Keys

Mount Saint Mary College‟s Annual Literary Magazine

2012

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In Loving Memory of

Dr. Virginia Davidson

From all of your students that knew and loved you, we dedicate this

magazine to your memory, laughter, and compassion for us. You were

an unbelievable mentor and friend to us all. We miss you terribly and

think of you whenever we read a good piece of literature.

“There’s teachers you grow to like at school. There are some you even

enjoy. And then there’s those that you really adore. Because you

know they care. Because you know they love you back. And because

you know they were and always would have been there. “

-- Danielle Kearns

"Life is no brief candle for me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I

have got hold of for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly

as possible before handing it on to future generations."

-- George Bernard Shaw

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Executive Board

President: Meagan O‟Gallagher

Vice President: Danielle Kearns

Secretary: Stephanie Weaver

Treasurer: Michael McNicholas

Advisor: Dr. Peter Witkowsky

Cover Photo: William Biersack Back Cover Photo: Dakin Roy

Table of Contents

Flying Sheets By Crescentia Danner…………………………………...4

Untitled By Joshua Wilamowski………………………………………...5

A Lie Within a Lie By Gerald Ortiz……………………………………..5

Flower Pots and Body Bags By Kevin Berry…………………………..6

Illuminating Desire By Steven Broschart ……………………………………...7

Alone By Dana-Graff Ernano…………………………………………….8

Compensate By Rachel Sangalli…………………………………………8

Once Upon A Time By Nick Contarino…………………………………9

Clipped Wings By Joseph Mastando…………………………………...10

Number Seventy-Nine By Madeline McQuade……………………….11

In My Mind By Dana-Graff Ernano…………………………………….11

Man Child By Erin-Therese Vecchi…………………………………….12

Song of Summer By Laura Lamica……………………………………..12

Blessed are the Free of Heart By James Fitz Gerald………………..13

Untitled By Crescentia Danner……………………………………..18-19

Arctic Wasteland By Joseph Mastando…………………………….20-21

From a Father to His Son By James Fitz Gerald…………………22-23

The Journey By Donnie Hiland…………………………………………24

Midnight Wait By Pamela Delano……………………………………...25

The Inner Thought Chronicles By Anthony F. Krueger……...……..26

Queen of Swords, Queen of Cups By Christopher Bernadino..…….27

The Cold That Lingers By Emily Knapp…………………………..28-29

Modern Mythology By Glen Russo………………………………….30-31

Photo Credit: William Biersack Photo Credit: Joseph Mastando

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I was standing on mist, falling up through exploding stars.

The sea was walking up mountains and the rain was flying sideways

looking for a place to perch.

My face was showing my hands how to whistle,

while my feet made love to my breasts.

My skin was writing futile love letters to my lungs

(futile because they would never meet).

My hair was yelling at scissors in a chorus of reproaches,

while they wooed a sheet of paper.

My veins were gasping as my heart denied them air

because it had been betrayed by water, road and trees.

Life was arguing with Fate, because Fate was manipulative and deceptive.

Hope was strung out on fear, dying slowly, crashing from an overdose of failed tries.

The sky was keening over her lost virginity, while the planets laughed viciously.

Tornadoes birthed bastard sons of hurricanes

which wreaked havoc on the insides of symphonies.

The trees screamed in a bitter chorus of wailing sirens.

Doors ran down halls looking for hallucinogens.

Light bulbs leaked mist into the cloud I stood on, the stars exploded while I fell up

through them.

Flying Sheets By Crescentia Danner

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Is that a poem or are you just rhyming,

Trying to perfect your pathetic timing,

You should probably go back to the start

and rediscover this thing we call art.

Silver spoon progressions, carbon copy hands

Faded moonlight projected across moonlit sands

Emptiness has faded like the sinking tides

Ugliness is stated behind your blood soaked eyes

Masticating vultures picking bone from flesh

Procrastinating cultures bleed from unpaid debts

Caravan or pachyderm pack it up and let it burn

Machine guns singing soft goodnight

Seven silver serpents alcoholic haze

Living for night and dead by day

Untitled By Joshua Wilamowski

You know there‟s strength in numbers So you didn‟t stop with just one lie You kept the story going But you never told me why You said it wasn‟t worth it That you didn‟t have the time You said that I was stoic And that trying was a crime You made me feel so worthless You held me at the gate You stole my trust in people

And made me hesitate Now I‟m bleeding out and hallowed A pain I can‟t explain A joy that turned to sorrow A soul you loved to drain There is sin in never knowing The life that could have been If I had never met you And the lies that dwelt within But now the story‟s over The book was not a friend There might be no tomorrow But this pain will never end

A Lie Within a Lie By Gerald Ortiz

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Flower Pots and Body Bags By Kevin Berry

Roses standing in their pots, stuck in the place of their birth Rose dying in their pots, trapped till their dying moment

Sitting in the same diner from town to dead end town

Dying from moment to moment, this place has become my body bag

Trapping my cold soul inside this warm body gazing at the roses, trapped in their flower pots, growing rich from

sunshine, from excrement

Crossing borders here and there As my state of mind goes nowhere

Rose‟s dying in their pots, stuck there wilting from the chill of winters‟ air

My soul keeps rotting in my body, as it tries to escape in travel from

here to there

Driving, running and flying through the same world Hoping to find a gift from the universe, knowing that I‟ll always be

too far away

Knowing this truth My body is still warm, but my soul has become corpse cold, as I

watch roses die in their flower pots

My warm body moving from here to there Knowing that this cold soul is dead

That this world is its body bag

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Illuminating Desire By Steven Broschart

Cheers and laughs swell the air with anticipation

Beer and wine relax the core

Yet across the noise the room goes deaf

The smell of her desperation and exhaustion ignites my passion

Solitary yet refined she sits alone

Surrounded in an atmosphere of isolated caution

My heart pulls forward as my feet drag without direction

Vision blurry, my mouths depletes its air of delirious obsession

Her legs shuffle underneath as I approach slowly; caught in her womanly grace her

skirt rides high

Blood pumping into my every pore, my tongue struggles to gain its footing

I stumble forward onto the bar; gain my posture enveloped in the passion and lust

of my own mind

A glance to my right illuminates my soul with light as I study her every move

Stumbling internally, searching for words, I manage a dry gasp

A shuffle and a scratch reveal an empty void next to me, where my opportunity

was lost in my moment of trepidation

As her skirt turns the corner, my lips catch forward and whisper “Hello”.

Photo Credit: William Biersack

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Alone By Dana Graff-Ernano

Alone. In the corner. Your shadow is your worst enemy. You feed off the demons in your mind. Shattered in a million pieces, your heart aches for the happiness it once held. Don‟t bother climbing the stairs. They are never ending. You could walk a million miles and still be in Hell. Salmon and macaroni down your throat is hard to swallow when you don‟t even want it. Compensate

By Rachel Sangalli

Smash my toes, I‟ll use my heels.

Break my legs, my arms grow

stronger.

Lock my doors, I‟ll use the window.

Protect it with glass, I‟ll spare some

blood.

Steal my clothes, I‟ll embrace my

beauty.

Laugh in my face and I‟ll laugh with

you.

Whatever you do, however you do it,

I‟ll move on, I‟ll compensate.

In the end, I‟ll still have my spirit.

That‟s something your actions can‟t

take.

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Photo Credit: Danielle Kearns

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Once Upon A Time By Nick Contarino

This poem is didactic—it is to teach a lesson.

Do not follow in my footsteps, this is my confession.

Not every day does an angel touch your heart.

To be quite honest, I was not very smart.

Deep does your eyes cut to my core.

I long for that smile with radiance galore.

I had you once, but let you go.

Since then, my life has been an everlasting low.

The panes of my heart are streaked with the tears of my soul.

I worry one day that it shall never again be whole.

The list of reasons why I love you is far too long.

It takes a man to admit this, but a bigger one to admit

when he is wrong.

“There is nothing to fear, but fear itself.”

I have searched every outlet looking for help.

The conclusion I have come up with is quite simple.

For everyday without you is yet another ripple.

I hope one day that you are not too far from my grasp.

That will be the day these demons fully allow my body to collapse.

If you smitten lovers are reading this

Do not make the same mistake.

Hold on to your love, whatever risks that might take.

If you are reading this, I end on this note.

The next few lines are based on foolish hope.

I cannot have you now, I could not have you then.

You will be mine again someday, the only question is when?

Pho

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redit: W

illiam

Biersack

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Clipped Wings By Joseph Mastando

Sharp thoughts rise like the edifice above,

Scraping higher hues of blue, black, and white.

Sturdy and strong, block the majestic dove.

Luminous even in the depths of night,

When all should cease and rest their dreary might.

What lies beneath to stir such conception?

That which intersects, crosses, and crashes,

Amplified by a hawk‟s eye projection.

Momentarily, blind by the masses,

But molded simply to fill those glasses.

For if these thoughts would nature calmly brew,

Could sweet harmony and true peace embrace.

Sparrows swinging above would sing anew,

The willow bends would my eye firmly trace,

And in this frame might muddled minds replace.

But without voracious visions clouding,

Minds stagnate in the orchestrated pain.

A vulture to a bare brain, consuming,

Rip, tear, swallow--prided personal gain,

In deep dry deserts--soul‟s sorrow sustain.

In shape and in form, these thoughts twist and turn.

They melt in cognition, dripping in one.

And swans swimming by will bleed in concern,

For as their feathers had glistened the sun,

Now drip drop in oil, their fate sealed and done.

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Number Seventy-Nine By Madeline McQuade

Look through the green, a place between

comfort and curiosity.

Imbalanced brown faults generosity

creating a division of two.

What I think is me and you.

A bit of light and human might

planned a frame where it was bare

They disregarded perchance we‟d care,

you there and I here,

sitting unconsciously near.

If we were to speak we may concur

but green averts words that are

heard.

So instead we‟ll listen to the birds

that laugh with each chirp they

purr;

everything we infer.

What‟s the name I neglect to

know?

Can it be something like my own?

It may but still remains unsown.

Like the buds on green or the

green on brown;

entities temporarily unfound.

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anielle K

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In My Mind By Dana Graff-Ernano

In my mind I am the pearl wearing Apron „round my waist

Sock darning Brownie baking

June Cleaver wannabe I can never be.

I traded those images for a Sterling Silver wearing

Stained pajama lounging Fast food ordering

Life of a modern day wannabe Woman.

To state I am a woman is such a

joke. I am still in my mind a

Girl. Never a

Lady. Once.

Twice. Three times.

Sold.

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Song of Summer By Laura Lamica

Photo Credit: William Biersack

I don‟t know how you to be a man

but you became one so I could

stay a child.

How did we get from

partners in crime,

to you worrying what

time I came home?

People say we look alike

but I see no matching

features or resemblance

Both of us as tall as skyscrapers,

you standing proud as

a monument

me attempting to shrink myself

so not to stand out

You have the sun kissed Sicilian

skin, Emerald Isle eyes

I was saddled with the Irish pal-

lor and Italian appetite

When did you decide to become

the parent, the example you

didn‟t have,

to make sure my life would be

easier than yours?

Failure is something

you didn‟t inherit.

And yet there is no Hallmark

holiday to thank you.

No half painted mugs or ties or

screwdrivers or clever cards

to say thanks for making sure I

could ride a bike

and that two seats were

always in my corner.

Still you make it easy to

remember who you are

as you take the last cookie and

wrestle me for TV control

I don‟t know how you

became a man

but sometimes you

really can be a child.

Man Child By Erin Therese Vecchi

My feet feel best when wiggling in Water and sand, grass and soil; When they walk „long driftwood

On secluded beaches With hidden

campfire pits And worn-out tires half sunk

Or hoisted up as swings.

My lips feel best when lightly Chapped by wind and sunshine;

While bitten in anticipation.

My eyes feel best while smiling Into loving eyes and

Swimming glim‟ring rivers; While catching shifts in

Leaves and clouds and body.

My heart and feet feel best When bare and naked—

Sensitive to touch.

My spirit sings when summer sings to me

And holds my breath Securely in her hands.

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Blessed are the Free of Heart By James Fitz Gerald

Your body is a Gordian knot that only I can untangle from

those mind-forged shackles of your

mother‟s morals. and when I stretch too far

you clench my arms tightly around your supple skin that

rises towards those maternal mountains and dips into the neck that

curves

reaches towards your red lips and above your button nose

rests a head that houses Pandora‟s box

ready to be set free into the oceans of my imagination

and yet it‟s locked locked locked up by an elder‟s superstition based on

magic tricks and steeples and hearsay and no way

but that baby bird we found dying while we walked through the fields of

grass and lilies suffered every one of her last precious moments because

she

leapt from her nest too soon and jumped for sovereignty before the air

knew her wings were meant to glide

that bird died and sighed painfully and we both know that‟s true

but that bird‟s pain was a free pain and for that we should be jealous

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Courtesy of

Jesse Inoncillo

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Post

Displayed by

Different Stages,

Psychology Club,

& Get Creative

Club

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Secret

Displayed by

Different Stages,

Psychology Club,

& Get Creative Club

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Untitled By Crescentia Danner

…and then I felt

I felt things I had never

I never thought I could feel

that way

it was more, more than anything

it was overflowing

it was my soul spilling

my soul is spilling

it was feeling connections to strangers

feeling connections

light was filling my chest but it’s burning my eyes

I could see music

I heard colors

it was an energy

it was drinking life from the source

I am swimming in life.

Souls are shiny

Technicolor

souls are cold

like iridescent ice

but they aren’t solid

you can’t touch them

you wouldn’t want to touch them if you could

you can’t tell what kind they are

good or bad

not by looking at them

sometimes you can feel it in the cold

bad is a different kind

of cold

a different kind of ice

a chalky ice

the good souls are

liquid ice

but at the same time

liquid fire.

And souls have tastes you can tell that way

if they are good or bad

the bad ones taste burnt

charred like cigarette butts

but without the smoke

without the addiction

tasting souls is strange

like full energy

when you consume

them

good souls are almost tasteless

slightly sour

kind of tangy

refreshing

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the good souls are addicting

their faintness is so distinct

it can’t be imitated

they all taste the same

aside from good and bad

you can’t tell one from another

they aren’t

as individual

as people think

the only difference

is the amount

of energy

that they are made of

sometimes it’s only

a pinprick

other times

a tsunami

it’s feeling things

you never felt

every time

your own soul spills

whets your body for

things you’ve never done

things you can’t imagine

things you wish

you wish you could have

things

you believe

that are reserved for the gods of myth

not for mortals

not for a soul-eater like you.

Pictu

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it: Jesse Ino

ncillo

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Arctic Wasteland By Joseph Mastando

Icy, bitter winds whistle through the air. Meeting the water‟s

surface, the gusts mark their presence with the creation of a few rip-

ples. The mini waves carry to the ends of the pond, crashing against

bodies of frigid ice and eroded earth. The stale, cold smell of winter

lingers about the atmosphere. Away from home, he sits, passing the

days.

The winds pick up their momentum, and soon enough, they ca-

ress the body of the beast. His fur juts backwards, opposing its pat-

tern of growth and returning to a more comfortable state once the

currents cease. He lay sprawled out; his head rests on one boulder,

while his torso and limbs all sit on another. His reflection soon re-

gains its form in the water‟s recently disturbed surface. He stares at

it, slowly blinking his tiresome eyes. Reacting to a nearby scent, his

thick, black nostrils begin to fluctuate. Gasps from the distance

sound like an alarm as he lifts his head off the rock, observing his

surroundings. Anticipation grows, thickening its chokehold on the

spectators who watch in angst. This continues for about thirty sec-

onds until the creature places his head back down and returns to his

daily routine of lying still, staring into his reflection. Every person

takes turns gripping the freezing metal bars and staring out into the

arctic wasteland. A large cement wall reaching much higher than

any viewer‟s field of vision casts an unbelievable shadow upon the

entire surface. It darkens the ice and snow, and blackens the beast‟s

white fur.

After minutes pass, the bear braces a feeble stance and lunges

off the rocks and into the pond. The loud audience sounds off once

more, cheering and clapping to the animal‟s instinctive behavior.

Underneath the surface, he embraces a world of adventure, swirling

in bliss, spinning in comfort, and swimming in silence. When he

rises, beads of water drip from the corners of his eyes and down his

snout as the burdens of fame and misfortune reappear. He peddles

around the fifty feet of water for a while longer, walking shortly af-

ter onto the fabricated icebergs. The ice covers most of the area, bor-

dering the pond and extending across the approximate one hundred

feet to the cement wall. Foreign to the onlookers, a dark and eerie

cave lies beneath the wall‟s surface. It amplifies all sound, echoing

even the slightest whisper. At times, the bear will enter the cave out

of frustration and bellow deeply.

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All of the bystanders‟ eyes will spring open, fearing the monstrous

howl. They will walk away angry that their money‟s worth was not

accounted for. Like all others, they will view the animal‟s dismay

and weariness as a defiant irritation. If they listen closely, they will

hear it: the sorrowful sounds of sadness and solitude.

He travels back and forth across the ice. Rocks scattered spo-

radically about interrupt his path. He uses his nose to push a

smaller one out of the way, attempting to entertain his boredom.

Then, a powerful nudge sends the mass flying into the water. The

bear stares at it for a second, and then continues walking. The spec-

tators gleam in amazement, holding binoculars and lenses against

their eyes in order to capture the intriguing behavior. Some begin a

steady jumping motion while the rest stand with giant eyes, grin-

ning from cheek to cheek. Soon enough, it is impossible for the ob-

servers to contain their thrills and astonishment. One woman be-

gins running around in circles while another man almost throws his

daughter into the environment just so that he can see more of the

beast‟s behavior. Gradually, everyone begins talking: “Did you see

that? Isn‟t it amazing? I can‟t believe he‟s doing that! How

incredible!” But the bear just continues walking back and forth.

With a deep sigh, the animal climbs back onto his rocks. He lay

sprawled out; his head rests on one boulder, while his torso and

limbs all sit on another.

Photo Credit: Dakin Roy

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From a Father to His Son By James Fitz Gerald

I saw you once,

An apparition in the corner of my room.

It was morning, but the windowless center of my insomnianic rage

Held no space for sunlight- no space for life.

And yet there you were, a glowing boy with mud-laden jeans and

Untied shoes- how I yearn to teach you how to tie them.

Your thin amber hair that you got from mommy fell just above your

brow.

Your eyes, those warm, blue eyes,

Stared towards me with remorse- an apology.

Thin straps from your pied backpack coiled over your shoulders

With a bitter, strangling tension.

You shook, my poor boy, you shook from the bitter frost of neglect

that

My bloodstained hands will never be washed of.

I lay in bed, whispering muffled pleas that turned into vivacious bel-

lows-

“Forgive! Forgive!”

In vain I howled, huddled under

My covers like a terrified infant.

With minute steps you came towards me,

Your arms reaching out and your lips quivering

With a ferocious fury that served to portend

The tempest that soon flowed from your eyes.

“Forgive! Forgive!”

As the tears began to fall from your supple face

And seep into the thin carpet, I reached my arm

Out to catch them like a bucket

under a leaking ceiling.

They coalesced into a thick sap and grew blacker as they

Dried into my palm.

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I stretched out to hold you, as if my grasp would be enough

To justify the life you never had, or the short

One that you did- the playgrounds you

Never played on, the schools you never learned in.

And yet, my hands grabbed only the emptiness of my desolate room.

The vast isolation- a small atom in the realm of the universe.

I glared at my palms, soaked with the sanguine reminder of

My ignominious treachery.

“Forgive me,” I whispered,

“Forgive me.”

Photo Credit: William Biersack

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Follow the grey fox to the deepest

glade in the forest.

Do not trust it,

For it will try to deceive you.

Keep a close eye the path,

Lest it wander off

And leave you in Darkness.

Drink from the spring that flows

from Nowhere;

Stifle your curiosity.

Should you see a fairy,

Or a gnome,

Or a nymph,

Leave it be.

They may stare and gawk in your

direction,

But take no offense;

They are merely amazed

To find that you are real.

When you realize that the fox has

abandoned you—

And it will—

Rejoice.

It was leading you into trouble

anyway.

Stop and take a deep breath,

Enjoy the afternoon air,

Then turn around and go home.

You need not venture any fur-

ther.

Not yet.

Remember what you have seen

And smile when you dream.

And then,

When you are ready,

Go back.

Trust the grey fox;

It is your friend.

Wander from the path;

It will find you when you stray.

Taste the sweetness of the ber-

ries

And follow the spring to its

source.

Nothing is elusive to you now.

Converse with any fair folk that

you meet.

You are one of them,

Or will be soon.

Watch the sun set beyond the

western border,

And do not fear the Dark.

Bid the fox farewell

And thank it for its guidance.

Walk in whatever direction you

please.

Fly, if you wish.

When you arrive at the other side

of the wood,

Continue,

And see what more there is to

find.

The Journey By Donnie Hiland

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Midnight Wait By Pamela Delano

At night when I feel like I'm the only one awake, I glide through these streets with the wind's exhalation, Silent but strong like the red bricks that stare, I hold up a structure that is barely there, Yet has great weight. My soul is paved below for you to stand, My hands quiver with the limber tree branches, My thoughts scatter like grains of sand. With each inhalation my body aches, I wait for the sun my eyes forsake, When I feel like I'm the only one awake.

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Pictu

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There are times in your life when you feel like you are no longer in

the driver‟s seat. A surreal feeling because the choices you‟ve made

in the past have put you in that state. So much runs through your

mind. So many words from your inner self and those around you cir-

culate through you at a rapid pace. You begin to distance yourself

from the bad choices by wondering how you got to where you are

now in the first place. Thinking back to even a year or two ago, you

wonder what lead you to making the choices that you did. No

amount of love or words of encouragement or hugs can mask the

way you truly feel. The worst part of it all is after you reflect on the

choices you have made, good or bad, nothing seems to change. You

continue on this path in life as if everything was wiped cleaned and

is once again okay.

Love what do those four separate letters formed together really

mean? That question can be seen as one of the mysteries to life.

Many people offer up their ideas and opinions. However can we ever

create a substantial overall quote on quote “definition” of the word

that everyone can agree with? I personally say no. There are aspects

of the word that everyone can surely agree upon but there are

things that the word brings that are different for each individual

and the situation that they find themselves in. Therefore again it

needs to be said, love a simple four letter word, that we as a world

cannot and will not ever be able to all universally agree upon.

The Inner Thought Chronicles By Anthony F. Krueger

27

Queen of Cups, Queen of Swords By Christopher Bernadino

I trace the moon across the blade as she raises it to the full height of her

arm. It‟s virgin steel, unblemished and colorless except for my blood drip-

ping off its edge. I draw breath, savoring the coolness of it in my throat,

the taste of pine needles on my tongue, and the smell of loam in my nose.

As I accept my fate, comfortable in the choice I have made, I see some-

thing golden reflecting in her eyes and off hilt of her sword. A glowing arc

flashes across my vision as the sword rushes towards my throat, and halts

the blade hair-widths from my veins, quivering with its staying power.

A chalice blocks the sword. A cup, wrought of the purest gold, rimmed

with rubies, body flecked with emeralds and sapphires. Its elegance is a

testament to the skill of the craftsman. Slender, graceful fingers hold the

cup steady against the sword with hidden strength.I trace my gaze up my

protector‟s arm, she wears a gown of delicate silk, shining brightly and

moving like quicksilver in the moonlight. She wears a crown, not of metal,

but of laurel on her head. Her face is gentle and warm as she looks down

at me, eyes smiling, lips slightly separated.

The Queen of Cups whispers to me “Get behind me, and don‟t be afraid.

I‟m here now, you‟re safe.” I trust her implicitly and begin to inch along

the ground, blessed with the strength of her words. I manage to sit up and

gaze at the Queens from a safe distance.

The Queen of Swords is rooted in disbelief, uncomprehending of how her

prey has gotten away in its final moment. Her sword-hand shakes in an-

ger, and her eyes flit from me, to the Queen of Cups, and back, rage seeth-

ing beneath her skin.

“HE‟S MINE” she wails, half in anger, half in despair, and launches her-

self at the Queen of Cups, striking wildly and without tact, forgoing her

swordsmanship for a berserking wrath. Clashes of steel and gold echo

through the forest as I brace myself, afraid for my protector.

The Queen of Cups parries each blow effortlessly, without even moving

her feet. She stands firm, feet shoulder width apart, hands outreached

forming a shield in front of me. The Queen of Swords hops back, sobered

by the enemy who still stands against her, unharmed by the assault.

She launches again at the Queen of Cups, lashing out hysterically. The

Queen of Cups parries a thrust downward and externally, twisting her

assailant and exposing her backside. No mercy shown this time: she

strikes the back of her head, sending her sprawling to the forest floor.

The Queen of Cups plants a bare foot on the chest of the Queen of Swords.

She bends over to speak with her enemy, so close their noses are almost

kissing. “You may no longer harm him” she whispers, and before hearing

the reply, she bludgeons her face in.

28

The cold air whipped violently around her red cheeks, making her shiver

involuntarily. She shoved her hands quickly in her pockets, curling them into tight

fists. She shifted her feet uncomfortably inside her old black shoes that were being

to wear on the side from years of use and cold, wet nights.

She felt the cold flakes of snow falling on her face, melting and quickly slid-

ing down her face to rest at the nape of her neck. The cool liquid seeped into her

collar, causing her dull button-down shirt to stick to her skin. The cool fabric felt

heavy like plaster on her small frame, weighing her down, pushing her farther into

the piled snow.

She began her walk forward, forcing her feet into motion even though they

protested with every step. The wind, now at her back, flung her dark curls in every

direction. The hairs sprayed against her face, thrashing against her once alabaster

skin, now pink from the bitter and cold air. Her ears ached as the cold seeped into

them, no longer blanketed by her hair. The back of her neck stung as the snow

smashed into it with each hurl of wind. And still she carried on.

The trees on both sides of her weaved in and out of her sight, dipping with

the curves of the land. Every once in awhile they would close around her, cutting

off the brutal wind. But they always pulled away sharply and suddenly, as one

would do when touching a hot ember, pulling back from the burning pain. The

trees pulled away from her as they seemed to nurse their burns, allowing the harsh

reality of situation to whip around her again.

She drudged forward still, an air of determination exuding with each delib-

erate and painful step that sunk into the cold, thick layers of the snow that covered

the ground. Her eyes were fixed on an unknown source in front of her, holding the

same intensity as the wind did.

She walked for what seemed like hours, years, a lifetime, moving past her

in a blur of color. She had no sense of what was around her; the beauty of the snow

that outlined the dark, dried branches of the largest oak trees, the sparkle that

bounced off each flake as it fell slowly from the sky, waltzing don to her as the wind

blew. She had no awareness of the quiet hum of life moving about her; the young

rabbit colony bundling closer and closer together below the base of a hallow tree,

the small fox standing guard of its den by standing on a small rock, or the doe mov-

ing slowly beside her, making her way back to her dwindling herd.

All she could hear was the airy laughter that the wind carried, reminding

her of every lost moment. All she could feel was the coldness forming in her heart,

icicles slowly spiraling downwards to her chest, filling it with pain and searing cold.

All she could see was her own reflection in the snow, her green eyes peering life-

lessly up at her.

The Cold that Lingers By Emily Knapp

29

Finally her numb feet began to slow down, her destination coming into

view. A long, ominous, black fence took shape, stretching down the land for an eter-

nity. She walked to the fence, letting her fingers run down the side of the bar. It

flaked with years of neglect, the dark crimson rust falling at the softest of touches,

coming to rest on the bright snow. The fence was falling apart, and it seemed that

with one more good push it would all fall over, the once beautifully strong and pro-

tective structure failing from lack of care and attention. It was once elegant and or-

nate but was now decrepit and useless.

She looked at the large house in the distance, a swirl of fantastical architec-

ture and blackened bricks blurred by the falling snow. She remembered the happi-

ness that she felt when she was here before, sitting in front of the large fire, the

flames cracking in front of her. She sighed to herself and sat down in the snow,

wrapping her fingers longingly around the iron bars. She sat there for some time

before finally convincing herself to let go of the fence. She fell backwards into the

snow as the wind pushed against her face. She felt the cool snow slip down her

neck, cooling her whole body that seemed to have been suddenly set on fire from

the inside. She could feel it wetting her curls as she watched the snowflakes dance

from the sky, falling gracefully on her pale skin.

She brought her hands to her face, taking in the now blackened skin, col-

ored with age, the integrity of the fence. She placed them in the snow, trying to rub

away the past that was left lingering on her palms, a feeble attempt she knew. She

closed her eyes, feeling the cold liquid drip down her eyelids and pool at her lashes.

She allowed herself to drift asleep, lulled by memories that swirled across her mind,

encircling her like a blanket, closing her off from the cold and the rest of the world.

Pho

to C

redit: D

akin

Ro

y

30

The Trinity of Existence

When the two Immortals Time and Space came together, there was

a huge explosion which created another, known as Chaos. They con-

tinue to grow even to this day. Without these three, nothing can ex-

ist. While Time and Space have rules and discipline, Chaos is a

trickster and evidence of the Immortal‟s mischief is all around.

The wise worship Time, as the quest for knowledge is eternal; the

powerful worship Space, as the ownership of land gives power over

the world; and only the most courageous worship Chaos, as one

must be brave to push for change, or to deal in chance, which are the

Immortal‟s right and left hands.

As Time went on, Space complained of feeling empty and devoid of

anything. Chaos heard the plea and made an effort to make some-

thing out of nothing. Failure after failure was witnessed before Time

finally decided to help.

Together, the two Immortals were able to create the stars which lit

up the Realm of Existence. Yet, Space still complained of emptiness.

So, they made Great Rocks to spin around the lights. Each one of

these planets formed differently based on how close they were to the

stars. Space was satisfied by the Ornaments of the Universe and no

longer felt so empty…

The Ingredients of Life

On a certain Great Rock, three different disconnected beings roamed

the world. They were called Body, Mind, and Spirit.

Body was slothful and had no motivation to sustain itself. Mind was

small and too terrified to expand. Spirit, however, was free to be it-

self and wandered around trying to figure out just why it was there

in the first place.

Modern Mythology By Glen Russo

31

Chaos came to the Great Rock in the form of a storm cloud and

called these three abominations who threatened the very fabric of

existence. Body and Mind both willingly submitted to the judgment

of Chaos; however, Spirit refused to be pushed around by such a

bully. Mind was secretly inspired by Spirit‟s courage and formulated

a plan. Laughing at the insolence, Chaos summoned the Destroyer

to get rid of them.

Taking the form of

a great burning

wrecking ball, the

Destroyer decided

that Body would

be the easiest,

Mind would be the

next, and Spirit

would be the hard-

est to get rid of.

Just when Body

was about to be

pulverized, Mind

possessed it and

moved them both out of the way. Chaos had not foreseen this and

told the Destroyer to go after Spirit first instead.

Mind and Body both resolved to protect their friend and told Spirit

to join them. Together, they are the Trinity of Life.

Outraged, Chaos cursed them to be forever entwined; however, they

were better off that way in the first place! It was not long before the

secret of Life spread throughout the entire Realm of Existence and

continues to prosper to this day.

Those who seek power worship Body, as it is the container of physi-

cal strength and no one can be in charge of anything without a body;

those who seek wisdom worship Mind, as it ties knowledge together

and makes sense of information; and those who seek courage wor-

ship Spirit, as bravery comes from the soul.

The Destroyer looms over the Body, Mind, and Spirit of all Life wait-

ing for one to slip up and capitalize on their mistake…

Pho

to C

redit: W

illiam

Biersack

32