2018 H SE A N G · Sea Change. has incorporated fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, as well as...

CHANGE

ES2018

Cape Cod Community College’s magazine of the arts Cape Cod Community College’s magazine of the arts

SeaChange 2018 AllBook V5.indb 1 5/15/2018 3:35:00 PM

i

Sea Change is a publication by Cape Cod Community College students through theLanguage and Literature Department. It is funded through the Student Media Board.

Sea ChangeCape Cod Community College

North 2372240 Iyannough Road

West Barnstable, MA 02668

Email: [email protected]: https://seachangecapecod.wordpress.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/seachangeCCCC/Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/seachangecccc/

Archive: https://www.capecod.edu/web/langlit/seachange/archives

Sea Change, Volume 35©2018 Cape Cod Community College

Contributors retain full rights to their original contributions.

Cover design by Katherine Martinez and Robert K. FosterBack cover design by Robert K. Foster

Printing by Graphic Arts at Cape Cod Technical High School, Harwich, MA

A Special Recognition of Service to

Rebekah Ambrose-Dalton, Naomi Arenberg, Kerry Drohan, Nathalie Ferrier, Michael Gross, Larisa Hart, Scott Nagle,

Cindy Pavlos, Sara Ringler, Kathleen Vranos,Joe Thorpe and previous staffs

of Sea Change for keeping this 50-year tradition alive.

Front cover digital photo Startrails by Aman Marfatia


ii


ARTSenga Crossley Self Portrait 11

Stuart Friedrich Comfort 24-25

James Warren Garland Watertown Monuments v

Martha Holden Mussel Sky 16

Georgi Lazarov Famous Paintings Collage 23

Jonas Lombard Jonas 27 Aman Marfatia High Exposure 19 Centerville 20-21 Untitled 31 Sagamore Bridge 33

Sheeza Matloob Leaf Emotions 6

Emma McFadden Death is Colorful 13

An Nguyen Letter Form Abstract 29

Meghan Reed Artemis iv Spider 3 Addicted 14-15

Kendelle Wilkinson Geofluidity 18 Sacred Sun 7

NONFICTIONRobert K. Foster Home is Where... 30-31

Cassandra F. LeBel Expectations Versus Reality 10-13

Cindy Pavlos Comfort Zones 28-29

FICTIONZac Cacciolfli Death’s Gift 22-23

Andrew J. Gates The Meaning of Life 32

John Hanright The Shipbuilder’s House 4-7

Amanda Lods Murphy’s Law (Excerpt of Lir’s Ball) 18-21iii


POETRYJessica Bowse Indigo 24 Robert K. Foster All That Coulda Been 25

Andrew J. Gates Through the Looking Glass 1

Kaitlyn Holzworth Black Lives Matter 8-9

Garrett Keenan Main Street 26

James Kershner Sluttish Time 17 Eelyese Mateo Co-creator 26

Jacob A. Savoie-Foster Roses Into The Void 2

Robin Smith-Johnson Steel Stacks 16

ArtemisMeghan Reedchalk pastel (9”x12”)

iv


Watertown Monuments, James Warren Garland, photography

Letter from the editorDear reader, When you express yourself creatively through writing or other forms of art, you open up a bridge from yourself to whoever is consuming your work. This bridge connects people who otherwise may not have had anything in common, which is exactly what we aim to do with every issue of Cape Cod Community College’s literary and arts magazine Sea Change. Fiftyyearsago,thefirstissueof Sea Change was published and featured a range of writing not only from students, but also from faculty and staff. From that year on, Sea Changehasincorporatedfiction,nonfiction,andpoetry,aswellasphotography,paintings,sculptures,anddrawings.Themagazineranmostyearsbetween1968and2012beforeafive-yearhiatus.Itwasrevivedin2017byProfessorRebeccaGriffin,whosepassionforthemagazineandherstudents’successisevident. The Sea Change staff this semester is composed of six students who have all managed to put a bit of themselves into the pages that you will see. The pieces we have chosen to feature in this edition were selected with students in mind. We think of the magazine as a creative outlet for community members to showcase their experiences and voices. Wehope thatwhoever reads thismagazine—whether thatbe todayorfifty years fromnow—willbe able toconnect to the work published in the 2018 edition of Sea Change. We hope you will feel inspired to take on your own creative pursuits and let your own voice be heard.

Cassandra LeBelSea Change Editor-in-Chief

v


Through the Looking GlassBy Andrew J. Gates

At a glance through the Looking Glass all appeared opaque,It seemed dark and dank, with little to intake.Yet you wondered and imagined what could lie beyond,Yourmindbegantofillwithfearsasillusionsspawned.Not only were you afraid, but you were unable to respondTo a miniscule voice that would otherwise be fond.It orated with a tongue soft spoken, brittle—dead.Invasiveandcold,thevoice’sinfluencespread.You were drawn back to the Glass not realizing your mistake,For once you had seen—no longer could you awake.

Thrust through the Looking Glass, all came to a rest,With no one to help, the darkness digests.As you scream and shout, your efforts in vain,A miniscule voice surfaces to further ordain.It speaks, in a whisper, you feel life begin to drain,Articulate and clear, the sharp speech piercing your brain.You try to escape this inevitable end,But with your attempts becoming desperate you further transcend.Your lids fall slack, your tears have run dry,And there it hits you—you open your eyes.

You will awake in a sweat and be relieved it was a dream,The adrenaline will slowly fade from your bloodstream.But then you’ll hear a miniscule voice in the distance,And note the resonance in this whisper’s persistence.Yet the harder you try to ignore its subsistence,In the end you will succumb to this essence’s existence.You will follow against your will, to its beckoning call,And once you arrive your mind will slowly recall.You will open the drawer not yet realizing your mistake,As you glance through the Looking Glass, all will appear opaque.

1


My favorite author

hung himself, with an unfinished

manuscript next to his lifeless body.

My favorite poet

jumped from a bridge, with a poem and a

photograph tucked into his pockets.

Are my feet riding

the same edge?

Or can I

toss roses over the edge and into the

Abyss,

and thank it?

A trip to the florist is long overdue,

because I know now that

This Is Water

and that there are still

Songs in my Dreams

but I may not have known what it meant

to swim

or

to listen

if it hadn’t been for them.

And,

I hope I hope I hope I hope I hope

That somewhere

down there, in the dark,

someone catches the roses I tossed

and finds the strength

to scale back up.

Roses into the VoidBy Jacob A. Savoie-Foster

2


Spider, Meghan Reed, collage, ink, acrylic on canvas (16”x20”)


The briny beach, coated by a dense layer of fog, lies before a short, gray-haired man as he walks into the dim expanse surrounding him. The mist embraces the man, coalescing around his ankles as he drifts along the sandy shoreline.

Each morning before dawn, the man pulls his wrinkled and tired body from his weathered half of the mattress. He moves slowly, taking measured steps as he begins his usual routine. The man methodically brushes his twenty-seven remaining teeth, combs the loose, thin hairs remaining on his scalp, and slides a sharp, single-blade steel razor against the faint white stubble forming on his sunken face. A routine like this may sound tedious, but it is this aging man’s way of enduring.

The man reluctantly deviates from his morning ritual to enter the spare bedroom, where his grandson sleeps. Each month, when the boy comes to visit, he eagerly listens to his grandfather’s stories. Gently, the grandfather jostles the child until his eyes crack open.

Following their breakfast, the pair dress in jogging clothes and raincoats. Five minutes after leaving the cottage, the pair arrive at the beach. The boy looks up to his grandfather, whose features are obscured by the fog like the top of a skyscraper hidden by clouds.

“Grandpa, why are we out here? It’s foggy and I’m cold,” the boy asks.

The man cracks a slight grin, as though he expected the question.

“I always walk this beach; it eases my mind and refreshes my body,” he answers.

The boy politely nods his head, his feet scuttling sand and shells as he shuffles alongside his grandfather, who stares along the coast at the cresting waves and the continually peaking speckles of ocean that occasionally break through the fog. The sound of the chopping waves subtly resonates with the man. As he glances along the beach, those dull eyes light up, and a toothy grin forms on the man’s wrinkled face, as if he were seeing an old friend.

“David, look at that house over there. It belongs to a family of a very rich shipbuilder,” he says.

The shipbuilder’s house stands atop a dune, protected from the ocean, with a solid, imposing hardwood frame, decadent crown-molded arched windows, and a crow’s nest perched on the roof like a sentinel’s post. The grandson eyes the mansion as though it might suddenly disappear. The man looks down at the boy and recalls his own memories of the old house.

“I imagine it’ll eventually fall apart and the sea will take it, but it’s stood since I was a boy like you. I reckon when you grow old like me, that house will still be there,” the grandfather says, with a hearty chuckle.

He looks down at David, whose eyes are glued to the house and ruffles the boy’s hair. David returns his attention to his grandfather, grinning.

FICTION

The Shipbuilder’s HouseBy John Hanright

4


“Do you think I could ever see inside of the shipbuilder’s house, grandpa?” David asks.

“Maybe someday,” the aging man replies with another chuckle. “But for right now, we should head back. We’ve walked for a while, and there are chores to do.”

As David follows his grandfather’s sure-footed steps, he begins to walk backwards, gazing into the fog to again spot the shipbuilder’s house.

“Grandpa, the shipbuilder’s house is gone!” David exclaims.

The aging man lets out a deep laugh at his grandson’s faultless error.

“No, David, the house is still there. It’s just deeper in the fog,” he says, smiling.

“Oh,” David says, slightly confused. “That’s good. I got sad thinking that I’d never have a chance to see it again.”

David turns around, walking forward again. The old man lays his hand on David’s back.

“Think of nature like one big routine, David. Everything and everyone comes and goes according to the schedule. Things and people in nature may mingle, but in reality we're only ever proceeding and receding.”

“O.K.” is all that David could manage to say in return.

***Twenty-two years later, David begins each

morning with a workout. He patronizes a nearby coffee shop before crunching numbers for Hutchinson Market Analytics, running from business meetings in the afternoon to casual hookups at night. However, today is different, for it is David’s grandfather's funeral. Before the very small, private ceremony, David returns

to the beach that he and his grandfather would walk every month.

The sun is shrouded in clouds and fog as David walks the beach, passing by joggers and dog walkers. He sees a deserted sandcastle, the water drawing ever closer to the fragile palace. It reminds him of the old, illustrious shipbuilder’s house that he appreciated so much as a kid.

David tries to visualize the construction, but his memory is hazy. An urge to see the house

washes over David like a rising tide. He runs down the beach as the haze slowly burns away, unveiling to David images that rise closer to the surface with every step.

“If the place is in good enough shape, I may put an

offer on it,” David thinks to himself. Frantically, David surveys the dunes for the

shipbuilder’s house, searching for half an hour. The house is nowhere to be found. In his dismay, David does not notice someone watching him from a distance.

“Excuse me, may I help you find something, son? You look a little lost,” says an unfamiliar, haggard voice.

David, startled by the sound of somebody else, turns around and peers through the fog to locate the voice’s source.

“Where are you? I can’t see through this damn fog,” David says.

David moves in the general direction from which the voice seemed to originate, searching earnestly for the person to whom the voice belonged.

“I’m trying to find you, but I can’t see anything. If you can see me, do you mind coming closer?” David says.

“I reckon when you grow old like me, that house

will still be there.”

5


Leaf Emotions, Sheeza Matloob, sharpies only (7”x7”)

“You have not yet answered my first question, son. What are you looking for on a day like this?” the voice says.

“I’m, um, trying to find an old house – no, a mansion – that was owned –” David begins to say.

“By a shipbuilder...yes, I know just the place that you’re looking for, and you won't find it here,” says the voice.

“Oh! I’m on the wrong end of the beach! How foolish of me! I'll –” David says before he is cut off again.

“No, you are in exactly the right place, son.

You will not find it here because it was condemned almost a decade ago. Seeing as it was the only household on that dune, and the foundation was already too close to the dune’s edge to safely relocate or demolish, the town decided to condemn the property and wait for the sea to take it,” the voice says.

The voice continues, “People loved to look at the old place; it was a part of the scenery. But then there was a huge storm recently, and, mind you, that old house – as well as all the others around here – have weathered some heavy storms, but nothing like this one. The winds blew down trees

6


Sacred Sun, Kendelle Wilkinson, mixed media: acrylic, ink, and dimensional fabric paint (24”x12”)

and power lines. From our house, we could hear the ocean thrashing about. When the storm eventually subsided, and we could safely leave our houses again, quite a few people – myself included – went up the beach to check on the old house. Where the house had been was now scattered debris on the face of the dune: bent metal, smashed marble pillars, and heaps of bricks and wood. Strewn on the beach were a carved door and a dining room table, dashed against the rocks.”

Speechless, David stares at the sandy mount that he could barely discern through the sheet of fog. He is astonished that such a force of nature was enough to reduce to rubble such a stately and seemingly unmovable structure.

“Yes, apparently it was time. Even so, it is still a pitiful loss,” the voice says.

After hearing this, David suddenly remembers the funeral.

“I'm sorry; I really must be on my way. Thank you for telling me what happened to the house. It truly is a pity; I was planning on buying the old place. Well, anyway, it was nice to talk with you...” David says.

David waits for a reply, but none comes from the mysterious voice, only the sounds of waves crashing against the shore and gulls squawking in the distance. Feeling a bit uneasy, David turns and rushes in the direction from which he came. As he walks, David remembers his grandfather's remark on nature. A knowing smile forms across David’s face as he mouths to himself: “Ever proceeding, ever receding.”

7


BLACK LIVES MATTERBy Kaitlyn Holzworth

“How many years can a mountain exist before it’s washed to the sea?Yes, how many years can some people exist before they’re allowed to be free?

The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind”

How many mothers must lose a child before we address the issue?How many jokes must we make, before satire is retired and action is taken?

How many times can a man turn his back on his own people before they give up hope?How many protests does it take for eyes to be opened?

How many hashtags must trend for the media to start telling the truth?How many bystanders must risk their lives for the truth to be told?

“What events did unfold?”

The answer my friend is just blowing in the wind

Songs of freedomGang trucesSigns, protest Riots, violence

PeaceJustice, Justice, Justice What does it all mean?

When will the real criminals stop being placed on paid leave?How long does it take for people to realize revolution is knocking on their door?

How loudly must we beg?How senile must you be to not understand

People are dying Families crying

Burying another brotherAnother sister, another human being

With a life, a story, a familyMemories

Lost

The answer my friend is just blowin’ in the wind

8


Depression, recessionReform

Modification, educationHow long before justice is served?

How long before our voices are heard?How many murderers must walk free,

before peace is madeand lives are saved?

Systematic, symptomatic

Just another “thug”Just another “criminal”

Just another black kid in a hoodieHow dare he sag his pants like that

How dare he walk down the street like thatHow dare he make a wave with his death

Clearly he wasn’t a threat

Or maybe he was Maybe you “feared for your life”

Maybe that 12-year-old really deserved it ya know?“He reached for my gun”

Well they all do, right?They all pose a threat

A threat to the racism of our governmentThe systematic oppression bred in our very schools The self-oppression they dare to break away from

Screaming “Black power!”Pleading for change

A much needed change

How cruel must you be to hear the plea“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe”

Yet stand aside passively?How evil are you to ignore the target on the back of your friend

To let them walk around unprotected?To side with their abuser?

How ignorant must you be to say racism is dead?To ignore the color of one's skin?

How oblivious must you be to claim there is no such thing as police brutality?

But hey the answer’s just blowin’ in the wind, right?

9


NONFICTION

By Cassandra LeBel

The daylight was just beginning to dissipate as we arrived at the pond where we had planned to set up our bonfire for the night. It was around eight, and because summer had arrived, the days were now bleeding over into nights. Sara and I arrived first, and before the daylight had completely gone, we got to work on laying out the blankets a little ways up the beach.

I had met Sara our senior year through mutual friends, but it wasn’t until after graduation that we began to hang out outside of classes. She drew me in with her kindness, but I stuck around for the air of potential that she brought to my life. Up until then, my summers had been spent inside reading until dawn and actively avoiding the beach. I was always someone who used to spend most of my time alone living vicariously through made-up realities rather than putting myself out there for real ones. She was adventurous—and the key to an unopened world that I wanted to experience before I left a huge part of my life behind.

For most of my childhood, my interests made me feel out of place. At around ten years old I started feeling ashamed that my music playlist wasn’t filled with edgy bands and rap music like my older sister’s.

I enjoyed spending time with my friends, but I was also fine with sitting on the sidelines during recess, reading a book instead of hanging out. I was content with my unique style until I saw that my classmates were all wearing Hollister sweaters and Uggs. I was always happy with my choices until I began comparing myself with others. I thought that because everyone was doing things one way and I was always the odd one out, it was easier to make myself act like them instead of myself.

Doing this made me question myself far too often. I would notice any small detail that set me apart from my peers, and as a result I started thinking far too hard about everything that I said, did, and wore—trying my hardest to be just like them. It was exhausting, and I was growing sick of it.

My senior year was when I finally decided that I didn’t give a damn whether I was like everyone else. I had close friends who seemed just as

quirky as I was. With everyone in my class going off to college, I knew I’d probably never have to see most of them again. Still, when Sara texted me a few weeks after graduation to hang out with her friends, I threw down my book and jumped at what I thought would be my last opportunity to experience the typical high

10

Expectations Versus Reality

“I was always happy with my choices until I began comparing myself with others. I thought that because ever yone was doing things one way and I was always the odd one out, it was easier to make myself act like them instead of myself .”


school world that I had so often read about.

I worried when she picked me up at my house because I wore a sundress while she was wearing jeans. I immediately felt the same feeling of separation that had made me so miserable just one year before. I forced myself to push past the voice in my head telling me that I didn’t belong in that car with her. But then I found myself surprised at all that we seemed to have in common as we

discussed our favorite books and music.As much as I enjoyed my time with

her, I was eager for the night to begin, and soon, it did.

In what seemed like no time, we were at the pond setting up. When her friend showed up, I recognized her from school. She brought along a few of their friends from work—three boys from Europe who were here for the summer to work.

The dark sky seemed to have dropped over us in no time, but what came even

Self Portrait, Senga Crossley, HB pencil (4”x3.5”)

11


faster than the nighttime was the death of my phone’s battery. I had been using it as a distraction from the fact that everyone seemed to have something to say but me. The three European boys were speaking quickly to each other in a language I didn’t recognize. Frogs croaked from every area, and my other two friends, who were sitting to my right, were singing a song that I didn’t quite recognize. There was a lot happening all at once, but as I stared at my feet, which were black on the bottom from sitting too close to the fire pit, I realized that I had never felt time move so slowly.

It was disorienting not being able to check the time anymore. The next thing I knew, Sara’s friend was standing up saying she had to make it home by her midnight curfew. I was shocked that it was so late.

Sara, the boys, and I stayed for a little while after she left. But before long, the fire started to die, and we ran out of wood. After kicking sand onto the fire to put it out, we all piled into Sara’s car. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, despite the fact that the music played so loudly that no one could talk to each

12

other. I didn’t understand what was fun about this, but I smiled and nodded my head as though I did.

After about an hour of mindlessly driving around. Sara pulled up to an apartment that belonged to the three boys. I was simply grateful to be out of the car and on to something else.

Once inside, we all talked for a little while before succumbing to our phones. Mine had charged in the car, but not very much. I was careful not to waste my battery because by this point, who knew where we’d go next? My eyes felt heavy as we sat together in silence, which made me long to be home.

At about 4:30 a.m., Sara decided it was time for us to go. I was thankful because even though I was sleeping over her house that night and couldn’t go home, it was still better than being where we were. Disappointment came when she asked if I minded staying out a little longer before going back to her house. Sara told me that her mom slept lightly, and she didn’t want to wake her up since she worked long hours. I agreed. We ended up going to a beach that was a few minutes away.


Death is Colorful, Emma McFadden, watercolor and pointillism

The humidity made me uncomfortable as thoughts ran through my mind. My expectations about what it would be like to be a “normal” teenager had been shattered. People always talked up these experiences, saying that they made your teenage years “the best years of your life.” I had expected a completely different evening because of those words. I found myself disappointed with reality and, as I felt time slipping away, I began to miss the perfect world that I had built up in my mind. I couldn’t be the only one who felt this way.

Before she fell asleep, Sara asked me if I had had fun, so I lied and told her that I did. It felt like the right thing to say, but I couldn’t help feeling stupid for lying. Sara looked disappointed at my answer, but soon, she drifted off to sleep.

13

As I lay there, I thought back to earlier when we had been driving around with the boys. Sara had nodded along with the music, too. But I remembered something in her face that didn’t look like the joy that I had seen earlier that day when it had just been the two of us driving around.

For so long I had pushed my differences away and tried to conform to what everyone else was doing. It had never occurred to me that I wasn’t the only one who felt like I did. But maybe, I thought, there were more people like me—people who seemed like part of a crowd, but who did not embrace their differences out of fear they’d be left all alone.

I had never stopped to consider that they could be lying too.


Addicted, Meghan Reed, mixed media (20”x48”)


16

They’re abandoned now,the giant furnaces, likemighty horses put to pasture.Vandals trace the old railway bedsby nightfall. Their footfalls muffled,they pass antique railroad cars nestledin brambles.

Ghosts of steelworkers –eyes empty, hair wild, stooped shoulderscarrying the vestiges of lunch pails –wander the long hallwaysof machine shops, eye the back-breakingladders they once climbed.

Steel Stacks

The steel star of Bethlehemshines out from South Mountain.As gritty clouds pass over it,the stacks come alive, belch orange flames,black smoke, the air alive with soot.The heat and noise return,trouble the sleep of townspeople below.

The vandals pause in their tracks,sniff, shrug their shoulders. Anything goes.They navigate the spaces between.

(after a painting by Lance Walker)By Robin Smith-Johnson

Mussel Sky, Martha Holden, scratchboard (9”x10”)


17

Not marble, nor the gi lded monumentsOf princes, shall outl ive this powerful rhyme;But you shall shine mor e bright in these contentsThan unswept stone, besmear ed with sluttish time. — William Shakespear e, Sonnet 55, 1609

If only I could somehow have more time,I wish, as if time were a cup of tea,but time can’t be decanted like fine winenor measured out in feet as if a tree.

We all have all the time there is indeed,for time describes the all that passes by.There's time for that tall oak to grow from seed,as we grow under that all-seeing eye.

The only question’s how will we employthe time through which we journey in our lives.How much we spend in sorrow, how much joy?How much in using ladles, how much knives?

Let go of both the future and the past.Embrace the present moment; it won't last.

Sluttish Time

By James Kershner


Strange things always happen when you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. It took me twice as long to get back to my flat since the Trowbridge Street stop had some kind of malfunction. The announcer was incredibly vague, something about vandals trashing one of the cars and the police getting involved. Apparently, it would take another hour or so to get back to the stop near home. So I trekked along in the spattering rain down the vaguely lit, concrete path of Brookline Ave. to the uneven cobblestones of Boylston to the next station that hopefully would be open. I pulled the fabric of my raincoat hood taut over my head to keep my cropped hair dry and zipped it up. It seemed to do absolutely nothing; I could feel the cool dampness seeping through and soaking my shoulders. I sighed but trudged on.

Figures my night had to end up like this. I get my dream-come-true scholarship, crush the makings of a bizarre future, hallucinate black dogs, and conclude the rhapsody

of a drizzling twilight searching for a Boston train that actually runs on time. Could anything go worse? You know, at that point, no one should ask themselves that question because just about anything could go wrong. Murphy’s law. Damn you, Murphy and your adages. An amusing image of myself formed in my head, one of me facing someone with a “Hello, my name is…” sticker on his sweater that said “Murphy.” Then there would be me, theatrically waving my fist at him angrily like some kind of Pop Art with a dramatic pout.

I snorted audibly, and I let the image ease me. Intellect be damned, sometimes you just need a little whimsy to get you through arduous gloom, but it didn’t chase away the nervous apprehension that I was being followed.

I’m normally an optimistic person so that hair-raising awareness had me vexed, and I shivered. No need to be foreboding, superstitious, or dwelling on falsely placed heartache, I thought to

GeofluidityKendelle Wilkinson

mixed media: acrylic, dimensional fabric paint & gold/silver mica (24”x24”)

FICTION

Murphy’s Law(Excerpt from Lir’s Ball)

By Amanda Lods

18


myself, taking a meditative breath. I had so much to look forward to in the next few days. I was going to be in Scotland tomorrow, for goodness sake! I was getting my tabula rasa, my blank slate to start my study abroad before starting work on my doctorate. Seriously, Eavan, get a grip. You’re fine. The fine hairs along my arms continued their crescendo and a creeping sensation arose that something was lurking behind me. Eyes facing forward, I kept my pace. Ignore it, I thought, and hopefully whatever or whoever it is will realize I’m nothing worth stalking. Like seriously, how is following a five-foot-five redhead with wide-rimmed glasses vaguely appealing?

As I rounded along the edges of Back Bay Fens, I quickened my pace but ended up slamming into something warm, rancid, and distinctly alive. It was a man. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t watch where I was going. Excuse me.”

The man was homeless. His disheveled hair and dirty, rumpled clothing said as much. Yet my carelessness barely startled him. His eyes were sunken in as if he never ate, like the hollows of a skull. One eye was covered in a patch while

the other stared wildly at me. Without saying a single word, he stared in amazement. He reached out suddenly, painfully grabbing ahold of my wrists, and a stark desperation filled his croaky voice.

“Do you see the Wild ones? Tell me, child. Do you see them? They dance beside us, but they are not us. He, who is of them, cannot become me. We are the taken. Taken younglings. The wanted world. Wanted for themselves. You mustn’t give it. Once we lived among them as equals.

Now we are taken for their amusement and pleasures. See them, sweet child! Open your eyes before they take you too! See the Good People! For they see you!”

“Let go of me, you crazy old bean pole!” I snatched my arms away from him and stumbled off as fast as I could, rubbing my lightly bruised wrists looking back to make sure he wasn’t following me again. Except, when I glanced back, he was gone.

My stomach dropped, Ok, Eavan. You are a Baine. Baines are strong willed, intelligent, and don’t scare easy. You’re just jumpy from all the caffeine—something you don’t need because it makes you neurotic and ten times more likely to have

“Ignore it, I thought, and hopefully

whatever or whoever it is will realize I’m noth-

ing worth stalking.”

High Exposure, Aman Marfatia, photography

19


a panic attack. No dice, Eavan. Keep your wits together. I swear if one more weird thing happens tonight, I’m going to just check myself into the nearest psych hospital. I tried to calm myself, but to no avail. Who am I kidding at this point? I think, biting my lip. Everything about tonight has gone awry. However peevishly, or hell, even impishly, intelligent I may be, I was no cold-hearted scholar. I wasn’t immune to the trials of life, the pitfalls of dating, or the stress overload of graduate school or, hell, even attempting to balance an Ivy League, collegiate work ethic while maintaining a social life. But this was surely stretching it a bit, wasn’t it? Seeing things that can’t obviously be seen by anyone else, and Back Bay loonies attacking me with bizarre words of wisdom were not what I wanted that day. Maybe stress can actually make you insane?

I made it almost to the towering spires of Trinity Church on the corner of Clarendon and Boylston when I saw something far too large to be a car weaving its way along the shadows of concrete. Psych hospital it is then, I thought wryly. Curiosity got the best of me as I saw it slink off around the

corner. I checked my watch. Quarter to nine. I barely had time to get to the next station, but my advantageous side won the battle instantly in favor of getting a glimpse of whatever or whoever decided that following me was a good idea. A tiny part of my brain started reciting the lyrics to “Renegade” by Styx, and it gave me a little confidence boost.

Resolved, I sped up and ran around the corner, prepared to bring down a beating on whoever had been stalking behind me in the shadows for five blocks. That fearlessness died the second I saw my shadow. I stopped dead in my tracks and felt that infamy shrivel up and die inside me. My mouth hung open, freakishly amazed and encompassed entirely by a dread-filled horror. That’s most definitely not a mugger or rapist.

The street lamps had cast a murky and muddled reflection off the puddles that made it that much more difficult to see. It swirled and caved in on itself in a way that reminded me of Celtic knots, ever-twined and infinite. It was massive. Most certainly not a dog… wait. Is that what it’s eating? The black shadow snarled and hissed in a way that made the ground tremble

20


ever so slightly. The thing snapped its jaws around a poor yelping animal, hidden behind the alcove between the brick walkups. I watched as the shadow stretched the remains the length of its body as it swallowed. My stomach churned, and I fought the need to be sick.

The pale light cast a quick flash of a putrid green brilliance against the beast. Barely hidden by the stair railing, a single serpentine eye peeked out between the bars and blinked back at my trembling frame. With a rumbling growl it raised its head, whipping its long, lithe body to and fro. I got a full visual that finally raised an alarm in me to scream, but my voice caught in my throat. It was essentially a ginormous horned snake, the size of several school buses put together. I closed my eyes, willing the whole scene in front of me to just disappear. Oh god…. This…this can’t be real. This isn’t real. You’re imagining this, Evie. Snap out of it.

I opened my eyes to peek, and there was an inkling in me that it was indeed real. The serpent loomed over my quaking frame and eclipsed the lamplight. There were two ways my

willpower could react: the first was to think that this was some dude looking for a free thrill without my consent, and the second was to become the female interpretation of Usain Bolt. Not knowing what else to do, I thanked the heavens for my consistent daily runs and bolted in the other direction back toward Copley Square, feeling like a coward.

Centerville, Aman Marfatia, photography


It happened in a hospital where a young lady was trying to give birth, but things were not going so well. The woman seemed to lack the energy or even the life force to do it. The grim reaper, Death himself, knew her time was coming soon. From the ground, he rose in his hooded cloak, hiding all his physical features aside from his bone skull. A messenger bag was on his side, the strap hanging over his left shoulder. Slowly, his bone fingers came out of his long sleeves to grab a clipboard from his bag. A paper attached to the clipboard contained many names; most of the names had checkmarks next to them. It took a bit of flipping through the papers to find the

Death’s Giftby Zac Cacciolfi

young woman. Soon he found her file and frowned. The paper stated that she would die today while giving birth. This is what always hit him hard—the fact a child does not get the chance to see his mother through life, and the mother does not have the chance to see her child grow up. Even though he wasn’t officially entitled to toy with the living, Death sometimes made a few exceptions to do them some good. As Death waved his hand around, a paper with the words “Request Form” appeared like magic. In a rush, he wrote to request that this woman receive more time to cherish the child. He wanted a happy ending instead of a cruel and sorrowful one. This request was directed toward an entity higher than Death himself—someone who decides how long one must live before dying. Soon the paper vanished, and all Death could do was wait.

An hour or so later, the woman began to shriek in intense pain. Death saw no sign she would survive this birth. The doctors worked hard. Some even left the room, unable to watch the scene without showing too much emotion. Even the father-to-be was outside, crying about

what he had seen happen. “She needs a miracle now to survive,” a doctor said. Death kept watching, tapping his foot with impatience and nervousness. He checked a watch on his wrist, a stopwatch from the olden days. The ticking watch would run out in 45 minutes. As time dragged on and on, Death felt like hours or even years had passed with no reply. When only 10 minutes were left, the doctors knew the woman was close to losing her grasp on life. Slowly, Death gave up hope.

But then, a scroll suddenly appeared in front of him. With haste, he opened it and saw in big letters over his request, “APPROVED!” This made Death happy. He

took an hourglass from his bag. No matter what angle he turned the hourglass, the sands were almost out. Reaching into his bag again, he took out a bag full of sand. When the last minute for the woman arrived, she vaguely saw Death himself. At first, she was horrified. But then she saw him add sand to the hourglass. Death looked up to the woman and smiled slowly before giving her a thumbs up.

The sands began flowing slowly, meaning her life would be long, yet slow at the same time. As the woman saw this, she smiled too, feeling her energy renew itself. Doctors sensed her new flow of energy and rushed in surprised. The father-to-be rushed in, shocked about the change he saw. “It’s a miracle!” a doctor said. “It’s like she’s been granted new life!” After a few hours, Death finally saw what he wanted: a newborn baby boy and a happy family. The mother looked up, toward where she had last seen Death. She was unable to see him, but she knew he was watching and said thank you. Everyone wondered who she spoke to, but Death knew. With that, Death left to go on with his work, hoping to pursue a few more miracles in the world of the living.

22

“Death looked up to the woman and smiled

slowly before giving her a thumbs up.”


23

Famous Paintings Collage, Georgi Lazarov, pencils (18”x24”)


I see beyond the red flame, to the one that burns blue.

Or violet, or indigo, or some other hue.

I see beyond a name, to the soul within.

Where life lies, true love, unintentional sin.

I see across from me, in the disguise you wear,

Not man, nor woman, but soul standing bare.

I see beyond the red flame, to the one that burns blue,

A tired wise spirit, sick of it too,

The wall, the shield, the forced attitude,

We repress and condense our feelings for who?

For a game we call life, a strange way to act,

When we made up new rules, and didn’t look back.

I see beyond the red flame, to the one that burns blue.

Or violet, or indigo or some other hue,

You see I’m not looking to step in your shoe,

I crave the whole story, not just a preview,

The hook, the climax, the downfall too,

Not many venture so deep...does that scare you?

Indigo By Jessica BowseIndigo By Jessica Bowse

I see beyond the red flame, to the one that burns blue.Or violet, or indigo, or some other hue.I see beyond a name, to the soul within.Where life lies, true love, unintentional sin.I see across from me, in the disguise you wear,Not man, nor woman, but soul standing bare.

I see beyond the red flame, to the one that burns blue,A tired wise spirit, sick of it too,The wall, the shield, the forced attitude,We repress and condense our feelings for who?For a game we call life, a strange way to act,When we made up new rules, and didn't look back.

I see beyond the red flame, to the one that burns blue.Or violet, or indigo or some other hue,You see I’m not looking to step in your shoe,I crave the whole story, not just a preview,The hook, the climax, the downfall too,Not many venture so deep...does that scare you?

24


I’m well versed

In the Art of Letting Go.

Sometimes though that has meant

Letting go of the good things,

Things I woulda, coulda, shoulda

Held on tightly.

There is a point in life

Where, when, you just have to

Let the bad things go.

Move on.

To build the future,

you must let go of the past.

But now I wish to let go

Of letting go, of not holding on.

I no longer want to let go in my life.

I have lost too much.

I’m also well versed

In the Art of Not Letting Go.

What will your future self say

you shoulda done now?

Time passes, Bye.

To build the future, let go of the past.

But don’t let go of all the good things

That woulda, coulda, shoulda been.

Know when to hold on, the good.

Know when to let go, the bad.

Know when to live, now.

Comfortby Stuart Friedrich

All That Coulda Been By Robert K. FosterAll That Coulda BeenBy Robert K. Foster

I'm well versedIn the Art of Letting Go.Sometimes though that has meantLetting go of the good things,Things I woulda, coulda, shouldaHeld on tightly.

There is a point in lifeWhere, when, you just have toLet the bad things go.Move on.To build the future, You must let go of the past.

But now I wish to let goOf letting go, of not holding on.I no longer want to let go in my life.I have lost too much.I'm also well versedIn the Art of Not Letting Go.

What will your future self sayYou shoulda done now?Time passes, Bye.To build the future, let go of the past.But don't let go of all the good thingsThat woulda, coulda, shoulda been.

Know when to hold on, the good.Know when to let go, the bad.Know when to live, now.

25Facing pages: Comfort, Stuart Friedrich, wire, matches, and a tin


By Eelyese Mateo

You are the co-creator But I did it all alone Labored her into my world Without your hand to holdYou are the co-creator That’s what her features say But I gave her life and love And you gave her DNAYou are the co-creator The one who helped conceiveA baby girl that will grow upAnd expect a man to leave You are the co-creatorThat’s all you’ll ever beOur daughter has two parents She has both roles in me

By Garrett Keenan

Main Street at night

Oh such a sight

Musicians are playing

Under the full moon’s light

Feel the sea salt within your hair

Fresh food and music

Fill the air

Gulls and vendors screech and yell

As children delight in the carousel . . . .

Main Street at night, and the magic is right

So tell me have you been to Main Street at night?

Shown opposite: Jonas, Jonas Lombard, watercolor, ink

Main StreetCo-creator


Newborns encounter the world from their earliest comfort zone, gazing up, snuggled in against the warmth of a parent. Babies on all fours reconnoiter the floor underneath them like tiny archeologists. Our view of the world varies by the number of legs we are able to use. Once we are upright on two legs, our perspectives shift again. This progression, however, comes with no guarantees. One false step, one tiny slip, can send us tumbling down steps and land us back in the adult version of a stroller. Although wheelchairs keep the broken body from being bedbound, they also return the rider to a more child-like perspective on the world. Without the comfort.

The elevator doors open on the ground floor, and I wheel myself into the already-occupied space. My companions shift along the far walls to make room for my chair. They gaze up at the illuminated floor indicator, following our progress. I am at mid-door level, inspecting the graffiti common to college doors. I wonder how long it takes to etch a few words on an elevator door. Did the writer take multiple trips up and down to get these few words inscribed?

I exit on the third floor and turn right, headed for my office. It feels so good to be back at work after weeks of confinement. It’s a sorely missed piece of normalcy. Friends spot me riding in this unexpected vehicle and hurry over, bursting with concern and horrified questions. What happened? Will you be okay? Are you in pain? By the end of the day, I have briefly considered placing an info flyer on the back of my chair, detailing my brief attempt at gymnastics on slick midnight steps and my inability to stick the

landing. But most conversations are also give-and-take. Once I’ve shared my story, almost everyone has a personal fracture story to tell. I hear tales of broken bones and stages of immobilization, and I am absorbed by other’s misfortunes, especially those with good outcomes.

Last week, still wheelchair-confined, I took a deep breath and stepped outside my zone of comfort, heading towards the Commons. The gradient is steep. It’s a virtual downhill ski slope on the way over. My hair is blown back by the wind as I effortlessly sail down the walkway. But trying to return, my arm strength and enthusiasm run out halfway back, and I sit there, unable to move my chair uphill one more foot. My muscles quiver, tears of frustration form, and I ponder what to do, stranded halfway. It’s hard to ask for help, but a good Samaritan stops

and offers me a push up to the sliding doors. The kindness of strangers amazes me.

Embarking on a journey across campus feels like Homer setting off on his Odyssey. Instead of facing the Cyclops, Sirens, or Lotus-Eaters, my challenges are the potential booby traps encountered when moving between buildings.

On Tuesday, I discover the circuitous route from the North Building to the handicapped-access doors at the back of the Science Hall and the lower level of the lecture halls. Once inside, disabled visitors are faced with an intimidating steep ramp connecting the entrance to the lab areas. I am grateful for the strong arms steering me through this maze, and I promise myself never to tackle this route on my own.

Doors present an unexpected challenge. Bathroom

Comfort ZonesBy Cindy Pavlos

“My comfort zones expand and contract

like an accordion.”

NONFICTION

28


doors, I discovered my first day back, are so heavy they are almost impossible to push open while seated. And although most exterior doors have automatic controls, the push buttons are not where one would expect. These exterior doors come in sets, each with its own control buttons. But the push buttons are located in different places, as if someone might want to only open the first set and then stay on in the little glass solarium for a bit.

Several weeks later, upgraded to a walker, I am more confident about the outdoors and feel my comfort zone expanding. But crossing the campus on two legs and four wheels, every crack in the uneven pavement causes my walker wheels to lurch right and left. My minute sense of balance is threatened.

Thumping across the quad gives me time to question the forces that pushed up the pavement’s concrete blocks. I imagine a sort of intra-campus tectonic-plate scenario, their primordial forces at work.

My comfort zones expand and contract like an accordion. Morning bravado and an “I-can-do-this” attitude sometimes dissolve by afternoon into a deep yearning for the safety of my recently retired wheelchair.

To not feel safe is an exhausting education into what some face every day. It’s a club I’ve temporarily joined by falling down icy steps on a December night, and it’s a club I can never forget.

Letter Form Abstract, An Nguyen, graphic design (10”x10”)

29


Currently, I’m living in a winter-rental house on the shore of a Cape Cod tidal river. Across the small river is protected natural land. I can tell what the tide is doing just by looking out the glass sliding doors to see what direction the river current is going. There are ducks and gulls, raccoons and coyotes, hawks and owls and crows—not all at once of course. It’s not lost on me how lucky I am to be living here. Seeing all of this on a daily basis makes my heart sing.

But a few months ago, my sense of home was quite different. And a few months from now this will likely no longer be my home. In a sense, I have been “home-less” since 2009. That’s not to say that I’ve been walking the streets or sleeping rough at night. I have just been always living, since then, with family members or in a rental property that I could not call my own.

There is something about being unable to control your place of living that wears on the soul. “We don’t want you here anymore” are some of the most painful words anyone can hear, even if they’re not said and only felt. There are people who travel all the time and love that life. There are more and more now who live in camper vans or RVs or trailers, even out of their cars, and prefer to live that way. And there are many moving to so-called “tiny” homes. But I am one who needs a home base, someplace I can rely on to always be there.

I had a house of my own once, before the Great Recession of 2008 and later. But I was living at the epicenter of that recession, the state of Michigan, and

work was becoming harder and harder to find. I left my job in 2006 and was never able to get another job that paid a living wage. I went through the pain of not being able to find work, having my car repossessed, and losing my house to foreclosure. I had worked

for ten years to get the house, but, in the end, I had never really owned it at all. I saved what I could of my belongings and moved on.

Recently I’ve seen a number of news documentaries about the refugee problems in the Middle East and Europe. I’ve also seen news reports about the deplorable

conditions in Puerto Rico after the massive hurricane of 2017. The current political climate dictates that we should put up impenetrable walls and kick people out of the country to go back “where they came from.” I feel the pain of people experiencing these

things. I’ve never had it as bad as they do—and I don’t claim so—but I have some sense of what it means to no longer have a home to go to.

I understand now the drive to reduce one’s belongings, live in a smaller space, have less impact on

the world around you, and be more self-reliant. More and more people are coming to that realization. It is preferable to come to that on your own and not have it thrust upon you by job loss, war, natural disaster, or fuming politicians. In the end, we all still need a place to live, someplace to call home.

It seems contradictory to me that a country that claims to be the greatest country in history, the United States of America, accepts that there are people

NONFICTION

Home is Where...By Robert K. Foster

“There is something about being unable to control your place of living that wears on

the soul.”

“There are ducks and gulls, raccoons and coyotes, hawks and owls and crows—not

all at once of course.”


physically homeless on its streets. That we seem to do nothing about poverty or territories like Puerto Rico, where people have lost the basics of modern life like electricity or even running water. That we somehow fail to understand the desires of people coming to our country simply because they want a better life than the one they’ve left behind.

For me, I’m thankful that I have a roof over my head, a place I can call home, for however long that may be. But times shouldn’t be so hard that a job isn’t able to provide enough income to pay for a place to live. If you work forty hours or more in a week, you should be able to have a home to live in. If you no longer have a home because of war or natural disaster, you should be able to count on other human beings to show compassion and

provide help. If you are trying to find a better life in a new place, then people shouldn’t stand in your way because of racist ideals and concepts.

So, yes, the repercussions of the Great Recession are still being felt today. Many never got back what

they once had. You only have to see the widening gap between rich and poor in our country to see where it led. Today, when you walk out the door of the place you live and go to work or school or go shopping, try to remember that it can all be gone tomorrow. For many people in the world today, losing their home has already happened, and they can

never go back to what they once had. Don’t take for granted that you have a place to live. For many having a home is not just a dream, but also a fond memory.

Untitled, Aman Marfatia, photography

“If you work forty hours or more in a week, you should be able to have a home to

live in.”

31


The Meaning of LifeBy Andrew J. Gates

Pain surged through his body as the air escaped his lungs. He found himself falling. He thought of her. His parents. His younger sister. He thought of every moment that something he cared about had been ripped from his reality.

He watched as his life seemed to surround him. He wasn’t a good person, yet there, in that single moment, he felt content. With everything. A smile streaked across his face as a tear did the same. He knew there was only one way out; however, as he reanimated into that moment suddenly there was an enormous pressure reverberating through his frame. His body, enveloped by the land-scape around him, becoming completely numb—deprived of all his sorrows and sins, misfortunes and regrets—he felt nothing.

But that smile still lingered, for he knew that what you lack in this life, you are granted in the next. As his eyes fell shut everything went silent but not dark. It was tranquil. After a few short endless moments, it was done. And beginning with the gift of remembering nothing, all became light, as she began to cry.

FICTION

32


The MainSheetStudent weekly newspaperhttps://www.capecod.edu/web/langlit/mainsheetCurrent and archive issues: https://www.capecod.edu/web/mainsheetOffice: North Building, Room 206Contact: [email protected] advisor: Kerry Drohan, [email protected]

Cape Cod Community College MediaCape Cod Community College offers several active media outlets where students can pursue creative endeavors. If you like what you see in this publication, please consider supporting us and our sister media outlets through an advertisement or donation.

WKKL FM 90.7Radio stationhttps://www.capecod.edu/wkkl/index.htmlAudio feed: http://web01.capecod.edu/WKKLContact: [email protected] manager: Naomi Arenberg, [email protected]

The Write StuffA journal of student academic writingSubmissions and back issues: https://www.capecod.edu/web/langlit/writestuffContact: Cindy Pavlos, [email protected]: North Building, Room 204

Sea ChangeA magazine of the artshttps://seachangecapecod.wordpress.com/Sea Change archives: https://www.capecod.edu/web/langlit/seachange/archivesContact: [email protected] advisor: Rebecca Griffin, [email protected]

Sagamore Bridge, Aman Marfatia, photography


2018 H SE A N G · Sea Change. has incorporated fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, as well as...

Documents

Transcript of 2018 H SE A N G · Sea Change. has incorporated fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, as well as...