Hun, our young love grew and deepened this spring like the leaves of the trees.
They started pale lime, grew large, and deepened into a mature green.
It was in our and the flora’s heyday that you left.
Called by your church to preach far away, for 548 days I will be faithful, too.
Now letters and words are our communication, but after your mission is complete,
my spirit will be filled by your voice and embrace again.
It’s hard to be strong, carry on, and fight for our future that we acutely covet.
The leaves crunch underneath my feet as I walk, each one like a memory in

different shapes and hues.
But one color is missing — a feeling I have; there are not any leaves that are blue.
I used to dread summer slipping away as the leaves changed and fell,
but now I gleefully cheer on their demise.
Leaf by leaf, day by day, brings us closer to being reunited.
This year’s leaves saw us grow closer and separate,
but next year’s leaves will see us grow closer still and stay forever, my love.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

There are three kinds

of goodbye

By: Tiffany L. Dewitt

There are three kinds of goodbye. You’ve always known this. There’s the kind that
you were always expecting, practically since the day you first met. This does not
hurt, not much, because you’ve had all the time in the world to prepare. Second,
there’s the drifting-away goodbye. The goodbye that prolongs months worth of
pain and missed calls and ignored text messages and unbroken silences. Quiet
that has always managed to be awkward no matter how much you tell yourself
that it’s comfortable. Ignored foundation marks on blue collar shirts and necks
rubbed because he just doesn’t know what to tell you anymore. Finally, there’s
the sudden goodbye, and, in some ways, it’s the worst of all. You’re blindsided,
taken by surprise; yesterday you were holding hands and singing in the backseat
of his brother’s old car, and today he is ripping out your lungs and telling you it’s
for the best; you don’t need to breathe, not really. The goodbye he gave you was
somewhat of a combination of the three. You’d known it was coming, from the
very first day he extended his hand to you, a blessing, a question, a requirement,
and yet, you’d deluded yourself that maybe this time would be different, maybe
he would love you. The signs had been coming for weeks now; empty spaces
where flowers used to be; the eerie silence of your phone as it sits on your desk
beside your journal; the fake laugh that gets easier with every date he misses.
Really, there was no excuse for the goodbye to be so sudden, not when the signs
have been there since the day you met. But somehow, you missed them. Maybe
because this time you wanted to be happy. Either way it didn’t work, because he
is still climbing down the fire escape and you’re still sobbing on the kitchen floor,
wondering how many we’re not real's you’ll have to endure before you find I love
you, too.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

Invisible By: Bruce Wiley

When I walk by
They look away
Turn their heads
So not to see me
But if I speak
They mumble in reply
It’s like they
Could almost see me
If just for only a second or two
I wonder why I am not seen
What flaw or unseemly thing
I am just that invisible thing
That no one seems to see

Photo by: Trista A. Carpenter

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

Just Let Me

By: Nyasia Smith

An old black woman tells me that I'd be prettier in a dress
In contrast to my sorta sagging sweats
Bras that conceal my chest and a button-up that screams “I don't give a fuck” —

I digress
My mother tells me she loves me
Occasionally says things that'll make me bubbly
But in the same breath tells me, “Ny, I don't like what you wear, or the way that

you cut your hair, but I accept you”
Since when does a daughter need acceptance from her mother to love her —

I digress
A boy says, yes, a boy says, because never would a man let his outstretched

fingers drive themselves across the jungle-like keyboard to say,
“You're still bae, no matter how gay you are, nigga” —
I digress
Friends from high school stare at me in awe and whisper
“She doesn't look like a girl at all” —
But I know for a fact that my face is still foxy
And
My voluminous backside is still there
You just cannot see, for my body is not for everybody —
I digress
These curves
Yes!
My curves
Ride tides & shorelines
Caught the rhythm of the slave boat
My body rocks
Even without a man to lay his blessings upon me
My body rocks
To my long haired, sun-drenched lover
My body
Rocks.
If we should ever find ourselves in the midst of you not understanding me
Just let me
Rock.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

The best sweet corn

By: Jane Julius Honchell

comes from the farm where two ancient
sisters gnaw a living from flinty ground.
Fussy and proud, they make us swear
we’ll eat the ears just hours after picking,

and we believe they’ll know. We’ve heard tell
they’ve refused to sell again to anyone
who’s disobeyed. And the old witches
insist we follow their special recipe.

We obey. Fearing to do otherwise might
be dangerous. And it’s a miracle the way
charred silk just falls away when we peel back
the husks. We brush on melted butter and sink

our teeth into heavenly tenderness.
How this bitter pair could grow
such sweet eating is a mystery, but
the truth is, we’ve never tasted better.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

Art by: Karlee Patton

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

Moment During Finals

By: Sherry S. Strain

Silly professor, watches.
wise fool, The professor stops in her tracks and
hurrying, watches
hustling from classroom to office, the cat
head full of the abstract: watching.
exams to write,
papers to grade, She becomes transfixed with
students to assess, watching,
standing stock still in imitation.
sees
a cat Seeing people from the corner of her eye,
watching. hearing them behind her,
continuing on their busy way,
A cat that often wanders the campus, she is certain that the busy people will
never seeming to belong to anyone wonder,
(as if a cat could), question her sanity for
stands watching
watching the cat
something watching.
in the grassy area
between the library and academic The professor loses track
affairs. of the questions of philosophy,
the matters of logic,
The cat the patterns of work.
watches She can only think of
something the cat
in the grass at its feet, watching.
no whisker twitching,
no paws tensing, She wonders what
just the cat

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watches, She considers playing a Zen game,
seeing only grass swaying in the slight to outwait
breeze. the cat,
but knows who the winner will be, as
The cat the cat
must see more, watches.
know more
than the professor can see. The professor knows she must move on,
The cat back to the hurry,
understands, back to the hustle,
the professor is sure, knowing that she can never see what
the answers the academy can only seek. the cat
watches.
The professor wishes deeply to see what She feels the urge to run at it,
the cat break its concentration,
watches. make it stop
But she knows enough, watching.
she knows that she cannot approach But she doesn’t.
the cat,
for (like so many important lessons) Turning finally,
the answer will flee she simply walks away from
if the question is examined too closely. watching
So the professor stands the cat
watching watch.
the cat
watching.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

Photo by: Don Catlett

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

Roommate

By: Jordan Harris

It had been a never-ending day. It started with class from 8:30 a.m. until 3
p.m., with all my most difficult professors. After class, I sprinted to my car, just
to be at work on time. I even changed into my ugly green smock in the car. It was
Tuesday, senior citizen day, so Gerrity’s was slammed, and all the seniors wanted
their ten percent off. It’s the end of the world if you forget to apply their discount
to the bill. I’m breaking my back just to afford this apartment. I hate adulting.
When I finally get home, I’m going to have endless amounts of homework to com-
plete, and all I want to do is sleep, I thought to myself.

At 11 p.m., I was released from Gerrity’s. I was tired, miserable, and
hungry. The drive home felt like years. As I pulled into the driveway, I heard
Kanye West blasting on repeat from the apartment windows, and the building
was shaking.

I opened the door, and I had to inch my way in. Everyone was stuffed in
there like sardines! Goodfellas double crusted white pizza and Keystone Light
was all over the floor. Well, that’s going to be a bitch to scrub out of the carpet in
the morning. All my food in the fridge was gone! Come on, I just went grocery
shopping yesterday! I can’t believe my roommate did this to me again! I thought we
talked about this; I guess I wasn’t clear enough last time. I spotted John from the
corner of my eye and stormed over to him.

“John! Are you serious? Come on dude, we talked about this. If you want
to throw a party, just ask me. I’m totally cool with you throwing parties, but not
on busy days like this! I have been going nonstop today, between classes and
work. I have homework to do. I have class at 9:30 a.m. tomorrow!”

John, with his carefree face, then replied, “Look, it's Serena’s birthday. I had
to throw a party — she’s my girlfriend. I’m sorry. I probably should have told you
the plan. I don’t know what you want me to do. Serena comes first. I actually like
this one. I hope you understand.”

My face turned cherry red and my eyes filled with water. I felt like steam
was coming out of my ears. I couldn’t believe John just said that — what a selfish prick.

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I screamed, “Find another roommate, I’m done!”
I moshed my way to my bedroom. I packed a quick overnight bag and
grabbed my laptop. On my way out, I scolded, “Good luck paying the rent by
yourself, John! Put up an ad on Craig’s List. I will be back tomorrow for the rest
— have fun cleaning in the morning because I’m not here anymore to do your
dirty work!”
John’s mouth was moving, but the words wouldn’t come out. I won this
battle. Leaving this tiny apartment was the best choice for me — no more
worries. While I drove, a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. Once I pulled
into my Mom’s driveway, I felt warm and happy again. Mom was waiting for me
in the driveway. I opened my car door with a big smile, then a hug followed.
“Welcome home," said Mom.

Art by: Karlee Patton

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

Breathing for a Cause

By: Kristy E. Keller

Toned, slim limbs can be seen swinging the air and stomping the ground.
Rumbling like a train’s diesel engine, but less flattering,

I force myself to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth.
Although looking ahead, the scenery is a blur. An intergalactic dolphin could

be doing flips on land right before my very oblivious eyes and I wouldn’t notice.
My attention is focused on nothing but breathing.
In and out, as though I forgot that even the simplest of beings know how to

breathe.
The Big Bad Wolf could teach me a thing or two about huffing and puffing,

yet I still find myself moving forward, past the girl with the overly intricate
ponytail, then the other with sneakers too expensive for my starving young
professional budget.
Although my mind tells my legs to stop, I find myself here or there, placing one
foot in front of the other until miles have gone by and my breath has caught in
my chest, satisfied only when my watch sends me celebratory vibrations to tell
me I can stop and my desired distance has been attained.
Perhaps runners are the root of all madness.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

Home Sweet Home

By: Shea E. Hodder

Standing with my head above the clouds, I can see for miles around me.
To my left, the single mile stretch of Main Street.
To my right, the fairgrounds that call so many, year after year.
Behind me, the cow fields and farms that provide the town.
Looking closely, I can see the train start to move, the reason our town came to be.
The high school students think about their future after graduation,
colleges to visit, dreams to chase, places to go, people to know.
The class will graduate with under two-hundred people from a thirty-mile radius.
They’ve known each other since primary school and never want to see each

other again.
But I find myself going back to the place I know.
One more drive down Main Street, one more ice-cream swirl.
Using the cows as landmarks, I find my way home.

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Art by: Mikayla Lewis

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

Gazebo

By: Anonymous

Elbows turn my knees like cherries
Numb fingers dry

Peeling like Elmer's glue
As messages have not come through

Lost without you or anyone
Flesh so cold and frozen done.

A message came through:
"It is not the same."

Eternal pain and rejection sits
Inside my lungs

And my bleeding lips.
As I smoke a pack of cigarettes

At the familiar place where
I used to know everyone's face.
Nobody around to mention my name,
Otherwise, I will never feel grace.

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Dear Past Me

By: Anonymous

Dear past me: you’ll never finish first, but won’t be last;
You should never be afraid to stand up to your past;
You will never be someone who’s seen as perfect;
But you’ll always be, as some would say, “worth it;”
Life will hit you hard, but you have to hit harder;
All of life’s lessons will make you that much smarter;
So never be afraid to be one to do;
Because that is who you are: that is the future you.

Photo by: Haley Salak

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Apology to the Students

I Did Not Teach

By: Sherry S. Strain

On a rainy May morning, when my reserves are low, when papers and
projects that are due have not been completed, the image comes to me. They
(those beloved students) are, so often, the embodiment of the old wives’ tale
about — turkeys. Birds so clueless, so lacking in the simplest common sense that
they will stand in the rain, head up, staring at the sky until they drown.

But suddenly, there is a shift, a change in my brain, fast as an optical
illusion, which makes me see the face in the vase, the underside of the blocks,
that which I did not do.

Their names were on my computer lists, which surely meant that they
were real. At times their butts were actually in my desks, and sometimes they
even wrote things about me on those desks. But my knowledge was not in their
vision, my passion was not in their souls. I did not successfully interface to
download the terms, parameters, bits, and bytes of technical know-how.

But worse, far worse — I did not touch them. I gained no entry to heart
or soul, gave not of myself to their understanding of life, of coping, of striving for
more. I have no connection to them, for I have never lived in fear of drug dealers’
bullets, never had a mother who beat me or a father who simply wasn’t. I have
never had an abortion, cracked up my car because I was drunk, or danced topless
to pay my tuition.

They know this — they can feel it, like an animal smells fear on the prey.
And I did not find a common thread, or a silver needle with which to weave a
bond between us.

I keep a file in my desk with names of students I am particularly proud
of, for whom I can feel a smidgen of responsibility for some of their
accomplishment. But in that same file, under a subheading of “Never Forget,”
there is one other student’s name, the name of a young man who took his own
life, a life so untouched, so untaught as to need to take leave of our company
completely.

And so, on this gloomy May morning, I find myself standing in the rain,
with my head up, staring at the sky as I whisper, “I'm sorry.”

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Dissipate

By: Nyasia Smith

I don't remember what it's like to hear you laugh…
When I pass you by, your smell is one that can't I quite put my finger on anymore
I used to know you
Poured your juice, made your dinner plates, even passed you the remote on more

than two hundred occasions, I'm sure
I know I held more than a few doors
When you tore that ACL, I carried you down two floors
I was the ear that held your secrets, like the dollars in a bank
Silenced the world when you couldn't stomach it
And don't get me started on punishments, because if you were down, I was, too
You doing stupid things alone used to make me so uncomfortable
Your trouble was mine, every time
Inseparable
Remember when we got in trouble when our cousin misplaced his necklace?
Mommy tore us up until somebody confessed it, but neither of us budged…
Obviously because we didn't do it, but that's not the point
I was angry
With him
With her
And with you…
I thought you did it and kept that secret from me
Something that we just didn't do
But we were getting older, so I thought, "Great, I'm gonna lose her, too"
And I did
Because today I looked around and you're nowhere to be found
My heart used to break for you, yet you cannot hear mine call…
I was Pinky
You the Brain
No
I was your bodyguard
And you were the president…

I grew up thinking our caskets would be bunk beds…
And now I don't remember what it's like to hear you laugh

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ThisWasIt

By: Kimberly Boland

Words cover the page just so I can “You’re right. Now that I’ve survived
delete them. the pandemonium, but, still, I am
deciphering it.”
They keep pouring out and I keep
murdering them, stopping them, You want the world to
before someone else does. destroy you.

You always want to take the blame, so, You want the
that leaves me with the responsibility. world to finish beating you
to death, already, to end it.
That’s fair. It fits us.
I have been at fault Get it over with. You howl.
You take pride in your rage,
enough with you that I
don’t mind being the one to find a in being inconsolable, in despair.
way, You are a generator, you claim.
having it be the other way around, for You thrive
once;
fighting for a way to stop on hate and blood pouring
me from re-finding you, from between your teeth and you
from using words love,
to try to fix this. love,
Look at the swarm of dead letters on love telling me how you
the page — look would have come to me
at the ashings of and loved me, years ago,
the years of my life burned if only the world
over this, wasted, for this. was smaller
You told me once that all and you weren't so busy
the pain I’ve been through trying to lose the fight.
in life had to mean something, So, let the relentless fist be kissed, but
had to have been for not by me, because
something, and that, maybe, I don’t think up worries about you
this was it. anymore, because I won my version
of your same battle
If I could tell you one last thing, it already, and have no interest
would be: in keeping further
score.

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Photo by: Joanna E. Wallace

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TheTwinINeverHad

By: Cassandra K. Caputo

I know you are afraid I will sing right to you,
No matter what I say. Let you go and dream for a few.
You blocked me out of everything. Cry in my arms, you can soak me wet.
The only defense you have Please do not be afraid,
Is to isolate, to save yourself. You are not dead.
Building up a wall that cannot break Breaking is a part of life.
I will guide you through this light,
down. To help you make it out alive.
I discovered it was sand; With me, you are never alone.
I dug you right out.

Photo by: Trista A. Carpenter

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OptionThree

By: Anonymous

So, you’re standing there, And now, even still,

staring at the ground below you. I can’t help but think about

Nobody knows you’re here. the words that she had said,

Your family thinks you’re okay. because far too often

Your teachers think you’re okay. they run through my head:

Your friends think you’re okay. “You bitch.”

And you’ve tried so hard; “You’re stupid.”

trying to convince yourself “You cunt.”

that you’re okay. “I brought you into this world

But yet, and I can take you out.”

you’re still here,

staring at the ground beneath you, She’s repeated these enough times;

trying to calculate how far out it’s basically her Pledge of Allegiance.

you need to jump, This led me to wonder

so that you won’t hit that ledge why I was even alive,

sticking out. because on most days

It’s the only math problem you knew all I wanted to do was die.

you had to get right the first time. I wrote my first suicide note

when I was just nine-years-old.

In life, things aren't always that easy. But on the night I clutched that frail

In high school, they would always laugh notebook paper in my hand —

because my lack of depth perception my mom probably thought

kept me from catching a goddamn it was some kind of joke.

softball. Years have gone by

And then there was that one time and not much has changed.

where I was immediately labeled She still says these words,

different, but in a much worse way,

just because my skin because I'm not the daughter

had a darker pigment. that she always planned to have.

But when I was home, And now here I sit

I had no escape. with my back against the wall

She would make me clean the broken and my cheeks stained with tears,

glass that shattered upon the wall’s finally facing my fears,

impact after missing me. so that I can tell you —

I’m sorry for not being perfect.

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Photo by: Don Catlett

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

They’reRight

By: Amanda J. Bradley

My students respect authors who flout systems,
those who move to Alaska to throw fish,
who drop partner and join Hemingway on the Left Bank,
who live in the squalor of basements, driven by craft,
who, raving against injustice, die mysterious deaths at forty.
Even the Emily Dickinsons, the Marianne Moores, the Marcel Prousts
who led secluded and lonely lives — they respect the extremes
of their choices, their corked rooms. It’s why they shiver
at the mention of Sylvia or Sexton, of Anais Nin or Colette.
We admire those who take the chance, raise the middle finger.
As I grade the twentieth essay of the day, I pray I’m not beating
it out of them with the almighty grade, the careless comment.
They don’t know that I, too, long to hop the next train
to nowhere in particular, pen and paper in hand.

Photo by: Cassandra K. Caputo

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

GrandmaRuthandthetapir

By: Jane Julius Honchell

have their close encounter at the children’s zoo,
where we’ve taken her straight to the aquarium
housed in a concrete whale you enter
through his gaping maw framed by Chiclet
teeth and floored with a red rubber tongue
that bounces alarmingly under your shoes.

A young tapir, wandering loose with the baby
goats and peacocks, follows us into the dark.
Imagine a stocky, stubby-tailed pig with a trunk,
round, protruding rump and dainty toes,
and you’ll know how closely he resembles
my grandmother, both equally hairy cheeked.

Perhaps he mistakes her for one of his ilk,
but whatever the reason, she excites in him
a fit of ungulate ecstasy, and there in the dim
cave of the whale, the little beast insinuates
his flexible proboscis up under grandma’s
dress, gives her an amorous goose.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

Night Bird, Sweet Bird

By: Bruce Wiley

I walk and walk these lonely streets I took her life with horrid hands
Each night from dusk till dawn She left me for another man
I walk alone through empty streets Now these streets I walk are in my mind
Where once I strolled with her This cell is all I see

Her night bird song with words of love Please night bird, sweet bird

Rang softly in the air Sing me a song

She’s gone, she’s gone — I walk alone All the streets are empty

No night bird do I hear And now I walk alone

You abandoned her,

By: Victoria M. Eremo

left her dangling between reality and Hell as she begged and pleaded
with your heartless heart to cut the narrow line of thread that supports her heavy,
limp body. You broke into her eyes, which were overtaken by a mossy green gloss
and got lost in them, got lost in her. After realizing the only way to escape the
prison inside her mind is to take a dagger and tear your way out, you held no
hesitation. Using your hands, you harshly ripped through her empty, cold soul
and banged against her skull until the breach was large enough to fit you and
your tremendous ego through it.

You were able to breathe,
to take a large inhale of the fuel of our bodies as she was torn apart.
You looked at her warm blood cascading down your hands onto your arms, and
looked at her porcelain body aggressively grasping the same shallow breaths that
you stole, and felt relieved.
Relieved that our precious oxygen no longer travels into the maze of her lungs.
Relieved that her mossy green eyes cannot see the vagueness in yours.
And relieved that she died alone with you.

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Photo by: Joanna E. Wallace

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

Tokensof theNight

By: Haley Salak

I went for a walk
Late at night or early in the morning
I don't recall but it was dark out
Lit only by the sliver of moon above me.
There was no fear however towards the darkness ahead.
It was as if I were meeting a friend

Whispering to me, welcoming.
I tread lightly towards it in secret.
It was a particularly warm night
Considering it was the end of October.
I could feel the warm breeze as it whispered curiously.
It circled me as it familiarized my shape.

My tangled hair brushed back from my face
As it searched for the hidden features.
I heard the dried browning leaves around me
Laughing as they danced, around and around again.
I'm not really sure what drew me outside in the first place
As unsure as I am of why I walked onward.

The darkness, the crackling of leaves
The wind, typically so ominous
They were friends, not foes of the night.
It surely must have appeared odd that I walked on.
Peace, however, was interrupted by the strangest sight.
A lone doe simply wandered onto the brick path.

She stood there with a relaxed gaze
Fixed solely on me, I back at her.
Her head tilted near me, her nostrils searching
Like the wind, she became familiar with my being.
I believe we took comfort in each other's presence.
As she grazed on a nearby bush and I watched on.

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Silence embraced us for some time
With only the occasional swish of the leaves.
Content with my presence even farther,
She laid down in the soft grass to rest awhile
Still watching curiously, almost as if wondering
Why it was I stood there in front of her that night.

I wonder if she knows I asked
The same question of her, quite puzzled by her.
Her company did appear opportune.
The moonlight had begun to fade behind the clouds
I took this as a sign it was time I walk back to where
I belong, knowing that she, too, would return home.

Reluctantly, I took a step forward — then stopped.
Smiling, I turned to say good-bye to my newly found friend
But without the slightest sound, she had simply vanished.
Now only the laughter of dancing leaves,
The gentle wind fluttering at my back,
Accompanied me through the darkness.

Photo by: Haley Salak

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

That Forever Moment

By: Siara M. Valentine

We walked with our arms interlocked. The wind planted kisses on our
cheeks, which sent shivers down my spine. The sky was magnificent; the stars
provided romantic lighting, while the cold kept us close. We ascended to the
track while talking about whatever popped up in our curious little minds. His
voice was the fireplace that kept me warm inside and provided the feeling that I
was safe. We arrived at the track and laid down on my plaid, soft blanket, stared
at the mural that was the starry sky before us. We conversed about how beauti-
fully placed each star was and how a single crow called out to us, which made the
moment even better in some unknown way. Giggles erupted continuously; we
had the time of our lives. Suddenly, I had the impulse to ask, "Do you believe in
love at first sight?" I felt his heartbeat quicken beneath my hand which was placed
directly above it. He responded with, "Yes, I think you just know when something
feels right." I found myself lost in thought about how everything with him felt
right. The way he'd trace circles on my back, which caused my entire body to
instantly relax. The way that whenever I was upset, all he had to do was take me
into his arms and all of my worries just faded to gray. As we laid in the cold with
our bodies close and stared at the dancing stars, I was the happiest I've ever been.
It truly was a forever moment.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall 2016

Mend Your Broken

By: Siara M. Valentine

Some love can fool you into thinking it's real. It starts with the simple
things, such as writing that person's name all over your folder or testing out
how your name would sound with their last attached. Then it goes much deeper.
Those petty little doodles become long, meaningful poems and that person
becomes everything you have ever known. All of a sudden, things change.
College has a way of changing things. There's no more time for the meaningless I
love you's and everything you've ever known falls apart. Everyone tied
between you two begins to hate you. You hoped, prayed this wouldn't happen but
inevitably, it did. You cry until your tear ducts are nothing but a desert. Why do
you care? Those three crucial words never had any meaning, so what is there to
be upset about? Oh, you want to feel loved. You want those butterflies to erupt
every time you hear a person's name and you want someone to pick you up when
you feel like you can't stand any longer. Life isn't always simple. You're going to
go through a hard time but you're going to find someone that will make your
entire past of horrible experiences fade to gray. He'll teach you what real love is
and show you the parts of life worth living. Most importantly, he'll mend your
broken.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

California,HereWeCome!

By: Maria I. Henehan

Mary and I talked about our road trip for six long months, without
making a single hotel reservation or budget. When the day finally arrived for
the eighteen-hour drive from the mountainous city of Denver, Colorado, to the
sunny beaches of San Diego, California, we jumped on a lake of happiness. We
started the drive in my over-packed 2014 silver Volkswagen Jetta at the dead of
night. Little did we know the endeavors we faced.

After ten hours of driving unknowingly with the trunk open, we arrived
in the dry, blistering Nevada city of Las Vegas. We discovered many corruptions,
such as $10 for parking, drug dealers on the mangled street, and murky homeless
people begging for money.

Eight hours later, the moon arose in San Diego. “Let's go straight to the
liquor store and then drink on the beach,” Mary said excitedly, knowing that we
only had $20 left until I got paid the next morning.

We parked on the unlit Ocean Beach and sat in the black sand. There
was a fire pit about a hundred feet from us that we wanted to use, but a man, who
looked like a carnie that hadn’t showered in days, got there before we did and
started a golden fire. Since he was all alone, we decided to ask if we could join
him.

“I was just about to invite you guys over,” the man said.
"Yeah, right," we whispered under our breath.
A few random loners showed up at different times until we developed
a lively group of ten washed-out individuals. Mary and I decided to grab my
guitar and her ukulele so we could sing under the fluorescent full moon. Excite-
ment filled their faces when we brought back our instruments. Turns out, they
all knew a little something about music, too. We played into the night, and after
a few hours, we walked far out into the low-tide ocean. The bright stars and full
moon made the water sparkle. The night ended, and we all went our separate
ways to try to get a good night’s rest.
The next morning, Mary and I grabbed breakfast from a quaint little
diner on the boardwalk. We both ordered the usual — eggs with toast, bacon,

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and hash browns. After paying our check, we started walking down the pier. We
watched the sun-kissed surfers wreck on their boards, while figuring out our next
move. We decided to stay one more night in San Diego. Excited to finally take a
shower and wash the homeless breath off our skin, we booked a room at a local
hotel.

That night we went down to Ocean Beach again, and ten times as many
people filled the beach as the night before. We walked down the beach and decided
to join a bonfire party with an older crowd. They played instruments, including
the guitar and the bongos. Mary and I stayed with their group for a while, and
after we finished playing, we decided to venture off to the next bonfire party until
the night ended.

The next day, Mary and I took the ferry from the San Diego Bay to
Coronado Island. As the ferry parked on the island, we noticed someone trying
to jump off the Coronado Bridge and commit suicide. Police officers and locals
thankfully talked him out of it.

When we got to the island, we went to a fancy restaurant. Outside, a
Jamaican drummer filled the island with tropical music by playing a steel drum.
Algae green wallpaper and pictures of fish filled the inside walls. The waiter seated
us, and we talked amongst ourselves while deciding what to order.

“Everything is so expensive,” Mary said, shocked.
“I know, let’s just share an appetizer,” I replied.
After receiving our check of $45.99 for one appetizer and two drinks, I
handed the waiter my debit card.
“Ma’am, your card has been declined. I tried it three times. Do you have
another card?” No, I didn’t own another card, and like usual, Mary was broke.
But how could this be? Yesterday, a paycheck deposited into my bank account. I
called my bank and demanded they explain.
“Oh, we cancelled your debit card due to security reasons. Someone
stole your identity, Ma’am,” the bank teller informed me.
“But I’m in California, and you’re in Pennsylvania. So, what am I
supposed to do? How will I get home? Why didn’t you contact me before
cancelling the card?” I asked the teller.
“I’m sorry Ma’am, but there’s nothing we can do here.”

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Fall, 2016

AnImmortalWar

By: Dominic Wayman

A myriad of tales had come in from into a hard, dull surface. I made my way

the front lines. Every day soldiers around the corner to the nurses’ station.

came back with scarred minds. Seeing There were a man and a young woman

the opportunity for a good story, I on duty.

made my way to the Sam Houston I addressed the man. “I am here

military medical center. I had told the conducting research into the recent

middle-aged woman (who was incidences overseas.”

adorned in entirely too much makeup) He raised an eyebrow and looked at

at the reception desk that I worked me queerly, judging my statement.

with the government to study the “You may not like what you find

effects of war on the mind in an effort here,” he said. With this, a sideways

to rehabilitate our troops. She didn’t smirk flicked across his face. It was

seem to buy my line, but at the same unnerving. A small red light flashed

time she didn’t seem to want any behind the front desk and the young

further distraction to the obviously woman stood and walked quickly down

personal phone conversation she one of the four hallways radiating out

was having. With a dismissive and from her station.

indifferent flick, she pointed toward “So do you believe what

an elevator. everyone has been saying?” I inquired.

Pulling her mouth a few inches “There is no word of lie in what

away from the phone, she said, these men say,” he replied. “That is, at

“Fourth floor, honey.” With that, she least not in their minds. They all truly

was again completely immersed with believe what they claim.” That devilish

her phone call. look slowly slunk away and he seemed

The elevator was old. I rode it alone to stare off in contemplation.

to the fourth floor. A slow, grating To my left, a loud cry resonated as the

halt and an unnecessarily loud ding woman opened a door to leave a room

signaled my arrival. Immediately down the hall. Even after she closed the

upon the door’s opening, I could hear door the sound persisted, though greatly

wailing down the poorly lit, dusty muffled. She came quickly back to the

corridors. The walls seemed painted desk and whispered something to her

in a color only a few hues brighter co-worker.

than sepia. The floor was carpeted but “Come with me,” he said, standing up.

years of overuse had worn the carpet Through some mysterious illusion, the

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