The Plume 2017 Spring

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 © 2017 Keystone College

Cover photos by Deanna Feinstein
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, Spring 2017

Editorial Staff

Kimberly Boland Shea E. Hodder
Victoria M. Eremo Jamie Johnson
Benjamin Hawes Alexandra Grace Rizzuto

Editor-in-Chief Art Director

Kimberly Boland Sephora VanOrden

Assistant Editor-in-Chief PR Manager

Victoria M. Eremo Kristy E. Keller

Faculty Advisors

Amanda J. Bradley Raymond P. Hammond

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Table of Contents

A Picture of Better Days by Kailey L. Richie................................................... 8
When I die let it be said by Carlyle Hicks ....................................................... 8
Tragic by Anonymous........................................................................................ 9
March 1st by Mitchell Winters .......................................................................... 9
The Road to Hell by Kimberly Boland............................................................ 10
Blown-out Candles by Kristy E. Keller ........................................................... 11
The Trailer by Jessica A. Rzeszewski ................................................................13
Growing Older by Siara M. Valentine............................................................. 14
Gravedigger by Darren J. Weber ................................................................... 14
I Watched It Leave by Karlee S. Patton ........................................................... 15
A Sweet, Dark Paradise by Andrew S. Trotter ............................................... 16
The Girl with the Black Widow Tattoo by Jenn Ocana ............................... 20
He dragged himself by Victoria M. Eremo ................................................... 21
Bang Bang by Jacqueline A. Jadick.................................................................. 24
Tinted Wedding White by Jacqueline A. Jadick ............................................ 25
College by Alexandra Grace Rizzuto .............................................................. 26
A Letter to My Instructor by Dominic Wayman........................................... 27
I Was Caught Unaware by Benjamin Hawes................................................. 28
I watched her, by Victoria M. Eremo ............................................................. 29

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Table of Contents

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep by Darren J. Weber....................................... 30
Grace Under Pressure by Byron M. Pritchett ................................................ 31
Do Nothing, Say Nothing, Be Nothing by Mariana Corrêa Costa ............. 34
Take My Breath Away by Benjamin Hawes.................................................... 38
5’3” Creation by Alexandra Grace Rizzuto .................................................... 39
My Love Is None Other Than a Myth by Jenn Ocana .................................. 40
Naomi and I by Jamie Johnson........................................................................ 42
The Long-awaited Answer by Tiffany L. Dewitt............................................ 43
The Bird Man by Jessica A. Rzeszewski.......................................................... 44
One Poet’s Madness by Nyasia A. Smith. ....................................................... 46
Home by Melanie Rosato.................................................................................. 47
Ugly Duckling by Sephora VanOrden ............................................................ 48
Be the Worst You Can Be by Karlee S. Patton .............................................48
I Will Not Break Their Spirit by Shea E. Hodder........................................... 49
Relationship with Rain by Sephora VanOrden.............................................. 50
Ode to My Little Black Dress by Bridget Benko............................................ 52
Hands of Loneliness by Bridget Benko........................................................... 53
Between You, Me, and a Blank Canvas by Nyasia A. Smith ........................ 54
Copy Line Proof by Kimberly Boland ............................................................ 55

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A Picture of Better
Days

by Kailey L. Richie

The age of twenty-four is too young to go—
I’ll always remember when we first met.
You complemented my T-shirt; later, you told me that you complemented me

to be funny because the girl who liked you was trying to impress you with hers.
That makes me laugh every time I think about you impersonating her tugging

at her T-shirt, hoping you’d notice.
I’ll remember sitting in the McDonald's parking lot, blasting one of our

favorite bands, Against Me!, and screaming the lyrics.
I can hear your contagious laughter in the back of my mind.
I can see that huge smile lighting up every room you walked into,

but now I’ll always remember that last time I saw you.
It was your funeral and you were wearing a gentle purple shirt and a small

smile on your face.
Remembering you like that isn’t easy, but that’s not what I’ll think about

when you come to mind.
I’ll remember every time we spent together before this, before you were gone

and I’ll smile.

When I die,
let it be said

by Carlyle Hicks

That in my last moments
I gazed upon the sky
And burnt the stars into my mind
A final time, a final gesture
A final attempt to free my soul
Before the last journey
Moment of silence and then laugh

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Tragic

by Anonymous

Do I deserve this?
I die slowly every day.
A life without love.

March 1st

by Mitchell Winters

It's been two days since I last talked to her. Her care and comfort are much
needed. I call her every hour. She won't respond to texts. She stopped calling. I
wish she would pick up. If she picks up the phone, I'll tell her that we can do what
she wants for a change. Maybe we can eat out at her favorite restaurant. I ate there
today for lunch, alone; I know it might sound crazy, but I thought about her the
entire time. I ordered what she normally gets.

A part of me is missing without her. I am not the type who handles change well;
she knows that about me. I am feeling a million different things right now; not
one of them is what I consider to be okay. I wish she'd just pick up the phone.

Why couldn't she just tell me that things weren't feeling right? She knew all
along. I must have been oblivious. I didn't listen to her closely enough. Why
didn't I listen? If I had known she was feeling that way I would have been kinder.
I would've taken her out more. I would've called more.

Maybe she knew I was going to act this way—or maybe she didn't. Nothing
makes sense without her. I wish I could accept a life without her in it, but I'm
having a real hard time with this. Tomorrow's her birthday, and I don't have
the heart to return my gift for her. It's probably silly for me to hold onto it, but I
know she would've liked it.

I only bought flowers for her about three times, I think. I know she likes any
type of flower. I'll just try to get her all the flowers I can get. She would love that.
I'm sure of it.

I still love her very much. Her leaving me, especially without notice, is the
hardest thing I've ever had to experience. But, anyways, I suppose it's time for
bed. I have a long day ahead of me. Hopefully, I'll be more optimistic tomorrow.

I'm going to call her phone one last time tonight. Hearing her voice, even for
just a quick five seconds, comforts me. I finally decided to leave a message: Good
night, mom. Rest well tonight. Rest well forever. I love you.

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The Road to Hell

by Kimberly Boland

DAUGHTER stands in front of her car’s headlights. The car faces her. The motor is
off; the headlights are on. She holds a set of car keys in her hand.

I did it. We haven’t…spoken in a while, so I don’t know if you know I got
my license. I got your car, too—or the closest I could find. I at least inherited your

taste in cars. You were so damned specific that I had to drive something
old, something metal and boxy, so I promise I’ll drive it until it rusts out.
Anyway, thought I might as well tell you I did it, since this was something

I know you looked forward to seeing me do.

DAUGHTER stares straight into the headlights.

I think about that. The few, few times I think about you. About your ideal
adult-me. You used to even draw pictures of her. Jesus. A clone of her
mother, but smart enough to be nothing like her father.
As you can see, that failed.

DAUGHTER lights up a cigarette with absolutely no consciousness; this is years of
muscle memory at work. It’s not a relaxing smoke. It’s angry, violent: representative
of the smoke her rage makes her breathe, like a dragon in a lair.

I wonder about you—about why you. Why have you as a father? And
why me, for that matter. Why was I your daughter?

The car’s warning bell sounds: you forgot to turn off the lights, you forgot to turn
off the lights~

Was I ever even a person to you? Or just some concept? Something to keep you
occupied while you waited to die? So, a toy, then? Teach Barbie How to Drive!
You promised you’d teach me to drive, before your end. You promised a lot of
things, and you missed out on every single one. I get it, though. I really do. We

have the same blood. The same selfishness.

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DAUGHTER drops her cigarette on the ground. She grinds it into the ground, out
of her mind’s existence. The car keys clang in her other hand. It’s easier to hate than
love, but harder to maintain.

I hope you’re rotting in hell, you fucking bastard.
The only thing about that that sucks, though, is that means I’ll have to join

you there someday, too.

DAUGHTER storms away, her father’s single-mindedness for oblivion in every step.
The sound of the car door slamming is heard, and then the sound of the motor being
turned over, which is equal parts long, and grueling, and loud.

Blown-out Candles

by Kristy E. Keller

I don’t remember this moment.
It’s funny how a picture can say a million words, yet this one speaks silence.
I don’t recall how old I was on your birthday…maybe three?
Our faces are plastered with young, naive smiles.
Your expression mimics the bareness of hospital walls.
We were excited to have the chance to visit you, it appears.
Mom told me you knew how to blow rings of smoke,
but looking now at you through matured eyes,
I can see you couldn’t muster the energy anymore to even blow out
your birthday candles.
You should have had self-control; you should have quit.
What kind of father spends his birthday
with his little something-year-old daughters in a hospital bed?
Instead of party streamers hanging from the ceiling,
you have medical tubes lining your arms and chest.
I don’t remember your birthday, your life, or your death,
yet I do know too well of the pain your passing has caused my mother.
I leave this photo by my bedside to envision how a daughter might feel
if she got the chance to know you.
How can somebody miss something that has always been missing?

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Concrete City by Victoria M. Eremo

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

The Trailer

by Jessica A. Rzeszewski

Flowers dancing across the tattered canvas of your curtains
Blocking out the sun on this hazy day
You sit here unfazed as the weeds gradually eat you up
And the cinder blocks you rest on crumble with time
How old are you? I wonder
Your coarse, lumpy cushions support my limp body
Tired, content, sheltered from the cruel reality of growing up
Summer days of booze and bonfires
Nights of howling at the moon in our youthful bliss

Will someone stumble upon you one day
And see us in the scribbles on the useless fridge
The stale remains of cigarettes sprinkled across the table?
Will they wonder what happened to us?
Make up stories about how we grew up and abandoned our beloved summer home
Went on to live our mundane lives under the thumb of society’s code?
Will they think about us at all?
Or will the ashes and markings fade with time
Just as the memory of us?
Will we remember each other?
Remember these late nights and early mornings
Laughing at nothing and speaking of everything?
Will we remember how happy we were
To live in such unfettered bliss?

Flowers dance behind my lids as they give their final bow
Echoes of laughter and wolfish howls not far behind.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Growing Older

by Siara M. Valentine

Something happens as you grow older
Time stops seeming like it's unlimited
It becomes something that is hard to find
Every day starts becoming a routine
Between work and feeding your needs
There's little time to enjoy yourself
You finally begin to understand why older people always claim that they

need a vacation
As you become older, you forget what it means to be alone
All these people depend on you, and you forget how to help yourself
You regret all those times as a kid when you refused to do things
Those hiking trips that you went on with your parents?
They can't even walk anymore
Babysitting your young family members and teaching them things about life?
They're all grown up now
All those times you took for granted?
Gone

Gravedigger

by Darren J. Weber

Spent a life pulling others up
You never realized that ground on which you stand, the dirt

turned to quicksand
Standing so strong only lasts for so long
Falling on dirty knees is what it all comes down to
That's the price you pay when you cross that line
You're trying to save the world
But when was the last time someone tried saving you?
Becoming friends with the undertaker
We all know who you are…
Gravedigger

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

I Watched It Leave

by Karlee S. Patton

I could feel the presence—
In the dark, like a twisted séance—
The silence of waiting sickened my mind;
If I opened my eyes, what would I find?

Footsteps—tapping—a whisper?
Growing mad as my head spun with
All the stories I have known.
I sat quiet, frozen as a stone.

Suddenly, a flash—
A silhouette, a chill—
My eyes grew wide, my heart stood still.
I watched it come, I watched it leave—
With your own eyes, would you believe?

Photo by Joanna E. Wallace

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

A Sweet, Dark Paradise

by Andrew S. Trotter

Tucked away in the plaza where he they called Paillo Hill. Then they would

bought a well-worn paperback novel, wander through vine-covered alleys,

Jared sat and listened. The plaza was marveling at the beauty, but unaware

ringed with Spanish homes. Out of they were downtown now. Unaware they

one of the balconies, hanging above were in gang territory.

the brick patios ringing the plaza, an Downtown, as Jared had seen it

electric guitar played a descending over a year ago, changed quite a bit. It

B-flat scale. Three at a time, pause, always seemed to be moving. They were

three more notes. He never started building houses with shipping crates

again at the bottom and worked now. The large metal containers, used

his way up. He just played the same to move cargo on ships, were having

descending staircase of notes. holes cut into them and being dragged

Jared wondered if he still had the into empty lots. They stacked them in

novel. No time to ponder, though. little pyramids, three layers high. They

It was almost seven at night; the sun had electricity and outhouses. Some

wasn’t quite down yet. Tourists milled of those containers with rough-cut

about looking for a place to eat. He windows were luxurious compared to

took off from the plaza, passing the the concrete block homes. Most of the

wrought iron fences that separated block houses were painted with bright

it from the little alley of colorful row colors, similar to the Spanish row homes

homes. He wandered past the cafés; uptown: pinks, greens and yellows.

they were well lit and classy. Some of Down a slight hill, where none of the

the actual island cafés, the real deal to island’s many church steeples could be

locals, were downtown, where he was seen, and a place no god ever turned his

headed. They would have smoke from eye, was the Barrows. The gangs didn’t

cigars rolling out of the windows and run this area. They couldn’t. A deposed

open doorways. They would have low Cuban mobster had moved here, made

tables and mismatched chairs. it his place, and here it was safe, for

He knew he had to be careful; the most part. Drug dealers lived in

gangs of boys could be waiting nearby. communal block houses. Sitting on

Tourists would go to the jewelers and dusty street corners, old men, grizzled

other expensive shops situated on top by years of working in sun, sat on

of the rise in the middle of the district buckets.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

The villa on the hill was a dusty his hand. “How is your uncle?”

yellow. The metal fences needed a new “Sick, sick.”

coat of black. There were no flowers, No one had seen his uncle for a year.

just a plantain tree in the middle of a Uncle Varren Rizazzo was the owner

roundabout driveway. Though Jared of the fine villa that overlooked the

knew the owner, that was not his Barrows and the mobster who escaped

destination. To the left of the villa, Cuba. Many figured he was dead, but

at the bottom of the little hill, was a the family had not announced the death

building of concrete blocks set into and no one dared figure it out.

the ground. There were long, thin “Who is my opponent today?” Jared

windows that let in light, and there asked.

was a staircase he had to duck to step “No one important, but you will

down. know him.” He turned and said

“Jared,” the man standing at the something to the bartender. Jared was

bottom of the steps said, “you have going to ask, but didn’t get the chance.

come.” “Prepare yourself, my boy.” He waved

“I always do,” he replied. “It’s his hand, fanning cigar smoke. “We have

Saturday, isn’t it?” many fighters today and you are first.”

The bouncer let him through into In the back room, he flipped open a

the dusky little den of sin. Round cabinet with a worn army barracks bag.

tables with inset ashtrays (so they He changed out of his carpenter’s shorts

couldn’t be used as weapons) and and stained white T-shirt. He pulled

high backed chairs rimmed a roped- on some old basketball shorts and sat

off sandy clearing. A skylight above down heavily on a bench. He kicked off

the little square lit the dusty plain his shoes. They always fought barefoot.

of battle. Not even the sunlight He had a pair of yellow hand wraps that

streaming in from that window could were getting stretched in spots. Rusty

light the dark places in this bar. The stains dotted it. Once his hands were

bar was occupied. Only regulars, wrapped tight, he stepped out towards

and important ones at that, sat there. the ring. He swung his arms back and

Clusters of people hovered over the forth, stretching.

tables. Martin raised his hand to the man

“Jared,” a man stepped from the bar standing at the bar.

as the young American approached, “In this corner, weighing one

“you come to fight?” hundred and fifty-four pounds, Jared

If Sunday was God’s day, Saturday Welms Jr., the American!”

belonged to Martin Rizazzo. They cheered; a few always would.

“I have, Mr. Rizazzo.” Jared shook They were too drunk not to. Jared

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climbed over the ropes into the ring. never to get in deep with the mobsters.

He stretched his arms out to his sides, What he did do was fight. Maybe he

swinging back and forth. beaten the wrong guy.

“And over here, weighing one A blow caught Jared in the abdomen

hundred and sixty-two pounds, and knocked the wind from him. He

Ramano Viro!” A taller man, a little doubled over and felt a fist pass across

more muscular and ugly, stepped into his face. The referee had been in on

the ring. His hawk nose was broken, this. There was definitely a metal plate

face pocked and eyes sunken. Mr. in Viro’s wraps. He tried squaring his

Rizzazo was right; he knew this man. jaw to make the blows easier to take.

He was Martin’s killer. He quickly realized he had another

“Ah, hell,” Jared swore. The hammer problem. The next blow wasn’t a punch;

was coming down. He looked around. it was a push. He stumbled backwards.

Rizazzo’s men took up points at every Fingers brushed his shoulders. He

corner, closing like a noose. There was half-turned and saw some of Martin’s

no escape. He would have to fight. thugs reaching across the rope for him.

A referee stepped into the ring, Yes, now he knew for sure. They were

wearing an ugly baby-blue shirt with after him.

flamingos, unbuttoned and hanging He dipped to the side and landed a

loose. He grabbed both of their hands few blows before Viro recovered and

to feel for weights and other illegal went back to brawling. Jared knew he

instruments. had to push his luck. He took steps

“Clean fight,” he grinned at Jared. forward, pushing his opponent back into

Jared swore again. He pointed towards the center of the ring. Dust was being

each of the corners. He stepped back kicked up by the movements, and the

to his corner, careful not to turn his sun was streaming down through the

back to the crowd. The bell rang and floating grains. Particles stuck to his

he turned, charging into the middle of sweaty face. His eyes watered and he was

the dusty ring. Viro took a swing. He down on his luck.

parried and jabbed. Sensing weakness, Viro stepped

They danced around, blocking through with a wicked right-handed

and punching. He weaved to the swing. Jared moved to the side. It felt

side, landing a sharp punch to Viro’s slow, like he could see every movement.

head. Jared could hit and was a killer It was a frame-by-frame punch as he

pound-for-pound puncher. But how slipped to his right and lit into him with

had he gotten here? He had tried a mighty upper cut. He tilted and tossed

playing his cards right. No gambling his hips into it. The force of it connected

debt, no favors owed. He tried hard under Viro’s soft chin and picked the

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other man up off the ground. His cigars crashed to the ground. He bolted

opponent immediately went slack. His through the back door into the store

knees buckled and he became a pile room. He pulled over a few crates of

of dejected flesh. The crowd cheered; alcohol and put them in the way. It

Jared’s mind raced. wouldn’t hold those big men long.

The thugs moved in over the ropes. There was a slam on the door. His

The first guy lumbered over Jared; barricade was already failing. He took

he dipped low and took a handful of off for the other shadowy doorway. He

sand. He moved quick, striking snake- put his shoulder down and slammed

like. He tossed the sand into the thug’s into the door. Sunlight burst in. He leapt

eyes. He wailed and Jared slipped past, over a pile of glass bottles, taking off

with no time to grab his stuff from down the street.

the back room. He sprinted through Jared laughed. He knew exactly what

the crowd. They all knew what was he had done now. He ran barefoot off

going on now. The bigger men chased into the streets of the Barrows, hands

after, but were slower; Jared figured he still wrapped. He wondered where he

could outrun them. would go next. He couldn’t run forever;

He hurdled over the bar, kicking it was an island, after all.

a few drinks over. A humidor of “Paradise,” he laughed aloud again.

Skeyeline by Mariana Corrêa Costa

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

The Girl with the
Black Widow Tattoo

by Jenn Ocana

Her drawers are stocked with black fabric that she uses to hide the dry
red streaks from the night before. Not to show an opposition in color,
but perhaps to warn potential predators of her toxicity. Like the devious
arachnid, the girl with the black widow tattoo is nothing short of reclusive,
only using her chemical warfare when she feels threatened. The ink is simply
an impression of the venom’s presence; however, those who see the broken
dream catcher believe that the evil caught in the webbing has been released,
pulling the girl away from the winding path to the one that’s jagged and
rough. But, despite being able to inflict a nasty bite, she genuinely isn’t that
aggressive. She prefers to be left alone. So, don’t be afraid to approach her.
Believe me when I say that she is overwhelmingly more afraid of you.

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He dragged himself
through the house’s

neglected French
doors

by Victoria M. Eremo

and stained the white oak floors an elegant
cherry red

with the blood seeping
from slices etched
into his wrists.

He threw the glass
from his mother’s
broken Jack Daniel’s whiskey bottle,
at the pebble-gray-wall in the parlor,
with the unspoken rage
that nested inside his mind,

And the cries he sang
embellished his solitary home

with a lingering
melody.

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Burn Your Bras by Melanie Rosato

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Pride & Defiance by Melanie Rosato

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Bang Bang

by Jacqueline A. Jadick

Disheartened, dazed and confused,
What is the world coming to?
Freedom is something we fought for for years,
But is the price of freedom so steep?
Is the price really worth it as we look back in grief?
Bang bang, the world is red,
The red that seeps into our souls.
Each new footstep after is never the same as before;
Each new footstep is a bit more wary than the last.
Heroes are born each day, it is true,
But a criminal is praised: what is the victim to do?
Disheartened, dazed and confused,
What is the world coming to?
Bang bang, the world is red,
Sobs are wracking a nation coming together, yet so far divided.
Paranoid glances, cries for help,
Called crazy or ignored, blamed or scolded.
It's gotten so easy to look past the wrong;
It's gotten so easy to get away with the bad.
Bang bang, the world is red,
Another life has been lost tonight.
The red seeps into our minds,
The thousands and millions who are part of the domino effect.
Mentally, physically, emotionally distraught,
Peace of mind is a thing that will never be caught.
Senseless, senseless, senseless acts,
Violence, violence everywhere in a sea of hypocrites.
They all want change; they all want a voice.
They all want to blissfully ignore.
Bang bang, the world is red,
Justice is coming,
The lives aren't gone in vain.

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Sunshine and beauty is all they have left,
But don't you worry, darling, your life was not in vain.
Bang bang, the world is red,
Lessons learned are a vengeance act,
And the mind is a powerful thing.
Bang bang, the world salutes,
The world won't be red for long.

Tinted Wedding
White

by Jacqueline A. Jadick

She used to be a saint, but now she's tinted wedding white.
Blank canvas never tarnished by a filthy muse.
Beautiful soul believed in everything.

Found the good deep down but maybe that was a flaw.
The word no seemed to be against her moral law.

Trust is like a tightrope and looks can be deceiving.
Don't you recall the devil was once an angel?
Society is cruel and disguises are clever.

Taking things to heart just became too familiar.
She was backed into a corner by those she thought were pure.
Too bad she forgot they never remember the million times she helped.

Like feathers in the wind, off she'll fly.
She'll come back in a way none of them will recognize.

She won't be the one who's trampled on now,
Thanks to the boy who took it too far.

Gone is the clean slate, now a mess of scribbles here in its place.
She was a dreamer before her castle crumbled,
And now that good is a swirling black hole.
Society is cruel and disguises are clever.
But it won't fool the one on the outside.

The dark side called and the threshold was crossed.
Don't you recall the devil was once an angel?

She used to be a saint, but now she's tinted wedding white.

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College

by Alexandra Grace Rizzuto

I can't quite quench my thirst for 'Cause there's no experience in

knowledge repetition of definitions written

At least that's what I thought before down on paper

I made it to college— If this is what education is, then the

Memorize this, regurgitate that, opportunity I'll waiver

Forget the importance of what you’re

learning For years and years I went

Just remember straight facts undiagnosed

No signs of needing medication

This wasn't in the syllabus Now I'm taking prescription pills just

Nor was it stated in the course to keep me calm and patient,

objectives To quiet the anxiety throughout the

And every effort to change the day as my heart is constantly racing,

system And to stay focused like a robot, but

Is quickly shoved under a pile of the side effects have me dripping

papers and rejected— sweat onto the pages…

Years go by and my cumulative I should not be this stressed at
knowledge doesn't seem to change twenty—

My parents say they’re awfully I've watched every effort of mine go to
proud of me for achieving such an waste
outstanding GPA
It’s like expecting to smoke the purest
But what they don't realize is that marijuana
education is cheap
Only to realize it's been laced—
Expensive in dollar amount maybe, Or like taking that first hit
but the quality is weak And sensing it was never the high you

Now I'm not saying that every chased
professor fails to do their job If only I could be like this Word

I just feel like the heavy course load document
makes me want to break down and Then I could simply be
sob— Erased

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A Letter to My
Instructor

by Dominic Wayman

Doctor,
Though the title by which I am compelled to address you bares the

scarring of years of your own mental toiling and tenacity, you mustn’t hold
this notion as evidence of your likeness to the tyrant god-kings of long
fallen civilizations. Infallibility suited them not. Educate; do not dictate.
Your conformity to a system, however effective, amidst other unbeknownst-
to-me compulsions, and my yearning for mental stimulation and growth
have brought us to a mentor/mentee relationship. I would be remiss not to
remind you that in no way am I a blank canvas awaiting your heavy-handed
brush strokes. By virtue of my being here, it is surmisable that I come from
somewhere and, more importantly, am bound for somewhere. I look to
your experiences to aid in cultivating preparedness for my future endeavors.
Guide; do not command.

—Student (human)

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

I Was Caught
Unaware

by Benjamin Hawes

One morning, I was thinking and hiking in the forest.
I was so consumed with my cares that I did not notice the doe standing there.
With a snort and sneeze, she bolted away, white tail waving in the air.
I was caught unaware.

The encounter reminded me of hidden nature,
owls roosting in church steeples and coyotes with pups who den in the city park.
Hidden nature remains unseen when we are caught unaware.

I was caught unaware by her, seeing her recently on a date in the city park.
An endearing woman, whom I wish I had wised-p to sooner.
I did not read the cues and took too long,
so she now engages with other men.
I see it now; it’s like she’s bolted away.

I saw it in time, the fire ant colony at home in my yard.
My bare foot, just inches above it, frozen still.
I had rushed outside to get the fresh mail,
with zeal, I ran to get bills and birthday cards.
Yet, I foresaw a million hellish bites because I am now aware.

One evening, I was again in the forest.
A crisp, clear air hung like curtains in the woods
with a slight breeze that whispered through the trees.
And on the wind, I heard a stick crack;
in my periphery, I saw the flick of an ear.
Now, before she perceived me, I saw the deer.
Because I am now aware.

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I watched her,

by Victoria M. Eremo

a robin, with dagger-like eyes,
rusted copper feathers, a canopy over her chest,
and an erect, yellow beak sharp enough
to slice through the bones binding
my limbs together.

I watched him
take a broom with jagged bristles
and knock over the robin’s cabin,
her safety.
And she let out her wings—
she soared.

I watched her;
she let out a piercing scream,
like the sound of your fingernails
dragging down thick, splintered wood
until they crack and shed themselves
off the tips of your fingers.

I watched her
as she watched her children
ooze out of her petite cabin,
onto the uneasy gravel.

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Now I Lay Me
Down to Sleep

by Darren J. Weber

It's been a while since I've talked to God. I guess I don't really know what
to say to him/"Him."

"Hey, old man, how's the weather up there?"
Maybe I don't know if he wants to hear from me.
I don't like the sound of my own voice.
I mean, do you want to hear from someone who only hits you up once in a

blue moon and usually just to ask for a favor?
Come on now.
"Well, God loves you. He's always there."
Yeah, cool, but that just doesn't seem fair, you know?
And what/who is God, anyway?
It seems like many people think it is money.
If you've got a little of the green stuff lining your wallet, you've basically

got a little bit of Jesus, too.
I never bought into that…hah, get it?
All bad puns aside, let's get down to the brass tacks and I'll throw in

my two cents.
Oops. There I go again.
There's many gods out there, so it is written, but they all seem to cherish

the same stuff.
When it all comes down to it, you've got love, faith, kindness, peace,

equality, and justice.
So, in essence, I guess "God" is that twinkle in a lover's eyes, the hand that

helps you up instead of smacking you in the face.
Let's face it, we could all use a good slap.
When things flow together and balance each other out, you've got a

little slice of heaven, my friend.
He is there no matter what you believe, but there's no grumpy, old dude

in the sky.
Maybe he's you and me.

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Grace Under
Pressure

by Byron M. Pritchett

Some people just don’t care
They don’t want to listen to what I have to say
They don't want me to do what I want, just what they want

Grace Under Pressure
My Father sits High and looks Low
I am in a world where things can’t get done
Where I am struggling to get my life together

When everything is falling apart
I am

Grace Under Pressure
There are times when I just can't win
They say that the battle is already won by the Lord

But why am I still
Grace Under Pressure
People still want to put me in a box while pulling me
In different directions
I don’t know what to do or where to go
No friends, no family to be in my corner
I can’t do this right now

I can’t be
Grace Under Pressure

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Photos by Haley Salak

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Art by Karlee S. Patton

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Do Nothing, Say
Nothing, Be Nothing

by Mariana Corrêa Costa

I sat on the raggedy, brown amounts of fortune cookies that were

leather couch of the small, gray shoved in the bags. The heat from

studio apartment, mindlessly waiting the food made the plastic around the

for Carlos to knock on the thin, cookies sweaty. I opened one. As I tore

wooden door with the ten boxes of it in half, I plopped one half in my

Chinese food that I always ordered mouth and read the fortune aloud: to

on Friday nights. Carlos wasn’t avoid criticism, do nothing, say nothing,

actually the delivery boy’s name; I be nothing. I laughed at the small piece

never asked him what his name was. of paper and plopped the other half of

I always created names for people the cookie in my mouth.

that I would always see superficially, ***

which were most of the people in my I was a freshman at Novi High

life. School, Michigan. It was the middle

I heard a soft knock on the door. of my first semester, and I remember

As soon as I flung the door open, getting out of the bus and making

Carlos, the short, skinny Asian boy my way home. My stomach hurt, my

with pitch-black hair and a bright heart rushed, I could barely breathe,

smile that never seemed to leave his and my brain was all over the place.

face, greeted me. My parents already fought so much

“Good evening, Mista! Here is that month of October; I didn’t want

your food,” he told me, handing to hear their yelling again tonight.

me two bags filled with boxes of The house had been decently quiet the

Chinese food. I gave him the money, entire week, which was a new record

including a big tip. His eyes always for the month. A part of me wanted to

opened wide whenever I gave him hide the stapled sheets of paper with a

the tip. “Thanks, Mista! Thanks so blood-red C written on it, but I knew

much!” if my father found out about it before

I closed the door and made my I told him, the yelling would be even

way back to the couch. I ate piles and worse.

piles of spring rolls, chicken fried I walked through the backyard of

rice, and steamed dumplings. Then, our two-floor white and blue home.

it was time to eat the mountainous The winds of autumn made the trees

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in the front yard dance, and their he was to have a son like me, and my

leaves floated in the sky. The grass stomach became even heavier.

was still bright green and freshly My mother finally walked into the

mowed. I opened the dark blue, TV room, wiped her hands on the

wooden door, twisting the hefty, blue, polka-dotted apron wrapped

golden doorknob. A gust of warmth around her small waist.

struck me as I walked in. My mother “Okay, you have to be quick! I

was frantically trying to cook, and have to check the food soon," she

my father sat on the brown leather warned me, sitting down next to my

couch as he intently watched TV. father. Her dark brown hair was up

The TV was the only thing in in a tangled bun; she had flour on the

the house that he would listen to tip of her perky nose and her black

without yelling at it; my mother was eye makeup, that was supposed to

the one thing he would yell at the surround her bright green eyes, was

most. concentrated in the inner corner of her

I walked into the kitchen and eyes. One of her dark brown eyebrows

asked my mother if she could come was raised as she rushed me to start

to the TV room, so I could talk to talking.

them. She dropped the silver spatula My father turned off the TV. “Talk!”

that she held in her small, pale he said. His mouth was always bent

hands. in an upside down smile. His tanned

“Edward! You scared me! I’m on complexion made my mother seem

my way!” she yelled. translucent. Whenever he was at

I flinched and walked into the TV home, my father would always wear

room, put down my backpack and sweatpants and a T-shirt; his thick,

sat on the velvet, green armchair. black hair, that was always sleeked

I nodded at my father when he back with abundant amounts of gel

deviated his attention from the TV whenever he was working, was now a

for a split second and he nodded controlled mess. My father looked like

back at me. I rummaged through an angry statue all the time; he always

the papers in my backpack, trying to walked around like he was the king of

find the AP Physics test with the red the world, and anyone that disagreed

letter on it. with any of his ideals would hear it.

“Can’t a man watch TV in peace? Hell, the entire world would hear it,

I work year-round, and I can’t even because anytime someone disagreed

hear the fucking TV with your loud- with him, he would yell insults at them

ass papers," he told me, squinting his as loudly as his lungs allowed him.

eyes, with his thick, black eyebrows I cleared my throat and reached for

pointed down. The wrinkles on his the stapled sheets of paper.

forehead showed how disappointed “Mom, D-Dad.” It was hard to

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

swallow. ***

“Here,. I couldn’t say anything; I My cellphone rang and Aunt Mae’s

just threw the test at them. I closed face showed up on the screen. Her

my eyes and covered my ears, bright, blue eyes and sunny smile

waiting for my father’s yelling to calmed me. I muted the TV and

pierce through my ears. stretched my legs on the brown leather

The two of them looked at the couch.

papers and their faces went from “Hello,” I said, without excitement.

confused to furious. My father’s “Eddie! How are you, hon?” Aunt

words were muffled, but I could still Mae’s melodic voice had a hint of

hear him clearly. raspiness from her old age. “How’s

“You got a C? A fucking C!" A work going?” she asked me, knowing I

vein on his neck pulsated violently would never answer the first question.

and his face was tinted red. “A “Okay. It’s a pain, though. I’m just

fucking C, Melissa! This little shit got in a sea of tourists that clearly know

a C on his Physics test!” He turned nothing about the city and waste their

to me. “You! Go to your fucking money at Olive Garden!”

room and I don’t want to see you Aunt Mae was able to make me talk

today at all! You are the most useless about my frustrations.

human being I have ever met; leave!” “Oh, I’m sorry, hon!” She told me

I turned around and ran up the with a sincere sadness in her voice.

stairs into my room. I didn’t leave “Did you eat today?” She asked me, as

my room the entire weekend. My she always did.

stomach growled but I didn’t eat. When I was a kid, she only called

Neither my father nor my mother me on Sunday nights, but as I grew

checked up on me. up, more issues surfaced. She started

Aunt Mae called me on Sunday calling me more and more often. Now,

night, as she usually did. Her soft she calls me every single day at the

and melodic voice calmed my exact same time, ten p.m.

nerves and I told her everything that Aunt Mae asked more questions

happened. My hands were shaking about my well-being and I answered

and it was hard to swallow. Before I with objective yes's or no's. I knew it

knew it, tears were streaming down was the only way to get her to stop

my cheeks. Aunt Mae reassured me telling me how great of a person I was

that everything would be okay from or how I had so much potential.

the other side of the phone. I finally “Aunt Mae, I need to go to bed right

left my room when I had to go to now. I have to go to work tomorrow,”

school on Monday morning. I lied to her. Luckily, tomorrow would

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be my day to lay on the couch and realized that was only a cover-up and

do absolutely nothing. She told me she was definitely not dressed for what

she loved me—words that never she claimed she was.

came out of my parents’ mouth, and I also knew that I wasn’t the most

I hung up. interesting human being. After the

I walked to the double-paned one C in Physics, it all went downhill.

window next to my desk and opened By the end of senior year, my father

it, letting the polluted air of New paid the school principal to let me

York City fill my lungs. Loud sirens graduate. I knew that I wouldn’t

could be heard in the distance, and amount to much. I knew that if I

it looked like a subway train had lived somewhere where I didn’t make

just stopped and let out an ocean of much of a difference, I wouldn’t

people that invaded the street. destroy anything. Actually, complete

I moved to New York as soon as destruction would be the easy way out.

I finished high school. I didn’t need I didn’t destroy things, I simply broke

my parents yelling at me anymore. them and was never able to fix them.

I rushed to a place that I could be My mother knew about my father’s

invisible. I longed for a place where affair all along, and now I realize why

I didn’t have to bond with people or sometimes I would find her rubbing

tell them about how fucked up my her hands under her misty eyes and

family was. telling me to go to my room. Every

When I was a sophomore in high single thing that I had ever done in my

school, and I was barely made the life had been criticized by my family,

honor roll, my father found himself even things that I had no control over.

a new way to pass the time. Her The fortune cookie was right: do

name was Angela: I only found out nothing, say nothing, be nothing. I said

about her when I was twenty-three. to myself in the dark living room. If

My father actually introduced her you never try, you will never fail. That

to me as a business partner. Angela was the way I lived my life ever since

was a tall, tanned, curvy woman, and that is the way I will live it until I

with long, red, curly hair. The day die.

I met her, she wore a blazer that

was clearly two sizes too small; a

tight, white tank top underneath

accentuated her implants and her

small waist; and dark jeans. As soon

as I saw her and my father told me

that she was his business partner, I

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Take My
Breath Away

by Benjamin Hawes

It is like when the wind gets knocked powerfully as the ocean,

out of you and you try to catch day in and day out.

your breath. She thought of herself like a candle on

You wait for the air to whoosh back the water, guiding me, a lost soul.

into your lungs, but for how She wanted to go running through

long can you hold the searing, rivers with me, and I did, too.

constricting pain within But I couldn’t convert, I couldn’t

your chest? get baptized.

I learned that baptism was

As our love breaks, she’s given the her condition.

expression take my breath away SNAP CRACK

a new meaning. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t dance,

and the tide was gone.

It is like we’re contra-dancing, but I

fall breaking my ankle. I loved her but not her way of thinking.

SNAP CRACK Bittersweet as the sea is how I feel now.

I can’t stand up and

I can’t dance anymore. It’s sweet to believe that tides do

return, though on other shores.

It is like how the ocean tide comes in That ankles heal and I can learn to

and out every day, greeting the dance a new jig.

shore with a sea-bliss kiss. That the wind gets knocked back in,

But then one day the tide goes out and I catch my breath.

and never comes back.

I pray that I find someone else who I

That’s how it’s been lately, but it can build my life with,

wasn’t always like this. someone else who will

She took my breath away with her take my breath away.

beauty, inside and out. And I pray that she will find

We danced, lived, and loved as someone else, too.

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

5’3” Creation

by Alexandra Grace Rizzuto

I've thought a lot about the way the side of your face looks when you’re
staring out the window

And I think that's why I hate you—
Because you carry yourself so well, even when I can't
Because the side of your face is flawless, even when the light exposes what

normally isn't seen due to the shade
Because not a stitch of your fibers was made out of haste
Practically every inch of you was crafted with the delicate hand of an hour
That's the entirety of the time allotted for my merely 5'3" creation
Yet, just one inch of you was made in this time-frame—
You were made to shine like the skyline of a city
Drenched in street lights with
Lovers dancing beneath your radiant smile
And what about me? you ask
I was built for the coal mines
Drenched in sweat and pain, working for the black stuff
The same stuff that poisons our lungs each time that we breathe
The only thing that's different between me and the coal that gets dug up

by the miner
Is that my half-life is a lot shorter than that of the coal
And I'm burning my time much quicker than I'm capable of comprehending
So, bring me down to the water’s edge
We can look at our reflections and compare their radiance
I'd love to see your face when you realize the perfection in which

you've been crafted
When you see the very pores that deem my creation as wicked
Tell me then that the side of my face does not make you sick with hatred, tell

me then that it does not disturb you
But still I'll find myself staring again at the side of your face
With the words
I cannot hate you, I think I love you

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

My Love Is None
Other Than a Myth

by Jenn Ocana Has become nothing more than
An artificial component of
He sits across from me
In the dark saloon my personality.
Sipping his whiskey mixed with Contrived in hopes that the feelings
water. Would eventually become real,
We exchange a few laughs But, they never do.
Engaged in our conversation. And even though I would
I think he is real, Like to think otherwise,
Because I can see him. Perhaps these feelings
I can run my hands through Never actually existed.
His ebony mane and when I excuse myself,
Our lips touch, I can taste Leaving no time to be touched.
The smoky warm flavors Am I broken?
Of the earth. Searching my mind with questions
I was sure that I loved him. I don’t seem to have any answers to.
But, in my confusion, There must be something I’m missing,
There are no butterflies. Something about this affection
Only the feeling of the alcohol Doesn’t astound me,
Turning in my stomach It just makes me uncomfortable
And my body growing tense. And I don’t know why.
Is it just me? My rule book to love
I continue to take shots Must be lacking a chapter or two
Between each kiss. Because the idea of sensual proximity
As if the depressant would Sounds quite enchanting;
Somehow show me that he is But…only inside a thought bubble.
Simply just a creation of my brain. I mean there must be more to love
But, when I look back up, Than simply running on lust.
He’s still there. Don’t you wish to be content
So this must be real. With simply their presence?
He must be real. To lose yourself exploring their mind or
I’m starting to realize that Fall in love with the voice
This forced physical intimacy

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That gives them their character. So I will never expect him to kiss me,

Is my love authentic Because honestly…there is no need.

If I lacked your common desire? Love will always taste better in a lyric

Or should I find some way to prove it? Than it does on my tongue.

I fell in love with his mind. It’s amazing how something

A stream of words that So inorganic can have

Can pull me in like a current, Such a savory flavor.

Is more magical than any kiss I suppose that makes my love

Could ever be. For others strictly platonic.

I would rather wrap my tongue Which would make me—

Tightly around an idea No. That can’t be.

And share it with those whom I love. People say that’s impossible,

Like a ribbon on a Christmas present. That it’s…just a myth.

For the human mind is powerful But what if they’re wrong?

And can form beauty And if this is really me…

Never expressed before. Then where do I belong?

Art by Melanie Rosato

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Naomi and I

by Jamie Johnson because of my departure, even
though it's months away.
A name is just a name We are so unfinished, to the point that
It doesn’t stand for the way her hair I truly believe I am alone.
Now I understand why people hide
shines in the light their feelings: why ruin
Or how her eyes glisten in her gaze something great?
Her hands lightly caress my face Sometimes people build a future in
which they have no plans
when we are alone to take part.
Naomi, I say with a sigh I remember now how I felt
Best friends don’t look at each I remember how much she made my
heart race, and the shivers I got every
other like that time she looked at me
I can’t be in love with her Every touch an electric wave of energy
I don’t know what love is coursing through my veins
I seem to have fallen in love I can’t let her go, even if it’s too
complicated; I can’t just give up
with Naomi this high, for I’ve only ever felt it
I blame the anticipation of seeing her with her
I am overjoyed each time I don’t want to throw this away
so why the hesitation?
popular memories play back Come on, show me you care with
in my brain those big, blue eyes
Such as kissing her for the first time Show me what I’ve shown you
A kiss can tell a lot Wrap yourself around me and take me
and I need a repeat My face is raw
I don’t know when or I have been crying for hours
how this happened for I am without her for the first time
Or if it was something gradual over I can’t handle this emptiness
time, but it happened A hole that will never be filled again
I have fallen for her, like she has my complete was half made by her
hopefully fallen for me No relief, no moving on, no forgetting
Oh my, I think it may be true I will be forever haunted by her memory
I am both happy and sad and I It’s over, we’re fin.
wonder how that could be
Naomi is comfortable
she is so warm, enticing
The smell of her is familiar
I warm up to it, even though I’m
only wearing her thin clothes
But I fear this: our end is near

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The Long-awaited
Answer

by Tiffany L. Dewitt

You once asked me why I loved you as much as I did. You asked me why I
even loved you in the first place. You wanted to know what about you made
me fall so deeply in love with you so quickly. It was in that moment, as I
watched your soft lips begging for answers, that I realize the response you
were patiently awaiting. It was the little things that added up. The small
pieces that put your puzzle together. It was your laugh that was so damn
contagious. It was your name and how anyone could say it and I would feel
like an entire butterfly zoo opened its doors into my stomach. It was those
late-night talks where one a.m. came far too quickly. It was the jokes I would
remember weeks later and burst out laughing to the point of tears. It was the
chills that rushed down my spine when you spoke. None of the things that
I've fallen so deeply in love with were big. It was the pieces that made up
the puzzle. And while I sat there making sense of it all, I looked up and my
emerald orbs met your big, brown doe eyes and I discovered the number one
reason for my love. I had not only fallen for the small details but also how
hours felt like minutes with you. I'd fallen for every single breath you took
and how every second I spent with you left me begging for more. But when
you repeated your question again, all I could say was, “Because you're perfect
and because you're mine.”

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The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

The Bird Man

by Jessica A. Rzeszewski

Every day, at twelve o'clock, reserves that for his parishioners when

on the dot, you can find him at they decide to crowd around him,

the old lace factory. He sits on the cooing and fanning their praises.

dilapidated stoop, breaking bread Every day, the Bird Man can be

with the birds as if he’s some kind of found here, but no one knows where

avian priest. No one knows where he he comes from. He only sticks around

gets the bread from; most probably for an hour, maybe longer if it’s a

assume it’s from the dumpster down Sunday or a holiday. He never begs,

the street. just sets his little coffee canister on the

No matter how hot or cold it is, step below and waits patiently. Even

he’s always bundled in his enormous though many will walk by, ignoring

trench coat. Its mustard color is him as if he’s just a part of the scenery,

freckled with white fecal matter there’s almost equally as many who

and singed echoes of cigarettes. will pause and share some of their

Depending on the weather, fortune. They usually walk away before

passers-by sometimes get a whiff he can give his thank-you smile; based

of his rotten stench. Little do they on the pleased spring in their step,

know, he soaks it in garbage every acknowledgment wasn’t needed. His

morning, hoping for a breezy day. smile lasts longer for those people.

He’s quite the conundrum, this Once his time at the factory is up

Bird Man. Hair scraggly and the and all the bread is gone, he shakes

color of a muddy puddle, he’s not off his companions and gathers up

as old as one would think. You his bounty. Briefly glancing in the

can see it in the smooth lines of container, he tucks it into the opening

his face underneath the patterns of his coat; no one ever pays attention

of smudged dirt. You can see it in to the glimpse of clothing underneath.

the lack of veins and ripples in his Most of the pigeons fly away, but a few

thin neck and bony hands. You can will strut around, bowing to their God

see it especially in his smile, the as he makes his way down the road.

one only given after a donation: for It’s surprising how people don’t try to

some change, you get a close-lipped follow him to see where he goes when

thank-you grin and for a few bucks, he’s not at his stoop. There’s been a

you get to see his pearly whites and curious eye here and there over the

dimpled cheek. Occasionally, he’ll years, of course, but they always seem

even let out a giggle! But he only to lose track of him once they get into

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the bustle of downtown. They never And every night, a young mother

dwell on the mystery of the Bird and her child receive a coffee canister

Man, who he is, or where he goes— from the teenage boy living in the

he’s just another homeless guy, apartment building across the street.

trying to keep himself fed and warm. No words are spoken, just the wink

Life goes on; adults go to work, of a dimple and the coo of a pigeon

kids go to school, Bird Man goes to echoing in the distance.

his stoop, and pigeons seek out food.

Photo by Alyssa D. Jacobs

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One Poet's Madness

by Nyasia A. Smith

The innocence of a blank piece of paper tortures my soul
Bench-pressed against the weight of the world
I stare eagerly into tomorrow
Long talks of Erie beginnings
While smoke devours the moment and I can’t remember a thing
Days pass by in slow motion
Lost somewhere between arguments and assignments
Comfortable in places that provide confinement
Old homes remedied with piss-poor patch jobs swallow me
And I draw inspiration from the walls
Chipped paint crumbled like ice chips beneath my boot
As drugs and company start to sound like symphonies
Designed in the mind of a creative bastard
Misunderstood and unseen
And it
Becomes beautiful

Photo by Samantha G. Cielski

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Home

by Melanie Rosato

A dwelling that sees all—
perceives all—
accepts all,
the raggedy worn knick-knacks,
aged floral patterns,
and organization of habits.

In you I am immersed,
in the plush knots of an afghan,
blue hues caress me,
like fog at five a.m.

Like the familiar placidity
after Christmas dinner,
with the scent of coffee lingering
around my flushed cheeks and nose.

Fingers thoughtlessly mingle in my hair,
lowering to graze my brow,
your lips part—
speaking what we already knew.
This is just to say—
home is you.

47

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Ugly Duckling

by Sephora VanOrden

I'm an ugly thing, I guess.
Hair like ruffled feathers,
A nose like a large beak,
A gangly thing, like a young fowl.
I see the others around me and sigh
Wishing I was beautiful like them.
They make fun of me,
Making me wish I could change my looks.
I could change my outside, it's true.
But I'm afraid if I change my outside to look like them,
Would my beautiful inside turn ugly like theirs, too?

Be the Worst
You Can Be
by Karlee S. Patton

If beautiful is all they can see,
be the worst you can be.

“Cross your legs, cross your Ts, and dot your Is.”
Who cares if I shaved, if I zippered my fly?
“Sit like a lady, brush your hair—
be soft, be caring, be gentle, be fair.”
I say, be bold, be brash.
Dance on the table, dress like you’re "trash."
“Get your shit together, get your life on track.”
Chew with your mouth open,
don’t forget to talk back.

Make sure to
be the worst you can be,
if beautiful is all they can see.

48

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

I Will Not Break
Their Spirit

by Shea E. Hodder

They've changed things
My courage falters as they stare
I take a deep breath and start my first day
Soon, I have seventeen new best friends
As Halloween approaches
They want to know how to say the things that they are
I watch the awe on their faces as I try to answer all their questions
I feel bad for the ones that I miss
Their little brains are full of so much
They are fresh and new
Uncorrupted
I will not break their spirit

49

THE PLUME

The literary magazine of Keystone College, Spring 2017

Relationship with Rain

by Sephora VanOrden

Rain is a friend of mine
It drips, dribbles, and drops
Running down roofs, flowing into gutters
It streams down my face and soaks my hair
Patters on surfaces in a continuous beat
It cleanses dirty things, sometimes even a person's mind
Washing away bad thoughts with its calming atmosphere
It's the catalyst for things to grow, nature's own water tap
Giving life to barren fields and trees
When someone says they hate rainy days
I throw my head back and laugh
Because they don't know rain like I do
They don't have a relationship with rain as I do

50