CONTENTS

Paige Lester, Nick Nuechterlein

Nick Anastasia, Alexa Ariazi, Joe Biglin, Giancarlo Buonomo, Emily Caris, Carlina Duan, Julia Hickey, Ryan Hyun, Helen Keusch, Emma Kruse, Tammy Lakkis, Emily Paull, Katie Ro-kakis, Nisreen Salka, Sarah Sherman, Michelle Torby

Editors

Editorial Staff

Hannah WeinerAndie TavernaPeter WagnerKrissy PollockAlex SoosAlex SoosWalter PurpleKrissy Pollock

Excerpts from Poemes d’AmourHotelsExcerpts from Ground UpUntitledSeptember RemembersDifferential DiagnosisUntitledUntitled

Layout Committee Giancarlo Buonomo, Julia Hickey, Emma Kruse, Tammy Lak-kis, Nisreen Salka

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Excerpts from Poemes d’AmourHannah Weiner

1.What is it – suddenness?it’s like a sweet opening,and you realize you’ve fallenand it’s beautifullychoreographed by somehidden desireyou knew nothing aboutuntil the moment you realizedyour feet had nothing to stand on(now the mountains aredancing, the mountains)

3.your whats,your whys (that tie you)each secret of the youand the paleness of your eyesthey gently light my howsand wheresand linger in my musicto illuminate my silence,to sing my smiles

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5.if I am yours and you are mineand this is us,this is us.Then these are my hands which are yoursin mine in ours,then you are my heart (which is yours)and you are my stars (all of them,which are yours, even the shooting ones)and you are my songthat from you I learned how to sing.

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HotelsAndie Taverna

I slide down your bodyin the darkto the floorlegs like water pull me down,an easy letting go.Knees on the carpet, an imprint foreachtinyloopdapples my dry elephant skinand the fatty pads of my bare feetthat followed you here, blindly, purposefully,to a hotel roomand a clerk who knewin the morning hours when everything is hollowand the words resounded through the empty lobbylike it was a place muchbiggerthanthis.You had to ask my last name.

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Excerpts from Ground UpPeter Wagner

At four o’clock every day, I stand with them but don’t smoke. The cigarette just burns until it hits the filter. If I inhale, I’ll cough myself sore. I just pretend to suck lightly, so smoke comes out. The students here don’t notice, they’re just buying a few, quiet minutes until it’s back to the books. They moan about Ecology, Robert Frost, how they can’t find modern words in the 50-year-old dictionaries. I never say anything because I’m missing something that they all share: I was never chosen to be at this camp. I don’t have an assigned cabin here. I’m not on the attendance list. I’m not supposed to be here. A few weeks ago I saw “Wohelo Girl’s Camp” and simply walked onto the grounds. It was the first camp I’d ever seen. It takes up ten acres of lakefront property in the heart of Maine. No one said anything when my name wasn’t called at roll. The sense of communion between everyone is overpowering. Forty students pounding words into typewriters. Metallic clicks both random and con-stant. They sit on a great wood floor, legs crossed, and each has a journal with their name on the front. The message is sent: serious work is going on. Write or get out. Twenty-somethings in tie-dyes and cut-offs run across the rocky landscape, going from cabin to cab-in, from kitchen to library. This group isn’t as big as the group of girls that comes during the summer, and they’re who this place is built for. I find an empty cabin, throw a sleeping bag on the metal cot, and put down my pack. I’m now alone my new home, noticed by no one. DAY I: 7:35 A.M.: I recently left my university job as a full-time student so I’d have more time to be a writer. But things aren’t going well. There’s no free time. I’m always trying to a) write b) sneak into a class or two here c) hike the nearby mountains or d) figure out how to best spend the time I’m wasting here thinking about how it should be spent. The camp’s layout is a hilly mix of pointed firs, boulders, electricity- and heat-free cabins dropped here and there. Some next to each other, others spread along the lakefront. Half an hour ago a small chunk of the forty students was standing on the main dock, toes hanging over the edge. They plunged in together and came up screaming “so cold!” The majority of my morning was spent producing a false identity. I’ve decided I’m a last-minute ad-

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dition; my paperwork is on its way. I have a fake note from the dean of the student’s university, say-ing I “am in.” Her signature is just a scribble. My eyes were closed. It seemed authentic enough, wild like most well-practiced signatures. I only need to get lucky and have the first and last letters match. It’s enough to buy me a couple of days. The dining hall is five feet from a rock cliff that’s three stories high. A continuous window wraps around the three sides facing the lake. Eight maple dining tables are next to the window, each with two matching benches, and a lamp at the center. I walk through the door and a teacher is pouring over lec-ture notes. I try to look distracted, as if I too am lassoing some deep thought. He seems made entirely of crisp edges: severe wrinkles in his T-shirt, pointy stubble. A fierce gaze through steel-rimmed glasses is directed at me when the door shuts. The face connotes nothing really. Blank, as if daydreaming. He turns back to his notes and I walk in. I feel like an undercover agent. I’m wearing cords and a Hendrix shirt. I’m not sure where to go. Attached to the wall without the window is the kitchen. Every appliance is industrial and draped in stainless steel. Everything revolves around an L-shaped island with three big rectangular cutting boards. Students and a teacher are too busy cracking eggs and preparing pancakes to notice me. I back into where I entered and get a cup of coffee. I have never liked coffee. My mom’s addiction to it made me vow “That. Will. Never. Be. Me.” But I chug the cup and drift around the din-ing room. Students keep pouring in, grabbing coffee, and sit waiting for food to be served. After I give the room a few laps, I decide enough work’s been done for the day and tell the bespectacled teacher, “Have a nice one.”

DAY 2, 9:10 A.M.: There’s a different teacher planning a lesson this time, and I quickly walk by so she doesn’t have the chance to look up. The buzz of yesterday has worn off. Things feel tinged. I chug another cup of coffee, black, and above the pot there’s a sign: MEDITATION ON THE DOCK WITH NATE. FIND ME TO FIND YOURSELF. It’s tempting. I sign using my fake name Jeff I. Peterson, but right before I finish the “son,” I feel someone behind me, watching my name being spelled out. “You know, you don’t really have to sign up. Only, like, six of us go.” I turn around. She seems cute, even though I can barely make out her features against the soft morn-ing light. Her tank top reveals a nice figure. Images of us meditating together on the dock flash through my head. The water is uniform and smooth like an endless sheet of ice. Her name is Rachel. “Were you at orientation?” she asks. “Got in last minute,” I say. “Someone dropped and I was first on the waitlist. The classes go toward my major.”

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...

Day 5, NOON: I have a letter on my desk. Only “Jeff ” is written on the envelope. No stamp. No re-turn address. My thoughts fly into Panic Mode. I instantly picture a bowling ball held above my head. I imagine it’s written in capitals by the actual dean of whatever school is here, saying I’m to be officially expelled even though I’m not technically enrolled. I wonder how far I can run flat-out in hiking boots.

...

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Untitled Krissy Pollock

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September RemembersAlex Soos

September remembers the sands of summer:warmed by the touch of noon’s bright-white sun,as July pushed through June on the brink ofthat August, where days were spent tannedin the midst of whenever, the time neverpassed, only bled through the bliss aswe kissed under this veil of an endlesstemptress whom we called our sweet summer,but September remembers the draft ofOctober that sweeps down the streetscollecting fallen leaves of November, rushingthrough to the brisk death of December,where days are best spent recollectinga time when decline never once crossedour minds, and I wonder if you remember,like the wearied September, the seasons willchange once more, release anew our touchreunited, the ice will break and this river-this love- will fill my veins, revive my heartand keep me sane until again we find ourselveslost in the transition of another September,so my dear please remember to never,surrender to the fate torn apart by the handsof time because to me you will always be mine.

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Differential DiagnosisAlex Soos

stethoscopes danglefrom the neck of the nurseas she reads me the warning of another roundof this hell-bound journey I’m on, treadingwaters that wreak of rotten dreams and forgottennames of victims fallen to a common coldthat escalated over-nightinto a life terminated, desecrated,humiliated by the blowsof this fightI can’t win,so I reach for my styrofoam cupbut the ice has meltedand my tea tastes like faint shadowsof leaves with a hint of raspberry seedsclumped in the straw,still I sip the last drip of normalitybefore I sign the line and date todayknowing tomorrow was nevera guarantee.

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UntitledWalter Purple

When Shelly was a childHe said in heat: “I thinkI’d like a mother new.”

You should have seen the heatIn which he ran back outThe local orphanage.

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