Breakwall Issue 2

2Volume Two Spring 2011

BreakwallCuyahoga Community College’s Literary Journal

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BREAKWALL STAFF

Breakwall • Volume Two Spring 2011

Design EditorSteve Thomas

Selection CommitteeRoxana Bell

Vanessa GilbertJudy Mackenzie

Larry Remar

Faculty AdvisorsJack Hagan, Student Media Coordinator

Brian Hall, Assistant ProfessorDaniel Levin, Associate Professor

Lindsay Milam, Assistant ProfessorJennifer Skop, Assistant Professor

Breakwall would like to extend a special thank you to the Cuyahoga Valley Career Center, Bill Delgado, Hannah Money, Shelley Allison, and the senior Graphic Imaging class for making the printing of this publication possible.

The Breakwall staff would like to thank Erika Bell, Rita McKinley, and Mark Rodriguez, the Directors of Student Life, as well as the Faculty Senates of Metro

and West for their generous donations.

Breakwall assumes all responsibility for the content of this magazine.

BreakwallMLA 223-S

2900 Community College AvenueCleveland, OH 44115Phone (216) 987-4544

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


TABLE OF CONTENTS

Poetry Section:Altagracia Chavez Hands

John Connelly A Brush with God

LaDawn Crenshaw It All Started Here

Mary Harrison The Cost of Things Boys Drinking Beer: Random Thoughts

Chelsea Hopsecger Unknown Tragedy

Theresa Mullins Bare Grave

Kimberly Steele Anticipation Prose Section:Altagracia Chavez Realization

Dan Hughes The Brick-Wall Approach

Melissa Maskulka A Critical Analysis of Being Overly Critical

William Roberts The Growing Tree

Gary Rumley IIIf You Give Up New York

Shannon Walker Concrete Purgatory

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10

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27

6

5

34

7

28

19

22

13


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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Cover

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

51

Photography Section:Darlene BeiterLakeside

Judy KohoutMs. Incredible

Dominik KupniewskiUntitled

Daniel La GuardiaTrainSet

Kayleigh McGillivrayDestruere Stuere

Cristina RomanelloUntitled

Deirdre RuaneBefore the Speech

Melissa WiggintonBeautiful Sewer

Nicholas WojciakClock Tower

About the Contributors

Submissions & Guidelines


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Anticipation by Kimberly Steele

You’d be at the coffeehouse waitingA phone call told me thatYour sweet voice echoed in my earsThe anticipation of your taste filling my mouth

Last I saw you had on a dressIt was red – stopping at your upper thighHow I remember running my fingers up your legsAnd touching your piece of heaven

However a bad feeling came over meAs I pulled into the parking lotThat maybe my dreams weren’t realityAnd a plot was slowly being devised

As I dashed that thoughtUpon entering the coffee shopThere you were - in the red dress I love – In the arms of another woman


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Bare Grave by Theresa Mullins

His grave is bareWith no stone to seeWhere he lies. ButNot for lack of careAnd she must find him by lot.

As she drives through the cemeteryTo find Section thirty-five,She sees the area laid out For the infants who never got the Chance to experience life.

And as she walks through the sectionTo find Row four, She notices the leavesOn the trees changing color.

As she walks down the rowTo find the Grave markedNumber 23, she notices the freshnessOf the other graves nearby.

Nothing to show thatShe had been there.Roses are gone, she last laid.She sheds more than a tearFor the man she first cared for.Her hero, her Daddy is not there.


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The Brick-Wall Approach by Dan Hughes

I sat there in my car driving. She was yelling, as usual. Her words, despite their barbed tips, didn’t penetrate me. I was far too used to consistently being the bad guy in this particular two piece, so her words would just strike my ears and then proceed to meaninglessly bounce off. To be honest, I couldn’t even truly tell you exactly what I was being chastised for in this given situation. I’m sure it was some underlying insecurity. That’s what would always spur our emotionally spun arguments; it was always someone’s hurt feelings, always some bruised pride. This was all warring on me so very fast.

It was a beautiful night to fight at least; the rain was heavy and steady. I hadn’t truly noticed the volume of the spilling moisture until the relative dryness of our garage was around us. I guess my mind had been elsewhere. At this point her barrage of words had ceased and was replaced with a cold silence. The silence didn’t bother me much; moreover, I liked it. The silence gave me a chance to turn my brain back on and leave the zombie-mode that my brain switched to in times of great distress. This silence, though, it would give me time to think, analyze the situation, and then act accordingly.

Upon entering the house proper, we went about our lives as two separate entities, not speaking and trying so very hard to avoid each other altogether. I made my way to the office, which was really the second bedroom which we never used as such because up until the very recent, she and I had been sharing a bed. The office was my room. It was the covers I often pulled over my head more and more as this relationship digressed into a nightmare. I reached into the third drawer from the bottom and from it I pulled a small bag. In said bag was to be found a moderate quantity of illicit plant matter, which would be my aid in justifying all this unjustified disintegration of my love life. With it I also grabbed a small packet of rolling papers from the same drawer. I proceeded to roll myself a walking partner.

I walked back to the house proper and put Marley on his leash. His excitement


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put a secondary smirk on my face. “Where are you going?” she appeared from nowhere and demanded. “I’m taking Marley for a walk,” I stated flatly, the mention of the word “walk”

making the dog’s tail wag wildly. “Oh…well, we need to talk,” she stated to me. “We’ll talk when I get back. We won’t talk now; it’ll turn into another emotional

fire-fight, and I’m not doing it right now. We’ll talk when I get back, I swear,” I told her as I walked out the door, Marley leading the way.

It wouldn’t have always gone this way. Only about a month ago everything was so different. I wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving the house, leaving her, without telling her I loved her. A month ago, I wouldn’t have been alone; it was always us, always Devin and Kate. Now it’s just back to Marley and me. We walked for some bit, just strolling, Marley and me. I thought for some time on my own before the thoughts became too sharp, too heavy for me. It was at that point that I took from my ear the walking partner I had brought along just for such an occasion. I stopped for a moment, lighting the rolled device. Inhaling deeply, I walked on.

With each hit, I calmed further and further. The calming smoke numbed me to the rushing thoughts of guilt. It did not nullify them completely, just made them in more manageable doses. Maybe my brick wall approach to this situation was my downfall in this war-like relationship. Kate had, in fact, been by my side through some difficult situations. She had been my guardian angel in drunken stupors many a night; she had been there when others left. It was still raining, but I had only just noticed it. The rain was light currently; it didn’t really bother me, so I pressed on. I finished smoking and was still in the mood for a trek, so I continued. Besides, I still had a few points I wished to cover in my head previous to heading back to Kate.

Why was she always yelling at me? Well, as stated previously, it was near always a matter of insecurity. She was convinced I had been cheating on her, which in ages past, would have been true. She knew of such, so she presumed as she did. It was understandable but incorrect. Since ages past, I had grown up, slightly, but grown as a person nevertheless. I had always felt that, should I be correct, I should have nothing to explain; the facts should do that for me. Maybe I was wrong.

I made my final approach now with Marley. It was my current intent to, if


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nothing else, go home and reassure Kate that everything was going to be fine and that my love was still as strong as ever. Maybe she just needed the facts repeated to her for them to sink in. Marley hurried me along, in haste to escape the rain. As we approached, I could tell by the lights that she had moved upstairs. I went in and released Marley from his leash. He proceeded to run about and dry himself on every piece of furniture we owned. I heard the music playing from upstairs which lead me to the thought that Kate was most aptly sulking upstairs to some overly emotional song about being stuck under the tyranny of some guy. I remember remedying that when we were just kids out of high school. I would always come to her in her bed with a cup of hot cocoa, instant smile. I would seek to repeat such tonight.

I approached her door, cup in grasp. Without knocking I burst in. The scene, confusing at first, became all too vividly horrifying. I set down the cup in the doorway. “Here…for when you’re done, I guess…”

I proceeded to the office. It was definitely my room now. I went into the third drawer from the bottom and grabbed the bag yet again. This time, however, it was to try and black out the place in my mind where I just walked in on her screwing our neighbor.


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A Brush with God by John Connelly

I met God todayA little girl in a playground sandboxDistracted by her sand castlesI asked her, Why?She turned and looked at meWithout judgmentAnd said without speakingYou’ll figure it outDon’t worryIt’ll be ok

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It all started here

On the shores west of the Nile

On the dirt road of a southern Colored town

It all started so long ago, Africa’s Wailing Wall

It all started so long ago, America’s Wailing Wall

It started on the coast of Senegal

It started after the confederate’s fall

I was struck with awe

As I looked around and saw

People, whose skin was kissed by the sun

A woman, who was regal and bold

This is where it all begun

A legacy, never told

It all started here (A response to Robert P. Madison’s speech)

by LaDawn Crenshaw

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Their hair was curly like mine

Her lips were thick like mine

Brown eyes that had a brilliant shine

Brown eyes that had a glorious shine

Skin so smooth and swarthy

Her hair aged with dignity

Mind and hearts so open and accepting

A life full of adversity

This is where it all began

On this powerful land

On this unjust land

I finally understand

The beginnings of me

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For months, there was nothing. Emily would sit at her father’s desk with hands itching to dance across the typewriter, twitching to breathe life onto a dull, white piece of paper through little black letting. But there was nothing.

The wooden desk faced the window of her bedroom. Most days and nights, she’d simply sit at the desk on her uncomfortable chair and gaze out of the window. In the winter, the view was its most captivating. The snow would fall and engulf everything in sight with a shimmery white powder. And not long after, she’d sit there sad at what became of the majestic snow; it would become grey and slush and eventually fade away like a memory or a sweet dream. Salt stained cars would splatter down the road, and the sound would draw to distraction. But it was not winter now. It was fall now, and the leaves had already turned and begun to fall free from their homes on the branches. They clumped together in piles alongside fences and in gutters and would blow across her window whenever the wind allowed them to.

Emily turned her back to the window and leaned back in the chair. It creaked beneath her, like many things in the old house. After a moment of starring aimlessly at the white of her closet door, she stood and walked over to her nearby bed and flopped down on her stomach. With an ease that she’d struggled to find through the years of depression and insomnia, she slept.

Dreams haunted her like ghosts. Bombarding images of her childhood dreams hit hard, and she couldn’t fight back. The desk, her beloved desk, was a regular fixture of the dreams. Her father sitting there in a large chair slumped over an antique typewriter pounding away at it. The black lettering painted stories of which she couldn’t fathom having the talent to create. The desk belonged to her now as her father walked away from writing for money and made it an occasional hobby in his old age. In the nightmares, crumpled up papers piled up on the floor, and would tower over her and growing large with each lost idea. Nothing. It all seemed hopeless now; the thing that Emily wanted more than anything was

Concrete Purgatory by Shannon Walker

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unattainable. The mastery of language that her father possessed was obviously lost on her. And an overwhelming sense of falling overcame her.

She awoke on the floor. It seemed like such a tradition at this point that she’d find herself on the floor after falling from her bed that she didn’t even wake when it happened anymore. She rose slowly and saw that the sun was setting and decided to go for a walk.

Her coat stayed on the hook, and the keys stayed on the table as she slammed the door behind her. The chill, though, surprised her. The wind blew, and she nearly blew back with it from shock alone. Luckily, she wore a long sleeved shirt with a collar, so she grasped it tightly around her neck and braved the weather down the porch stairs. The sun began to set behind her as she walked away from the house, and the bit of warmth it provided faded along with it. She breathed the warm air her lungs held into her clasped hands and headed to nowhere.

She walked along under the outreached limbs of nearly bare trees, and their golden and orange and brown leaves crunched under her shoes. In between the crunch, crunch, crunch of leaves and acorns beneath her, she softly muttered to herself story ideas. The bits and pieces of scenery popped into her head, and lines of dialogue buzzed around her ears like a pesky fly that she welcomed instead of simply swatting away.

“Damn.” She swore with her head down so no one could see her talking to herself. There was still nothing worth remembering. Her arms now swung at her side. When she reached the intersection, a car came too close for comfort to the curb as it took a sharp right turn. She looked up at the cars whizzing by with nearly blinding headlights. Her eyes darted around the street, and Emily was surprised at how far she’d gotten and how ugly it looked outside. Dark clouds loomed overhead, and more rain seemed imminent. It had rained earlier in the day, but the only signs that remained were the occasional puddles in the jagged sidewalk and the cavernous potholes so deep in the street that the original brick work was exposed.

The light turned red. Emily dodged the last few cars trying to make last minute turns and jumped over puddles to make it across the street. She hadn’t noticed it earlier, but the church at the end of the block seemed different than it had been before, so she walked towards it. The brick building stood higher than

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the rest of the block and overshadowed the old post office and recently erected drug store. Its towers seemed to stretch into the deep rain clouds, and she looked up in awe at the brilliant stained glass windows of crosses and pictures of Bibles. Wooden and gold archways formed the windows and doorways with wood doors that seemed to weigh a ton. Emily walked up the first few stairs to admire more closely the large stone statues of men and rosary beads clasped in their folded hands and eyes closed in prayer by the doors. Emily slowly walked up the rest of the stairs to the door and saw that it wasn’t completely closed. She hesitated before opening the door and walking in.

The smell of the candles was intoxicating. Dozens of red prayer candles were lit near the altar, and even the altar was decorated with white candles. To the left of her was the confessional. Emily flashed back to all the time spent in Catholic school and being told by nuns and fathers the importance of confession. She wasn’t Catholic and had not thought of converting, but she was curious.

She hastily walked over before she had a chance to change her mind, opened the door and sat down. Not long after, a small door opened, and she could see the figure of a man sitting beside her. She could tell he waited for her to say something, but she’d never gone to confession and had no clue what to do other than sit there and twirl her thumbs in the awkward silence. Finally, he spoke.

“Is this your first time?”Emily let out a dry chuckle. “Is it that obvious?”“If you don’t mind me asking, are you a Catholic?” he asked in a calm voice.

When Emily walked in, the church was silent, and she hadn’t even seen this man before she walked into this box. His voice is nice, she thought; she only wished she had a face to go with it.

“No. I’m not even a Christian, to be honest. But I’ve always thought that this church was beautiful.”

“We try to keep it up when we can. In fact, we just got a new stained glass window out front. The other one was so old and-” That was it! She thought. The new window is what was different. I wonder why they changed it. “-so did you just come to admire the architecture?”

“Not really. I figured that I’d come since I had no one to talk to.”“I am sorry to hear that.”

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She shrugged. “So, what do you want to talk about? You seem sad,” he continued“Well, I’m not happy.”“And why is that?”“Have you ever wanted to do something so badly just to realize that wanting

to do something doesn’t mean that you can?”“Haven’t we all!” He laughed quietly before speaking again. “When I was a

young man-” So does that mean that he’s old? “-I wanted to be a musician.”“Gospel singer or something?”“Now why does everyone assume that? Humph. But I guess it’s not that hard

to believe. Anyways, no; not even close, actually. Blues guitar.”“Nice.”“What is this thing you wish to do but feel you can’t?”“Write, draw, sing, dance, cure cancer. Anything significant.”“Significant by whose standards?”“Mine and everyone else’s. If you can’t add anything to the world, then what’s

the point?” What the hell am I doing? I don’t even know what this man looks like and I’m sitting here, spilling my guts because the building is pretty? That’s pathetic, Emily. Really.

“Of what? Living? My child, God wants us to—”She cut him off. “I’m sorry.” She opened the door to the confessional and

practically ran from the church. When she got outside, she saw that her suspicion was right; it had begun to rain. The sky had grown grey, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Flashes of lightening glimmered across the sky with great ferocity that even the buildings seemed to tremble. The wind was aggressive and blew hard against the bending trees. Cars splattered and splashed water onto the sidewalks where it fanned over bus stops, and a few people walking wherever. She didn’t even know where she was going, but she knew that she didn’t want to hear what the nameless and faceless man was trying to say. A bit of conversation would’ve been nice, but not a lecture.

When she reached the intersection, she didn’t cross. Instead, she only turned and continued to walk down the sidewalk in the rain, freezing and wet. More cars came, following her almost. Windshield wipers went on rapidly and wildly on almost every one. Emily stopped and watched as more and more passed through a

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series of green lights going so fast that they seemed to be only blurs in the storm. If someone were to step out there, she thought, what could they do? The speed limit’s so fast. It’s mathematically impossible that they’d manage to stop in time.

The rain managed to pick up with a fury that surprised even Emily. The wind rattled the large trees that peppered the concrete neighborhood and power cords blew in circles, like thick jump ropes. Traffic had stopped, and so did Emily. Her body shook as she watched more and more line up right after one another at a red light. She was so cold her nose had begun to run, but her face was too numb to feel anything. SUVs, small hybrids, and sports cars itched to fly through the light, and they inched closer and closer to the crosswalk and Emily inched closer and closer to the curb. She teetered back and forth on it between the sidewalk and the road, life and death, waiting for the light to change. It seemed like forever, and Emily and the drivers began to grow impatient. And finally it changed. Emily stood on her platform of purgatory for a few seconds longer, waiting for the cars to catch up to where she was and trying to make up her mind. The cars came and Emily made a decision. She leapt from her purgatory with a round of screams, honking horns and screeching tires as her applause.

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Consider, a moment, the humble hand:Complex of palm, four digits and thumb;Skin over muscles, sinews and bones;Mesh of nerve endings controlling it all:Articulate sensory wonder.

Consider how the functional handCreates with tools or paint brush or pen;Heals with scalpel or mothering touch;Wields destruction with knife, fist, or gun:Agent of help or nurture or harm.

Consider how much the perceptive handTeaches by contact with worlds outside:The smoothness of silk, the roughness of bark,The heat from a stove, the coldness of snow.The myriad ways the universe feels.

Consider now a vulnerable hand:Expressing emotion, conscious or not.Softly caressing a lover or babe; Angry clenched fist or white knuckled grip:Revealing the mind and heart and soul.

Consider again how the humble hand,Delighting in finest movements at will,Savors surrounding sensation andCommunicates all that’s essentialBy simply being open to view.

HANDS by Altagracia Chavez

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My wife and I were bursting with joy as we jumped into the Kia Sportage and raced to the hospital. We were having a baby! She turned to me, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. We still had no idea what we were going to name it— I say it because we still don’t know if it will be a boy or a girl or twins even. However, today we will bring him or her home.

The angry mob surrounding the place swarmed towards the Sportage as I pulled into the driveway. Armed security personnel impeded their approach, but the angry shouts of “Murderers” blasted their way through the chaos and clawed their way into my ears. The shouts were followed by rocks, eggs, and tomatoes. It took nearly ten minutes, but security was finally able to get the Sportage through the gates

My wife took the stairs at the hospital two at a time, and I had a great deal of trouble keeping up with her. She bounded through the double glass doors and was at the receptionist desk before I reached the top of the stairway leading up to the main foyer. Perhaps I should mention that this hospital was more of a laboratory located on the top floor of an office building.

It wasn’t like St. Johns in Westlake. They didn’t have an emergency room or anything. It was a simple doctor’s office with a small clinic attached to it. In fact, the only medical anything that was done here was delivering babies.

The receptionist, bundled in her sharp business suit, squinted at Brenda as she bounded up to the counter and exclaimed. “We’re having a baby!” The nurse’s facial features went taut, but she forced a smile.

“Wonderful!” The woman exclaimed in a warm but nasally voice. “Let’s get you checked in, and I’ll get the doctor right away. Name please.”

“Charlie and Brenda Stuart.”The nurse’s blue eyes danced over the computer screen until they found the

appointment entry. Looking up at me, she brushed a dark auburn lock of hair over her shoulder and smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “Please have a seat and we will be right with you. Oh, wait.” The expression on her face is priceless. I cough to hide my laughter at her obvious difficulty with what is coming next. Of course, I haven’t

The Growing Tree by William Roberts

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paid yet. “How did you want to pay for your visit today?”I deposited my credit card and driver’s license into her hand. Without a word,

she ran the card and nodded.“Your credit limit is sufficient for two children.”“Thank you.”She smiled at me and pointed toward the chairs. I sat beside my wife, who

grasped my hand and stared into my eyes as she had done on our second date. “Thank you so much for this,” she said dreamily. “I’ve wanted a baby for so

long now.”“I love you,” I replied. “This is a big step for us.”“I know, baby,” She said quietly. “I know. Everything is going to be OK.”The door to the clinic opened, and our doctor, Jeffrey Howard, stepped out to

greet us. “It’s good to see you again Mr. and Mrs. Stuart. Follow me and we will see

about that baby.”My wife leaped from her chair and followed the doctor. It took me a minute

to stand up and join them. My breathing was becoming labored. I am sixty years old, and a child will be a huge change for us. Brenda is thirty-five, and this is what she wants more than anything in the world. Still, it’s going to be a lot of work. I have thought about this hundreds of times before today, but it is beginning to scare me a little bit. It still isn’t too late to change our minds. I agreed to this, but now I’m not so sure.

We went back to a room in the middle of the clinic under an open skylight. The place looked more like a greenhouse built over a rainforest or something than it did a hospital operating room. The nurses helped us put on scrubs and face masks. The heavy glass door in front of us opened, and I gasped at the rows of the large trees growing in the orchard.

We walked past several rows of different trees. I could distinguish between them by the fruit colors. In the brochure they had given us, the color of the skin indicated the race. Legal issues prevented the doctor from actually selecting which one we would take home, but they had given us a guide on selection. I would be careful to reject any that were bruised, over-ripe, or not ripe enough. I sure didn’t want any child that would be inconvenient or problematic. For twelve thousand dollars, it had better be perfect.

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Finally, we came to a tree which had a name plate on the floor plaque which read “Stuart.” The fruit growing on this tree was orange in color and looked like oversized tomatoes.

It was easy to make the rejections. One had a bruise. The doctor injected a saline solution into it. I could hear muffled screams as the fruit withered on the branch. I pointed at another one. That one had a couple of dark spots on the skin. I wasn’t taking any chances. The doctor nodded and cut it down. Another one was over-ripe. The law required it to be discarded in a different manner. I watched as the doctor carefully cut the crying fruit into pieces before dropping the now silenced husk into a bin marked “Bio hazard.” Then, it caught my eye.

It was perfectly colored. I felt it for firmness and found no soft spots anywhere. The stem was strong. I turned to my wife. I didn’t have to say anything; she was already eye-balling it too. I looked into her face, she nodded. Turning to Doctor Howard I said, “We want this one.”

“Any others?”“No, just this one.” The doctor removed his scalpel and cut the stem from the tree. The fruit began

to gurgle. As it thrashed about, he made a small incision into the fruit. There was a loud scream, and then crying followed. He carefully peeled away the shell. The infant came out fairly easily, and he checked her over. Satisfied, he placed the baby girl in my wife’s arms. The bustle of the nurses pruning all of the remaining fruit from that tree and discarding it in a bucket half-filled with saline bothered me. I didn’t let it concern me that much, though. I had made my decision, and the others would be too expensive or inconvenient. Besides, we have the right to choose. That’s the law.

Doctor Howard then shook my hand and congratulated me on my new baby daughter. I smiled a big smile, hugged my wife, kissed my daughter, signed the credit card slip, and took my family home.

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The time has come, but I can’t let go.

I make the turn into her driveway and lower the volume of the radio.

A male voice echoes through the intercom speaker: “May I help you?”

“Hi, it’s David. Here to pick up Lucy.”

A few seconds pass. The gate creaks open.

I accelerate slowly through the wooded area; the beautiful Victorian mansion camouflaged behind it. An orange harvest moon peaks through the open roof. Softly, the engine hums as I continue along a cobblestone path, eventually emerging from the tree lawn and entering the front courtyard.

I wind around the fountain and pull up to the house.

Instantly, the front door opens, and, amidst the watchful eye of gargoyles, she comes into view.

She’s breathtaking. And I regret ever coming.

She’s dressed conservatively: a black dress and matching pumps pointed sharply at the toe. Her lips are blood red and so are my regrets.

She opens the door, and the temperature rises.

If You Give Up New York by Gary Rumley II

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“I was beginning to wonder if you’d stood me up,” she says sarcastically, climbing into the Range Rover.

I shoot her a smirk. She plays with the radio. Gary Numan sings to us.

It isn’t long before we’re sitting across from one another at the Flying Saucer, a dimly lit German haunt on 10th Avenue. It’s hot and the room is packed and a live band is playing in the corner. It’s hard to hear myself think.

“Is it ok if I smoke?” Lucy asks our waitress.

She hesitates and then looks around as if to see if her manager is near. “It’s fine,” she says, smiling. “I really like your hair.”

“Thanks,” Lucy replies, shifting it from one side to the other. It’s blonde and her skin is ghostly pale and I know she’s gorgeous.

She reaches into her purse and removes a silver cigarette holder emblazoned with her family crest, then lights a Newport and takes a long drag. She blows a puff of smoke in my direction; it cuts me in half.

The waitress pretends not to notice.

“Something to drink tonight?”

I turn my head to answer. “Surprise us,” Lucy stammers.

“Sounds good,” she replies. “I’ll be right back.”

Lucy looks me over. I thumb through my BlackBerry, pretend to text.

“David,” she says, taking another drag, “I’m really glad you came.”

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I look down at the table. It’s wretched like me.She slides her hand under my chin -- her nails tickling the stubble -- and raises my head back up to her. It takes everything I have to hold it there.

“Don’t. Don’t act like that, not after everything we’ve been through.”

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want any of this. I try and look past her at a young couple laughing by the window. They are living in the calm, and I’m jealous.

“NYU is a school that only few can attend. You know that. Nashville only has so much to offer.”

She’s smiling. He is her prisoner. She’s oblivious to her control over him.

“And sometimes the fear of going overshadows the comfort of staying. Sometimes staying just isn’t an option.”

Their eyes meet, and together, they close. I have my own life to live, but I’m lost in theirs.

“Sometimes leaving isn’t a choice.”

They both lean in.

“You know I’ll always remember the times we spent together: the art shows, the concerts in the park, the summer drives through the countryside. Nothing in New York can ever replace those memories. Nothing.”

And I know what’s coming.

“It’s not that I don’t love you,” she continues, “Or that I don’t want a future with you. I just don’t want to do it unless it’s under the right circumstances. And these,

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well…”

Their lips meet. And they both want it. They both mean it.

“They’re just not the right circumstances.”

“Here you go,” the waitress chimes, setting two beers down on the table.

“Cheers,” Lucy says, holding her glass high, “To the past. And to the future.”

I clink my glass against hers, though I don’t want to. I grip it tightly and take note of how cold it feels in my hands. There is ice inside me, and I’m sweating in this bar.

She puts her cigarette out on the floor.

I reconsider the night. I second guess her demeanor, this whole ordeal. I wonder how cleverly mistakes can disguise themselves as opportunity.

She spends a few minutes talking. I spend some listening. I watch the band play, but the music doesn’t resonate. And then our glasses are empty and everything is over.

Two years of my life washed away along the city streets of Manhattan.

On the drive back, no one speaks but the air conditioner.

Idling in front of her house, she opens the car door, triggering the dome light. I look at her one last time.

And she’s still breathtaking.

She tilts her head slowly and leans in and kisses me; soft lips pressed against a

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castle wall that never crumbled. Not even for chance. Not even for love.

Not even for her.

As our lips part, I realize that I finally mean it. I mean it for the first time.

“I love you, David,” she says. “More than Nashville. More than New York. Don’t ever forget that.”

And I look up at that same orange moon still glowing ominously through the open roof of the Range Rover. And I’m not ready to let go.

She stares right through me: “I just wished you’d loved me, too.”

She gets out and walks toward the house without turning around. I drive away without looking back. There’s a chill in the air.

I-40 East is a few minutes away. Gary Numan sings to me. All the way to New York.

And I let go of everything else.

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Ms. IncredibleJudy Kohout

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UntitledDominik Kupniewski

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TrainSetDaniel La Guardia

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Destruere StuereKayleigh McGillivray

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UntitledCristina Romanello

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Before the SpeechDeirdre Ruane

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Beautiful SewerMelissa Wigginton

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Clock TowerNicholas Wojciak

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Shattered shards collect dust inside-Cast-out remnants of the war.

Mile-high pillars,Gothic, flying buttresses frame stained glass windows.Light pours over the floor,Colors dancing with the hours.Night falls.

Darkness falls.Brother to brother opposed,Heart wrenched in two.Clang of iron and steel-Sparks of crossed blades light up the starless night.A moment, a minute, day, year-Time passes, alone and unnoticed.

Lost traveler stumbles inand cuts his foot on the glass.

Unknown Tragedy by Chelsea Hopsecger

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The family room holds darkness like a reliquary.Here we meet at day’s end for our nightly slouchingshauling in the dog and some foodthings we can throw down our throatswithout even looking at them. Metallic light transoms out of the TV,making our eyes glimmer blinkless and stupid, while our hair, so heavy in the evenings, makes our heads drop in the manner of sacks of cement above our collars.

Pennies are obsolete currency to offer in exchange for thoughts as semi-precious and rare as sea-glass.But I’d rather keep my spoons, my rings, my coins, the two-dollar bill from the till of the convenience storeslapped into my palm by the fat fingers of an ashy girl wearing a swipe card necklace.The waiting for my reaction was naked in her eyes.I left her with her mouth open, sucking on her disappointment.

Such a small trophythe deflation of the dull convenience girl.She forgot about it after a salty hourbut I, it feeds me and I will draw from ituntil the cows come home and I pay you to tell me what you’re thinking.

The Cost of Things by Mary Harrison

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I analyze over-analyze EVERYTHING. It’s a curse really, but luckily I have been able to integrate it into my profession. In recent weeks, I’ve begun more actively dating. To most, this wouldn’t be such a big deal. The typical meet-up at a restaurant or pub with some back and forth conversation exchanged. No biggie, right? Wrong. In therapist school, I learned how to listen. Like, listen really well, and then reflect back what someone is saying, and then challenge when the moment is right. When you’re out on a date, do you really want someone figuring out your mommy issues, any potential obsessions and compulsions, and your levels of anxiety and stress? Not really, but I sort of think about that stuff….by accident, I promise. All the time. Not so good.

So I realized after a few dates, this is what I shouldn’t be doing.

Using the phrase “tell me more.” Imagine this scenario.Date: Yeah, so I, uh play baseball and golf and work at the mall. And I was born and raised in Wyoming.Me: Hmm..tell me more.

Not cute right?

Making sure I am using the proper OARS principles when talking with someone. Do you really want me to make sure I am asking open-ended questions, giving you affirmations, reflecting back what I hear, and providing summaries so you know I’m listening to you? Let’s pretend (er….learn from my mistake), shall we?

Me: So tell me a little bit more about why you’re looking to date again and what you’re looking to get out of a romantic relationship? It sounds like you’re really optimistic about finding someone.

A Critical Analysis of Being Overly Analytical by Melissa Maskulka

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Date: Well, I am. I want that girl, you know, to just hang out with. To chill, cuddle, you know, go to the bar with but watch 30 Rock every Thursday.Me: It sounds like you’re a very affectionate, caring person. That’s great.Date: Yeah, I just really want someone to share all the excitement of the world with. You know, movies, road trips, sports. Me: Wow, it sounds like you really want to find someone to share all the aspects you enjoy but also your nurturing and caring tendencies.

Yep, I just did ask open-ended questions, affirm my date’s thoughts, reflect what they said and provided a brief summary of the interaction. Who really talks like that? We psychology people.

Sitting in silence. Usually when people sit awkwardly in silence on a first date (or second, or third) it means things aren’t really going well. I can sit comfortably in silence for fifty minutes at a time and not think it to be awkward at all. But I suppose when dating someone, that’s not generally a good thing.

It goes a little something like this:Date: Yeah, I think the Yankees have a good shot this year.Me: Oh…..really? I’m a Sox fan. But don’t mess with Texas this year.Date: Yankees will own them.Me: Sit in silence. Watch date get uncomfortable and scan room to avoid eye contact as I sit placidly across from him. Sit a little more and watch date check watch, cell phone, and look for bartender to grab another drink.Me: (20 minutes later) So, what are you thinking?

Referring to the rate at which one standard alcoholic drink metabolizes. I’m a one-drink kind of girl. I don’t need alcohol to have a good time, nor do I actively seek it out, but if the situation presents itself, I do love a good Cosmo. Somewhere along the evening, I get tired, but am still talkative, probably to help me stay up.

Date asks: You seem a little excited; are you okay to drive?Me: Oh, I’m fine to drive. A standard drink metabolizes at the rate of one per hour, and I only had one drink over the past 3.5 hours.

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Who does that? Oh and by the way, I’m judging you based on the number of standard drinks you’ve had to make sure you don’t have more than five in one sitting. That might indicate some type of problematic drinking and substance use issue that I don’t want to be associated with in my personal life.

And then, the therapist in me really did come out, with my favorite therapy question….

Me: How does/did that make you feel?

As in, I asked the question in this sequence:

Date: So yeah, my boss told me my idea was crappy, these people just couldn’t take no for an answer, and school is ridiculous. I have this professor who assigns take-home quizzes and homework every week. Me: Wow, sounds like a lot. How does that make you feel? What does frustrating feel like? What color is it? What does it look like? (Okay, thankfully I didn’t ask my follow-up therapy questions, because that really would have been a bit too much).

I just asked a guy how something makes him feel. On the first date. Clearly, there won’t be a second session date.

So, I must remind myself that first dates are not applications of Lukas’ Where to Start and What to Ask. And offer an apology to the guys I put through an intake instead of a first date and also for saying one thing and meaning my mother (just a little Freudian humor).

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The lads are taking a break from the music makingand heading to the stoop for warm beers,a smoke, and lazy exchanges of banter.Just listen to them!They slap their thighs laughing at their own sly jokes.

In the mornings of foggy ruinous autumnsI conjure them as old mennot even remembering their breakfastsor their feet or the furniture of rooms.

Cannulae dry their throats to papery sheens, sets their tongues a-wriggling like salted garden slugs.Their mind’s eyes recall ever-so-vaguelyan angel food slicehardening in some linty pocket.They will doze off,and wander hazily among calendars-full of days that were once infinite and noteworthy of value.

Where are all the tall brown bottles now?The thin-walled cans around which all thecomely federations gathered and shared their glassine thoughts?

Boys Drinking Beer: Random Thoughts

by Mary Harrison

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And what of the carrotty cigarette buttsflicked away to roll into the cracks of parking lots,swelling up in some cantankerous rain?

Oh, their teeth have been yellow for decadesbut they’re no pirates.Just boysAnd I remember them all as if it were already tomorrow.

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The car tears through the night, devouring miles, heeding the summons of the call, “There’s been an accident.” Propelled from their home, hastily dressed in jeans and jackets, Tom and Mary Pinkerton move through the dark to the music of the engine’s muffled whine. He drives with white knuckled grip on the leather covered steering wheel, ignoring red lights and speed limits, intent only on getting them to their daughter’s bedside. She cries quietly: praying, raging at a god who would allow this tragedy, bargaining with the same deity for Gwen to be all right.

It began like many a Saturday night. The four girls, friends since childhood and now high school seniors a scant two months from graduation, had gone to a movie. Near midnight, heading home, a truck ran a red light and broadsided the car. One girl was dead at the scene, another had minor injuries, the third was in the intensive care unit of the local hospital with some sort of head injury. And then there was Gwen, her child, her baby, their most prized accomplishment. Gwen, seriously injured and in need of immediate surgery, had to be transferred to a major hospital sixty miles away for care. These sketchy details were delivered by the doctor from the local emergency room. Tom gave permission for all needed medical treatment. He and Mary were instructed to go directly to the more distant trauma center. There was not time to get to Gwen, to see her, to touch her, to be with her, before she was carted off for the urgently prescribed treatment. There was no opportunity to see the other parents, friends all, to derive and give comfort, to grieve loss, to share.

Tom and Mary run into the Trauma Center and are almost overwhelmed by the bright lights, the buzz of activity, the people waiting, the background cacophony of machines and voices that seem to be taken for granted by everyone in the emergency areas. After giving their names, Tom and Mary are quickly directed to a waiting room.

“Your daughter is already in surgery,” they are told. “The doctor will speak with you as soon as possible.”

At this time of night, the low wattage twilight of the waiting room provides a

Realization by Altagracia Chavez

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more subdued and shadowed environment. Here friends and relatives of loved ones in intensive care sit, sleep, cry, ply themselves with endless caffeine, and await words of change, words of hope. Talk is sporadic, and even then the voices are hushed in acknowledgement of the time and the setting. Occasionally, someone in scrubs (a doctor? a nurse?) enters and attention heightens; eyes turn and faces reflect that edge between hope and despair which asks, “Are you here for me?” The crawl of time makes Tom edgy, impatient with the enforced inaction, the inability to do something. He Paces. He offers to scrounge for food in the early dawn hospital, looking for something to sop up the coffee and ease the burning in his stomach.

“No thanks,” Mary replies, but go on and get yourself something.”Tom watches Mary as she silently holds it together. Her mounting nervousness

is evidenced by the shredded tissues that litter her lap, the wringing of her hands, and her compressed lips. She always was better than he at stillness and at controlling motion. He is the doer, the fixer. He needs to move but is afraid to leave the waiting room, afraid to miss the doctor.

Mary thinks of Gwen, the child of her heart. She remembers Gwen as a baby, the miraculous gift when she had given up on carrying a pregnancy to term. She recalls marveling at Gwen’s tiny face, her hands, her essence. She remembers small things. She remembers milestones. Throughout the parade of recollected images, her only conscious thought is, “I don’t know if I can go on without my Gwen.”

The early morning creeps by: two o’clock, three o’clock, four. One of the people in scrubs calls, “Pinkerton family?” Mary rises and clutches Tom’s hand.

“We’re Tom and Mary Pinkerton,” he sates, moving forward.The thin Eurasian woman has dark hair caught in a hastily assembled bun at the

nape of her neck. Luminous dark eyes and a melodious yet confident voice speak of kindness, caring, and professionalism. She introduces herself as Dr. Templeton, Gwen’s surgeon. She shakes their hands and says, “Why don’t you come with me and I’ll fill you in.”

Dr. Templeton leads them to a small beige conference room furnished with a round table and five mismatched vinyl upholstered chairs. She bids Tom and Mary to sit and, anticipating the question, states, “Gwen’s condition is stable for now. She will be brought to the ICU soon, but I wanted a chance to talk with you.”

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As Tom and Mary remain riveted, the doctor goes over the injuries and the reasons Gwen needed emergency surgery. “…accident…,torn artery….,possibly paralysis…,complications…,still asleep…”

Mary realizes that she can’t focus. She doesn’t care about the problem list. She doesn’t care about explanations. “When can I see her?” she interrupts in a near whisper. “When can I see my little girl?”

The doctor glances at Tom then focuses her gaze on Mary and says kindly, “Just as soon as they get her settle in IC. One of the staff will come out to get you. The nurses have my telephone number in case they need me for anything, and I will be back later this morning to check on Gwen. I’ll leave my card for you, in case you have any questions.”

An hour later, Mary and Tom are guided through the ICU where the series of cubicles resemble a row of shadow boxes containing lives and life supporting paraphernalia. They come to Gwen’s bedside. Long dark curls escape in wild tangles from beneath a bandage wrapping the head of the sleeping girl. Her eyes are closed, and there is a tube in her mouth. Her face is pale, and a white sheet is pulled up to her mid chest. Her visible abraded skin, discolored from antiseptic, is festooned with bandages that cover deeper cuts. Tendrils of wire and plastic tubing seem to tether her to the poles surrounding the bed. The tubes, going into or draining out of the girl, are clear or blood colored. The steady “Beep, beep, beep…” of her heart monitor beats time for the flowing waveforms of the multicolored display on the left side of the wall over her heard. The “whoosh” of the ventilator underscores the tableau: “Young Woman in Hospital Bed.”

The nurse introduces herself as Patty and attempts to put them at ease with the kind of practiced reassurances that comfort few. “She’s still asleep from the anesthetic. All the tubes and monitors are normal and help us take better care of her. The swelling is very common and will go away in the next couple days.”

Mary and Tom stand near the bed, overwhelmed by the sights, the sounds and the sense of helplessness. How did they fail to protect their child? How can they ever make up for this?

Patty encourages them forward and says, “It’s OK to touch her. You can talk to

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her, too,” and continues to busy herself with scribing the details of medical minutia that are supposed to record signs of life, signs of death.

Mary doesn’t release her grip on Tom’s hand but moves forward the few remaining steps, half dragging him along. She stares at the still form, and has to remind herself to breathe. Tentatively, she reaches her free hand and lightly touches the cool fingers lying still on the white sheet. There’s an intravenous line in the back of her hand, and Mary notices the blue colored bruising and the swelling. The skin is so cold! Mary glances at Tom, tears in her eyes, and sees his despair, his hopelessness, his tears. She has no comfort to give him. She has no comfort to give herself. She realizes that he has none to give her either. She takes a deep breath to steady herself and thinks only of her daughter.

After a few minutes Mary asks, “Can I stay with her?”Patty replies, “Sure. I’ll get you a chair and you can sit right here. I’ll let you

know if I need you to leave the room, but otherwise you can stay with her as much as you like. You need to make sure, though, that you take care of yourselves. You won’t be able to help Gwen if you get sick.”

Mary’s resolve now has focus and purpose. She quietly responds, “Thank you.” Fifteen minutes later, Mary and Tom are back in the waiting room. An x-ray is

being done, and Tom’s growing restlessness is a distraction. She suggests a visit to the cafeteria, and over bad coffee and indifferent toast, she outlines a plan.

“Tom, why don’t you get out of here for a while? If you go home you can pick up a change of clothes for me, take the dog for a walk, and call your parents and mine. Let them know what’s going on. I’ll stay here until you return. We should know more then. She should be awake by the time you get back. I’ll call you if anything changes.”

“But…”“No, I need to do this. I need you to take care of the calls and see to the dog.

Please. You need to get out of here, and I can’t leave.” Reluctant but relieved, Tom recognizes the truth of her words. He agrees.

Mary returns to the ICU cubicle, to her chair at the side of the unresponsive girl. As time passes, she becomes braver with her touch. She becomes more comfortable

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holding the girl’s hand, stroking her hair, talking to her. “Gwen, sweetheart, wake up now, Open your eyes.” Sitting there quietly, she softly sings to the girl, a favorite lullaby or a childhood tune Gwen used to chant endlessly. She talks of the dog, a thirteen year old mutt Gwen instantly loved and insisted on adopting when she was only five. Mary talks of people they know, of plans for the prom, for graduation, for college. She speaks of her love for her only child. She yearns for eyes to open or for the squeeze of a hand in response. The passage of time is marked by the synchrony of the heart monitor’s beep, the bellows of the breathing machine, and the slow sweep of the hands on the clock. There is no movement, not sign from the girl.

Three hours pass and still no response from the motionless form on the bed. That life continues is document by sounds and scribbles. Mary has scarcely left the cubicle. She concentrates on the small things: the stories she tells the girl, the songs she sings to her. She is afraid to look beyond the moment. She is afraid that, despite the continued reassurances, nothing will change. She is afraid of undermining hope. She is afraid of despair. She is afraid to let her mind wander from the immediate for fear that she will collapse.

Mary smoothes the girl’s tangled hair with fingers that shake from fatigue. She touches the girl’s face and marvels at the freckles that seem so prominent on the still too pale skin. Is the facial swelling going down? The bandage around the girl’s head has slipped, and Mary smoothes the girl’s eyebrows. A finger tip encounters a tiny irregularity along the edge of the brow. Mary stares. She blinks and looks again. A healed scar. She opens her eyes in terrible wonder. She feels a weight in her chest that makes her breathing difficult. She lifts the girl’s hand and touches the tender skin of the wrist. No birthmark there. No scar from an old injury. Horrified, she turns from the bed. At that moment, Tom enters the cubicle. Mary looks from Tom to Patty and back again. “This isn’t Gwen,” she croaks. “This isn’t my daughter.” Her voice rises to a panicked pitch.

Patty looks startled. Tom comes closer and puts an arm across her shoulders. “Honey, you’re exhausted. You’re not thinking clearly. Let’s get out of here for a bit.”

Patty approaches and lays a comforting hand on Mary’s arm. “He probably right, Mrs. Pinkerton. You’ve had no sleep and little to eat.”

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Voice rising, trembling now with realization, Mary repeats in an anguished tone, “This is not my daughter. Where is my daughter?”

“Look at her, Tom. Really look,” she says with a talon like grip on his wrist. Tom slowly turns his heard toward the still form on the bed and intently studies

the girl. With growing comprehension he breaths, “Oh my God.”

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About the Contributors

Darlene Beiter is a Visual Communications student at Cuyahoga Community College, where she is majoring in photography. Photojournalism is a focus for her and she strives to make photographs which capture the decisive moment. Darlene’s other interests include reading, travel, music, fitness, and clown loaches. She is married and lives in North Olmsted.

Altagracia Chavez is a student at Cuyahoga Community College.

John B. Connelly was born in Cleveland Ohio. He grew up in the rural Broadview Heights of the 70s and early 80s. He has two daughters. He attended college in Pennsylvania. He has lived in Hawaii and Florida. He currently lives in Cleveland and is seeking a career in music.

LaDawn Crenshaw is a student at Cuyahoga Community College.

Mary Harrison is an artist and writer of poetry and short stories. She is married and has two adult children. She is currently studying in the Court Reporting program at Tri-C. She loves words and tries to find delicious new ones to taste every day.

Chelsea Hopsecger is an aspiring writer who has been a full-time student at Tri-C since 2007. She is studying to become an RN and will graduate as such in Spring 2011. From there she hopes to make a difference in people’s lives in more ways than one.

Dan Hughes is a student at Cuyahoga Community College.

Daniel La Guardia was born and raised on the West Side of Cleveland, Ohio. Throughout the years he has developed a strong interest in fine arts, including music, painting, photography, and video. These interests have led him to pursue degrees at Tri-C in Photography and Digital Video, with a background in Illustration and Music Business/Composition.

Dominik Kupniewski was born in 1980 in Gdynia, one of the most beautiful cities in Poland. He grew up in Brodnica where he graduated from high school, and then he continued his education at the University of Nicolaus Copernicus in

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Torun. Dominik always liked drawing. Photography to him is like drawing; he also enjoys working with people. He came to America to perfect his skills and to study photography.

Melissa L. Maskulka is a distance learner studying philosophy, ethics, and bioethics to complement her degrees in psychology and counseling from Hiram College and Boston University. She hopes to soon enter the field of bioethics, focusing on research ethics. She is currently a soccer coach, research assistant, therapist, and volunteer.

Kayleigh McGillivray is a twenty-year old photographer living in Medina, Ohio. She has been involved in photography since her junior year of high school. After exploring a number of photographic styles, she has found a passion for creating abstract, conceptual pieces. She intends to pursue a career in fine art upon completion of her education.

Theresa A. Mullins is a Tri-C graduate and is now attending Kent State University as a senior. She graduates from KSU in the fall of 2011 with a degree in Business Management. She has previous work published in Breakwall and is currently working on a couple of short stories.

William Roberts is an aspiring writer currently taking classes at Tri-C. He is a member of Phi Theta Kappa. He is currently Vice President of the Chess Club. His goal is to obtain an MFA in creative writing from a yet to be determined university.

Cristina Romanello was born and raised in Cleveland, Ohio. She is the youngest of four, with immigrant parents. Her family plays a huge influence in her art practice. Cristina went to college at Kent State University receiving her bachelor’s degree. Soon after, she took her first photography class and feels that it is a great way for self-expression.

Deirdre Ruane is the younger of two daughters born to John and Julia Ruane in San Pedro, California, and raised in Woodbridge, Virginia before settling in Cleveland in 2000. Her father gave her the first camera she ever had, a Canon F-1, 35mm, and that is where it all began.

Gary Rumley II is an English major at Cuyahoga Community College with plans

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of transferring to Cleveland State University in the fall. He enjoys movies and music, traveling, and American and Italian cuisine. In addition to contributing to several newspapers and web sites, he is currently finishing work on his first novel.

Kimberly Steele is local spoken word poet, erotic short story writer, and erotic online magazine editor. Her literary career also includes published poetry and journalistic activism clips. Her journalism credits include several clips in The Voice. Her recent addition to The Voice was The Book Buyback Dance published September 2010.

Shannon Walker was born February 3rd 1992 and is a third-semester student at Cuyahoga Community College Metro Campus and majors in Chemistry. She began writing in her free time as a child and the hobby has continued over through the years.

Melissa Wigginton is in her second year as a Photography Major in the Visual Communications Department at Cuyahoga Community College. Melissa has been working on her own personal projects for exhibition and plans to pursue a career in Commercial Studio Photography upon graduation. She will continue to further her education as well.

Nicholas Wojciak is a 23-year-old photographer within the Cleveland area. As a young child, he discovered that he had a passion for photography and is now in the process of taking it from a hobby to a successful career. Nicholas continues to explore many aspects of photography to develop his own distinctive style.

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SUBMISSIONS & GUIDELINESBreakwall is Cuyahoga Community College’s creative and literary arts publication. This publication is a high quality, easily accessible creative outlet for students to showcase their talents in the arts (poetry, fiction, drama, essays, feature articles, photography, graphic art). All Tri-C students, current and former, are encouraged to submit.

Each contributor may submit up to three pieces, in any combination of genres:

PROSE/DRAMA/FEATURE ARTICLES: 3,000 words maximum per piece; one-act plays are appropriate for the size constraints of the publication. Please double-space submissions.POETRY:1,000 words maximum per piece; please submit in the page layout you intend.

ARTWORK AND PHOTOGRAPHY: Both black and white and color submissions accepted. Please save as .jpg file with a high resolution (minimum 300 dpi).

All pieces must be submitted in electronic and paper format: turn in both the electronic files and the print copies of your work(s). Save all text files as .rtf documents and all visual images as .jpg files on a flash drive or CD-ROM. The drive/CD must contain all submissions plus a 50-word biography of the contributor, written in third-person point of view. Submissions will not be accepted through e-mail.

Only submissions that are complete and follow all guidelines will be forwarded to the selection committee. Selected works reflect the aesthetic judgment of the selection committee and no work is guaranteed publication.

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Please double-check for grammatical and typographical errors prior to submitting your work. The editors are not responsible for publishing errors contained in submitted items.

The editors use a blind submissions process. Therefore, do not include your name on the submitted entries-include it only on the Submission Form where you list the title(s) of your work(s) and your contact information. In early spring 2012, selected contributors will be notified of the intent to publish their work(s). Anticipated publication date is late spring 2012.

SUBMISSION DEADLINE: THURSDAY, DECEMBER 1, 2011

You may submit your hard copies and drive/CD in one of two ways:

By Mail:Breakwall, c/o Lindsay Milam

MLA 223-S2900 Community College Avenue

Cleveland, OH 44115

In Person:Lindsay Milam

MLA 223-S2900 Community College Avenue

Cleveland, OH 44115(216) 987-4544

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2011-2012 Breakwall Submission FormPlease answer all questions on this form. To submit your work, follow the directions on the Call for Submissions.

Biography:Please include a 50-word biography with your submission. If your work(s) are accepted, this biography will be featured on the Contributor list. If you do not include a biography and your work(s) are accepted, your name will not be listed on the Contributor list. Use third-person point of view when composing your biography.

Statement of original work:I hereby state that all works submitted are my own and previously unpublished. I grant the editorial committee permission to use my works for publication and promotion of Breakwall, which may include publication on the future Breakwall website.

Contributor Signature Date

Submission #1

Submission #2

Submission #3

Title of Submission Item (if submitting artwork, indicate the medium used, such as digital photography, acrylic paint, etc.)

Genre

Submission Information:List the title(s) and genre(s) of your submission(s). Please be sure that only the titles of your submissions appear on the copies you are submitting to the editorial committee. There is a maximum of 3 total submissions per contributor, regardless of genre. Genres include prose, poetry, drama, feature articles, art, or photography.

Name

Mailing Address

Phone Number

Which Tri-Ccampus do you attend?

Circle below.

Metro campusWest campus

East campusCCW

CCE

Contact Information:

eMail

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Breakwall Issue 2

Documents

Transcript of Breakwall Issue 2