KLIO
Penn State’s Creative Arts Journal Volume 3, 2018
OUR MISSION
Klio is the Muse of history and poetry, called upon by early Greek writers and artists for inspiration and creative guidance. The Greek verb kleô, meaning to celebrate, comes from her name. Here at Klio, we celebrate both written and visual expressions of creativity.
Klio is the online sister to Penn State’s creative arts journal, Kalliope. Klio seeks to showcase the work of students and keep a community record of creative arts from all PSU campuses. We strive to provide an inclusive community to celebrate the creative and linguistic talents of emerging Penn State artists and writers. Any and all forms are encouraged, as we pride ourselves on being a multimedia publication that represents diversity in art, perspective, and culture.
Klio is a platform for all Penn State students.
We are Penn State. We are Klio.
Cover art: “See Me” by Joy Blazofsky Klio Logo by Sarah Nields
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 1
KLIO 2018 STAFF
Editor-in-Chief: Tiffany Fu
Managing Editor: Christy McDermott
Fiction Editor: Nathan Ousey
Poetry Editor: Sumner C. Drain V
Non-Fiction Editor: Erin Campbell
Art and Multimedia Director: Sean Bradley
Music Editor: Maddy Bacon
Curatorial Editor: Grace Eppinger
Blog Editors: Grace Eppinger | Christy McDermott
Promotion/Marketing: Adam Traina
Social Media Coordinators: Sam Cavanagh | Erin Campbell
Social Events Coordinator/University Park Outreach: Kayla White
Commonwealth Campus Coordinator/International Student Outreach: Jinny Kim
Web Developers: Katherine Reese | Taylor Hayes
Archive Manager: Taylor Hayes
Faculty Advisor: Alison Jaenicke
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 2
Dear Klio Readers,
As we near the end of the fall semester, our Klio staff would like to thank our contributors and readers, and bid farewell to the publication we’ve been busy building over the past few months.
This semester, we refined Klio’s mission statement and redesigned the website to better honor our mission of celebrating the variety of arts produced by Penn State students.
We strived to elaborate on the creative platform that past Klio staffers built by introducing a musical outlet through SoundCloud. “Klio Music” serves to spotlight talented student musicians, who simultaneously pursue their college degree and their passion for music. Our selections this year range from R&B to alternative rock; we hope you’ll listen along to our “Music We Love” playlist as you head into exams and the semester break.
Klio’s 2018 selection of poetry offers a diverse collection of Penn State voices. From raw emotions captured during a trying time, to awe-inspiring depictions of nature and the beauty of love, our 2018 collection of poems showcases Penn State students’ ability to funnel a plethora of feelings and sensations into words that speak to all of us.
This year’s fiction selections encapsulate the creativity of Penn State students. Several of the stories combine themes of writing and other art forms, a perfect combination for Penn State’s Creative Arts Journal. “Writing Under Deadline” emphasizes the tension involved in the process of writing for entertainment, while “Silicon Soul” offers an underlying thread of piano music. Narratives like “Silicon Soul” and “Writing Under Deadline” showcase aspects of science fiction and fantasy that enrich their stories. “Until Death Do Us Part” gives us comedy and great representation from a member of Phroth, Penn State’s humor publication. Finally, contributor Kacie Lee brings an abstract lyric essay with “Ambivalence of Light,” as well as a great example of flash fiction through “Sallow.”
Klio’s 2018 nonfiction collection consists of genuine and intriguing stories in which Penn State students share and process their memories through powerful elements of storytelling. Some pieces are emotional, some are light, but all tell a true story that affected the writer. The chosen pieces offer diverse content that a multitude of readers can relate to.
Three featured artists contributed their works, ranging from graphic design to sculpture. Joy Blazofsky offers abstract self portraits, each representing the unique ways in which she envisions herself in her art. Hannah Foster takes everyday materials to create sculptures as a way of putting her thoughts into physical form. Dan Kozar uses graphic design to portray experiences from his own life, but with a whimsical touch.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 3 Throughout the fall semester, our staff published blog posts that featured everything from dance to art to music. We also tapped into our roots by taking a look into the work of past Kalliope contributors. We believe that Klio goes beyond the website and celebrates a community of writers and artists at Penn State, something that our blog spotlights have really tried to capture.
As editor-in-chief, I am pleased to have worked alongside a cooperative team with a great work- ethic. We came together as strangers in the beginning of the semester with very few expectations of how Klio 2018 would turn out. Fortunately, we found synergy within our circle and focused on our mission to bring our readers quality samples of creativity from the Penn State community.
Thanks for reading!
Tiffany Fu Editor-in-Chief Klio 2018
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 4 Table of Contents
FICTION ...... 7 Ambivalence of Light, by Kacie Lee ...... 7 Sallow, by Kacie Lee ...... 9 Silicon Soul, by Sean Semanko ...... 10 Until Death Do Us Part, by Alise Deveney ...... 18 Writing Under Deadline, by Ellis Stump ...... 21 CREATIVE NON-FICTION ...... 27 Como Foi Teu Dia Na Escola? by Ines Martinez ...... 27 Home from 195 Countries, by Isabela Carlos Alberto ...... 29 Listening to Myself, by Veronica Garis ...... 34 My Irrational Fear, by Meghan Beakley ...... 40 Navigation, by Kacie Lee ...... 42 Our Haven, by Kacie Lee ...... 43 Settling, by Dean Hanson ...... 44 The Light Enters Through the Cracks, by Sami Scherrer ...... 45 POETRY ...... 51 1,3-Dichloropropene, by Nicholas Everett Chasler ...... 51 Air, by Jacob Lazarow ...... 52 All I Desire Surrenders, by Annie Murphy ...... 53 Fragile, by Annie Murphy ...... 53 You, In November, by Annie Murphy ...... 54 Demise of Giants, by Sumner Drain ...... 55 Dyscalculia, by Nicholas Everett Chasler ...... 56 Light Therapy, by Nicholas Everett Chasler ...... 56 Nefariously Me, by Nicholas Everett Chasler ...... 57 On the Wall, by Nick Miller ...... 58 Pennants, by Patrick McGovern...... 59 Picture Day, by Talia Potochny ...... 60 Love, Art, And… by Jared Mcanany ...... 61 Memories, by Kylie Wright ...... 62 Nature Undone, by Parmis Solaimanian ...... 63 Warped Reality, by Parmis Solaimanian...... 64
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 5 Scenes From a 30 Century Man, by Brett Wachtel ...... 65 Scheme of Things, by Stephanie Levine ...... 66 Should These Lips Count as Lips My Lips Have Kissed? by Hannah Cardona ...... 67 Yo Soy Puertoriqueño, by Hannah Cardona ...... 68 Sunflowers, by Elizabeth Melliand ...... 69 The Day That Got Away, by Kelli Scerbo ...... 70 The Night Hag, by Olivia Sarkisian ...... 71 Wanderlust, by Jacob Lazarow ...... 72 Water Under the Bridge, by Madeline Rose Cameron ...... 74 Weeping Willow, by Rachel Yakima ...... 75 When Upon The Beach One Night, by Tyler Gerber ...... 76 You Didn’t Know, by Veronica Garis ...... 77 ART ...... 79 Fun, Games & Sons LLC, by Daniel Kozar ...... 79 The Abbey, by Daniel Kozar ...... 80 The Wheel, by Daniel Kozar ...... 81 Baby Driver, by Hannah Foster ...... 82 Take a Peek, by Hannah Foster ...... 83 The Swell, by Hannah Foster ...... 84 Reflection, by Joy Blazofsky ...... 85 See Me, by Joy Blazofsky ...... 86 Self- Portrait, by Joy Blazofsky ...... 87 Self- Portrait II, by Joy Blazofsky ...... 88 MUSIC ...... 89 Chris Eichlin ...... 89 Danger Barry ...... 89 Dariya ...... 89 Intermission Improv ...... 89 Kristen Nodell ...... 89 Palmlines ...... 89 Prince Adaburgh ...... 89 TV Dinners ...... 89
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 6
FICTION
Ambivalence of Light, by Kacie Lee
“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” --Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
The heat cast a low glow, but it couldn’t last long. Soft skin was seen and then unseen as the light fought to stay, and they danced, in and out of existence, flickering and fighting. They fought and fought, and Dark thought he won the battle but Light had the war. All you have to do is write one true sentence. She rose in the flame and showed the dark victory, maintaining her stance with courage and pure might. Write the truest sentence that you know. And I watched the relentless rivalry with thoughtful eyes and hush, in crept inspiration. I gave Light a name and Dark a soul and I let them twirl once more. Who were they with? Why did they fight? What were they fighting so fervently for?
And in my ear there was a hum, a hum that turned into a drone and then a murmur, and there were trails and paths, and at last there was a settling. It was a game of operation where I was the surgeon and the patient, and I was finally starting to fit. It was an outpour of a million thoughts looking for their home, walking up the porch steps, and finding that door. What is true? What is the truest? My mind was a map, a tangle of tangents and lines and words of every kind. If you followed the lines, you’d find that they all lead to the deep abyss behind, behind the soul and in the heart where all my musings subsided. And soon and then I could see a web, a road, a way for the ideas to travel. Intricate and tight they left on the train of thought and got off at the page, the blank page, the glowing white and bright expectant page.
I watched the cursor blink and urge, “Go Go Go!” Go run across the page and push the cursor forward. The truest, truest, truest sentence that you know. And those lines they travelled left to right, but the characters went out and deep, and the words become filled with meaning until they were teeming, so they slid off the page and dripped onto the floor, one, two, three, and became their own
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 7 and then only I remained. But three of my thoughts were missing. But they were there. He became his own and she became her own. I made them, I knew them, I gave them each a name. She with the sleek legs and hair, both of which went on for days and he with those dark gray eyes, eagerly watching below, for the story behind the soulful journey that lies… her with rosy cheeks and soft smile, hands small and open and ready to catch anything, tribulation or trial. They went on their own but each had a piece of my heart, a piece of my heart that kept them tethered, known.
And Light and Dark they tumbled and tossed and he watched her grow weak. It is true, I seek the truest. But the weaker she became, the stronger her character stood and the cursor led her to triumph over the shadows; it still inspired. Likewise, their chest cavities were breathed into and full, and yes, they knew what to stand for and yes, they knew who to die for. I watched them with careful eyes, behind the cursor blink blink blinking in time and saw their personalities start to arise. Anger in one invoked sympathy from another and ferocity in yet the other and then they began to duel.
United by their maker but touched with different greatness, they moved in motions complimentary, but not the same, and then they began to walk. I saw what they saw, felt what they felt, and every inch their toes brushed I felt like I knew. Landscape and seascape erupt from their heels and I heard echoes in my head, All you have to do is write one true sentence. One true sentence is all you have to write. Their stories wrapped around their shoulders like cloaks and you couldn’t see the flesh without unraveling the cloth that clothed it. And one by one they become their own. He had the eye, dark and knowing, the eyes that saw way behind what lies. The streets were full and a thousand feet clambered, but he only had a heart for the soles of the pampered, of the hampered, of the hurriedly scampered. And she happened to be one of the former, not because she asked, but because she was chosen. Her toes led to leg and her leg led to eternity as she ambled down the macadam with a poise she knew she eased, a confidence she knew she had the right to possess. And she almost walked into the girl who had eyes only for sky, with her rosy cheeks, a pleasant pink—nature fancied her—and together her hands and hair played in the nippy air. Thank you, Light. Thank you, Dark. Thank you to the flickering flame that sparked me so.
And so what is the truest sentence that I know? I felt the frigid air and shiver from the cold. I saw the woman approaching—I saw her also watching me. Across the street he stared at the shoes but I knew exactly which ones piqued his interest. The pink boots attached to a girl, the only girl with cheeks that looked almost painted, not bitten, and only she and I knew that the reason her hands were open was because nature told her snow was falling soon. Looking at their faces, I saw myself in the lines, in the creases, in their bones. What is the truest sentence I can say? And suddenly I know. “I am you.”
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Sallow, by Kacie Lee
The wallpaper peeled off the walls and fell in small white flakes to the floor. Floorboards creaked and were starting to split from age. The windows were tall and open, framed by eroding wood, and I lay there under one. I shrunk away from the light, from the sunlight that had been flooding the room for hours. My sullen skin, sallow, sickly, spiritless, barely stretched over my thin bones, and my body drowned in the dress I wore, my stockings sagging down my calves… and yet, I felt too big, too large for this room, for my desire to stay in the dark. My head pressed against the chipping wall paint, and I couldn’t bring myself to care if the paint flakes got in my hair. I hugged myself, my skinny fingers brushing against protruding ribs. With heavy, hooded eyes, I gazed into the lit room, observing the destruction around me. Too much destruction. Unrepairable destruction. My destruction. Torn newspaper lay scattered across the dirty wooden floor, the cracked vase shattered beside me. I picked up a piece of the vase and squeezed it tightly, wincing as the shard cut into my skin. I dropped the sliver, letting it clatter on the ground, and lifted my hand slowly, admiring the cut I’d made in my palm. Red rivers flowed down the white underside of my forearm, and I let the sunlight illuminate the blood as it ran down to my elbow. I suddenly felt my throat close and unshed tears burned in my eyes. I wish it’d been different this time.
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Silicon Soul, by Sean Semanko
The thunderous rumble of the deep piano notes of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” shook the car as I drove down the sweeping roads of the hilly Los Angeles area. This night was a night of classical music. My wife Eve, a professional pianist, was going to be playing in the downtown concert. I would be watching her, I always did.
I gently turned the wheel of my red Alfa Romeo as we went around the next turn, passing a bank made of glass displaying the usual information about the day on its glowing red holographic sign: “Today is Thursday, November 8th, 2057. It’s 60° F and partly cloudy.”
As we completed the turn, the familiar piano medley crept back in with its light sound. Eve tapped along with her elegant, long fingers against the soft tan leather car door. Her emerald ring glittered in the night.
Nothing like a little night of music to prime Eve for her big night. Every concert was a big night for her. She loved music, especially classical. I liked it too, but there was something special about her love for it. Classical music was a part of her soul. It was her life. That’s why I loved her.
Eve rolled down the window to let her glossy black hair blow gracefully with the air. Her green eyes looked up at the stars dotting the sky.
Eve turned the music down a bit. “Joe, do you think aliens play music?” she asked.
“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind Dark Side of the Moon,” I said playfully.
“No!” said Eve with laughter, “I mean, can they actually play music with their hands?”
“Well, if they have hands, I guess we could teach them…” I said.
“No, no, no, I don’t mean just play music: a machine can do that. I mean, actually, make music,” said Eve.
“Oh, like the Cantina Band in Star Wars? I mean, if you’re assuming tha–”
BANG.
Suddenly, I couldn’t see anymore. My head flung forward violently and then whipped to the right like a rag doll. I could feel the insides of my body rolling around and around and around like a washing machine. I didn’t want to open my eyes.
Eventually, I felt the world calming down as my head felt like it was levitating. I finally opened my eyes to see the airbag in front of me. I regained my sense of direction and realized I’d just been in a crash of sorts. Eve looked unconscious. I had to get out of the car and free her.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 10 I unbuckled my seat belt, which was harder than I thought, and fell onto the ceiling of the car. I kicked the door open and crawled out of the upside-down car, avoiding the tempered glass pieces sparkling in the night.
“Eve!” I desperately shouted as I crawled around to her door. She wasn’t answering.
“Eve!” I repeated. I pulled her door open and her head sulked down towards me.
Quickly, I unbuckled Eve and dragged her out of the car. I laid her on the ground gently and started feeling for a pulse on her arm. Nothing. I placed two fingers on her neck to feel for a pulse. Nothing.
I panicked, saying in my head: Oh, no, this… this can’t be happening. She can’t be dead!
Sweating frantically, I did mouth-to-mouth on Eve, but she still didn’t move. I whipped out my phone, which miraculously survived the crash, and dialed 911. But it didn’t matter. It was too late. Eve was already gone.
* * *
I was in the hospital for a few days. I barely remembered any of it. A funny man with a chiseled face came in to tell me that a drunk driver had hit my car. The doctors sent me back home with some meds, but they only did so much. Eve was gone. I knew it the moment I pulled her out of the car, but I didn’t want to believe it.
When I got back home, all I did was lay in bed with the TV on in my ebony black and charcoal grey flannel pajamas. I turned my head from the blank wall I stared at for hours to the hall where I could see a glossy licorice colored piano in the living room: Eve’s piano. Even when she was gone, she was still here. I didn’t want to sleep. I didn’t want to watch TV. I only wanted one thing, and I could never get it back. What a cursed gift life is.
At some point, I finally crawled out of bed. I had to eat something before my stomach collapsed. I walked out of my room, past the piano, and into the kitchen. I grabbed a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch out of the cabinet and started eating. I grabbed the silver tablet laying on the counter to distract myself. When I picked it up, the screen lit up. I had 50 emails. I guessed that was something to do.
I flicked past email after email like they were dirt on my shirt. They were all from work. Thankfully, the hospital notified my boss and gave me a week off of work. But I didn’t care, working at an accounting firm was terrible. It wasn’t much better at home.
I flicked to the next email, and a black card digitally unfolded to reveal a simple message written in gold: “In light of recent events, your participation in our program is going to take a giant leap forward. Get ready, the gift of a lifetime will be at your door tomorrow.” Even in this age, I still got stupid spam; unbelievable.
I finished my bowl of cereal and went back to bed where I kept staring at Eve’s piano. Next to the piano was a rugged cocoa colored treasure chest with many mementos. Inside, I had many old photos albums with pictures of my parents, friends, and of course Eve. I kept my old toys from my
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 11 childhood and just about every little bit of innocence I had left in there. Ironically, this was the perfect place to keep my gun, a Walther PPK: a little secret I never told Eve. She didn’t like guns, but I always wanted one for protection. So, I secretly bought it and stowed it away in the chest like a hidden treasure.
I couldn’t look at the piano anymore, but I couldn’t leave my bed. So, I just went back to staring at the wall to let the hours tick away.
* * *
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
The next day, I woke up to the sound of my doorbell ringing annoyingly. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
Angrily, I got out of my bed and trudged to the door like a zombie. I leaned towards the door to look through the peephole to see who was bothering me.
“JESUS CHRIST!” I shouted as I jumped away from the door, crawling backwards on my butt. It had to be a cruel prank. There’s no way this was possible.
Gingerly, I opened the door, revealing what looked like… my wife.
“Joe! Oh, it’s so good to see you again!” she said with a mile-long smile.
I didn’t say a word. I just stared at her in disbelief. She was wearing a winter white dress with an emerald studded ring to match her mossy eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I must have still been asleep, surely? Or was I in a simulation?
“I was told to give this to you,” she said as she handed me a black piece of paper with gold lettering.
It read: “We promised you the gift of a lifetime, and here she is. She’s the top of the line model. Believe me, you won’t be disappointed. We hope you’re happy. – Nile.”
I had been receiving mail from the Nile Company since as I long as I could remember. I bought food, clothes, cameras, art, phones, and just about everything I owned from Nile. I had seen them grow in power and influence my whole life, from a simple online shopping service to a massive data collector and world leader in… artificial intelligence. Now it all made sense. They just sent me an artificial intelligence clone of my wife… and… I couldn’t believe it.
I slammed the door on her and walked back into my room to sleep.
She knocked on the door. “Joe! What’s wrong!? Joe, this isn’t like you sweetie!” she said as she tried to open the door.
“GO AWAY!” I screamed in frustration as I covered myself with my bed sheets.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 12 This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real! My wife is gone, this isn’t her. The pianist that I knew is gone, and I have to accept that. This copy of her isn’t real. But… I wish it was…
* * *
The following day, I woke up to my phone ringing by my bedside. She was calling me now. She was stubborn and didn’t give up. They got that programming right.
Eventually, the percussive ringing stopped and a text message popped up: “Meet me at Hal’s for lunch in an hour, please.”
She wasn’t going to stop. I had to go if I liked it or not.
An hour later, a car dropped me off at Hal’s, my favorite restaurant. I took a deep breath a pushed open the door. Almost instantly, I saw her sitting at a table by the window sipping water from a tall clear glass. I loved window tables.
“Good morning Joe,” she said as I approached the table and sat down quietly like a cat.
I remained silent. I didn’t know what to say. What can you say to a clone of your dead wife? Nile was playing with me. They were leaving a bookworm alone in a library without his reading glasses.
“Do you remember what happened here 10 years ago?” she asked. I didn’t move. I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t help but awe at seeing her black hair flow gracefully down her dress once again, but I knew it wasn’t the same.
She leaned closer to me. “10 years ago, you gave me a gift… well, technically, it was a card that told me what the gift was. It was too big to bring in here,” she said with a giggle.
Oh, that sweet giggle, how I missed that… My eyes started to moisten up.
“It was the piano, Joe, remember? You surprised me when we got back ho–” she said.
“No!” I slammed my fist on the table, and tears jumped off my face. “That’s not yours!”
“Don’t be silly, you gave me the piano 10 yea–” she said as confusion clouded her face.
“No, the memory! That’s not yours! That’s Eve’s!” I said with tears streaming down my face. “You’re a fake, an imitation. You didn’t live that!”
She looked at me like I just hit her with a steel beam. She erupted in a waterfall of tears, soaking the napkin on her lap. I already started to regret what I said.
What am I doing? I don’t want to see her cry? No, no, this has all gone terribly wrong…
“Oh God… I’m sorry… I’m sorry – I – I didn’t mean that…” I said bewildered. I grabbed her hand. “Here, I’ll make it up to you, I always do. Come to my house at one tomorrow.”
I couldn’t be in this place anymore. The pain was too much. I got up and rushed out of Hal’s as I ordered a car to take me home.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 13 * * *
The next day, I was sitting on the soft, dove white couch with a glass of icy water in my hand as I nervously tapped my foot. The ice cubes bounced up and down like a crystal ship in stormy waters. My mind was wrestling itself with so many emotions at once. I wondered if she could feel that too.
Ding-Dong.
I put the glass down, walked over to the door, and opened it. She looked at me with that familiar glitter to her green eyes. I could almost feel the intoxicating aura from when I first met her… almost…
“Hello,” I said calmly.
“Hello.” She looked at me, her green eyes penetrating mine.
“Please,” I gestured my arm inside like a lavish butler, “come in.”
She walked in and I closed the door. We walked together into the contemporary living room where I had left my glass next to a deep purple hyacinth. She sat down on the coach.
“Would you like something?” I asked.
“A glass of water would be nice,” she said.
I got her what she wanted, and when I came back, we started talking about normal stuff. “How’s your day? How’s work? How have your friends been?” It felt like a normal conversation with a normal person. We even cracked a few jokes. But this was all too basic. The bot in my Alfa could keep a conversation going while driving. I wanted to see how real she could be.
“Wait, I want to show you something,” I said as I started walking into the hall. She followed me into the living room until we reached the sleek black piece of hardware: the piano.
“I knew you didn’t get rid of it. It can’t fit in the trash can,” she said with a Cheshire grin. She slid her finger across the top of the piano, letting her eyes get lost in its deep black abyss. I gently flipped over the cover, revealing the ebony and ivory keys.
“You want to play? Like old times?” I said with a smile. That was something I hadn’t done in a while.
She smiled in return and gently sat down. She brought her hands up and started to play.
It was “Claire de Lune,” one of the most beautiful songs ever written. It was my favorite piano piece. Each key was pushed down with such grace and care. It wasn’t harsh like a hammer or quick like a rabbit; it was just right.
I shook my head. This was an illusion. This was a set of 1’s and 0’s performing a program. But… it didn’t look like that.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 14 She lifted her index finger off the last note, as I thought of a real test for her. “That was beautiful, baby. Now, play me another song, but this time… create your own,” I instructed. “I’ll wait in the other room till you’re ready.”
Almost an hour had gone by and I was still waiting in the other room. It gave me time to think about her. I was always thinking about her after she died, but not like this. She puzzled me: if she could express creativity, did that mean she had a soul? Was she really human?
“I’m done! You’re going to love it, babe!” she echoed throughout the house.
I let out a breath, got up, and went back into the room. When she twirled her head around to look at me, her happiness was palpable. Her smile pulled me in like an anchor.
“I’m ready,” I said gently as I stood next to her. She brought both hands up to the piano and started to play the most touching song I had ever heard. It was filled with passion, emotion, and beauty, just like a true classical pianist. Yes, it could use more tweaks here and there, but the meat was still on the bone. I couldn’t believe my ears.
When the last note finished ringing, I lunged towards her like a famished dog and hugged her. Her arms wrapped around my torso, and I kissed her.
This is her, I thought. This is the woman I married. She’s back.
“Eve… I’m so sorry…” I said with guilt dragging down every word down.
“Don’t be, it’s OK. I understand Joe,” said Eve as she laid on my shoulder. “You were in pain… but now, it’s over.”
I looked up and made eye contact. “I’m just glad you’re back. I’m glad we’re back.”
* * *
To celebrate our renewed happiness, Eve and I decided to go on the biggest vacation ever. We spent months traveling the globe together. We saw Buckingham Palace and castles in England. We marveled at the Mona Lisa in the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower in France. We drove up the beautiful, winding roads of the Alps in Switzerland. We hiked the never-ending Great Wall of China and climbed the ginormous Mount Fuji in Asia. We explored the Outback and snapped photos of the Sydney Opera House in Australia… we saw it all. We smiled, laughed, and bonded together like never before, rekindling our relationship. My soul was alive like never before, burning like a baker’s oven.
We decided to finish it off by doing the States, starting with our home state of California. One day, we had just finished our trip to the Griffith Observatory and were on our way to the L.A. art museum.
L.A. was busy that day: lots of cars and people everywhere. We were driving along the crowded road at a steady 55 miles per hour. The semi-truck next to us was doing the same speed.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 15 In the opposing lane, I saw a young man with a buzz cut in a Winnie the Pooh yellow Lamborghini daring a short man in a Porsche to race. Within seconds, they were off. I turned my eyes back onto the road. I was getting distracted by the big boys with big toys.
REEEEEE.
I turned back to the racers to what looked like a massive yellow-jacket sliding into my lane. It was the Lamborghini swerving out-of-control. I panicked, but Eve panicked quieter.
“LOOK OUT!” screamed Eve as she grabbed the wheel from me and flung the car to the left directly at a crowd of pedestrians. The bodies crashed into the windshield like bowling pins until the car smashed into a lamp post. We violently jerked forward as the car came to a stop.
I jumped out of the car and stared at the bodies: two of them were motionless, two were trying to get up. I called 911.
What had she done!? She just took the wheel from me and killed at least five people!
“Eve!” I ran around to the other side of the car. “What… what did you do…?”
“I…” said Eve weakly. “I had to… If I veered right, we would’ve have been crushed by the semi. We’d be dead. If I let the supercar hit us, we’d be dead. I… I had to turn left… to save you… my sweet Joe.”
“No, no, no!” I said angrily with tears pouring down. “This is not what I wanted! Eve would never do this! She wasn’t a killer!”
“What would you have done, Joe? Are their lives worth more than ours?” she said.
I looked at her in disgust. I couldn’t handle this anymore.
* * *
When we got home, we sat in the living room quietly. I was contemplating what to do.
She was programmed to kill those people to… to save us. Is that true love or true evil? I didn’t know. The one thing I did know: the Nile Company was playing God, and I was their blind disciple. They were playing with me like I was their toy. They brought a super-human into my life that had started to control my destiny. And like any God, the Nile Company’s actions had consequences. Consequences that I couldn’t have imagined till it was too late.
Ever since Eve died, everything had been a confusing mess. I was sad and lonely. I wanted her back, and here she was. She was back, but she wasn’t the same. Nothing was the same. I had been confused about many things, but, at that moment, one thing was clear.
I got up and walked over to the treasure chest. I opened it up, pushed the old photos aside, and pulled out my Walther PPK. A few days ago, this would have been hard. But after today, things were different.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 16 She got up and started walking towards me. “What are you doing, Joe?” she asked.
Bang.
She fell to the floor and landed with a thump on the grey carpet. I lowered the gun and got up. I walked over and looked at her one last time in her emerald green eyes. I continued over to the piano. I gently sat down on the seat and uncovered the glossy keys. I laid my finger on the C-key.
My finger was shaking like mad. I closed my eyes and breathed. I didn’t feel anything. I couldn’t tell if this was the greatest past few months or the worst. The only thing I felt was my heart beat against my chest like a drum. I exhaled and steadied my finger as the first note of “Claire de Lune” rang throughout the empty house.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 17
Until Death Do Us Part, by Alise Deveney
Vern was allergic to peanuts, but she pretended not to remember that when she purchased the Skippy from the supermarket earlier that morning. Rhonda spread a thick layer of peanut butter onto the sandwich. Not thick enough that Vern would notice it, of course.
Rhonda was an old woman with a loud mouth. Throughout her lifetime, she had exercised great politeness. However, at the ripe old age of 85, she realized that manners had never gotten her anywhere. Therefore, Rhonda now made a talent of being unrefined.
She carried the peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the kitchen with the skill of a decrepit waitress. Her thoughts swirled faster than her feet shuffled across the linoleum floor. Accidents happened all the time, especially to folks the same age as her and Vern. No one would dare accuse her of murder. It would be insensitive.
She smiled at the thought of her husband’s passing. Rhonda fully intended to enjoy the remainder of her life without Vern. The money from his life insurance policy would certainly cover the cost of a tropical getaway.
Rhonda was mostly excited to see her adult children racked with guilt at the death of their father. Those greedy bastards would regret ever stealing a dime. She almost felt sorry that Vern wouldn’t be there to appreciate it. The only thing that the old couple still actually had in common was a deep hatred for their ungrateful offspring.
Vern peered over his newspaper suspiciously as Rhonda entered the room. For a moment, she feared that she had been plotting out loud again.
“Lunch,” she said coolly. To her relief, Vern set aside his paper and reached two thin arms toward the plate.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 18 Aging had had quite the opposite effect on Vern as it did on Rhonda. As he grew older, he had less of a desire to speak. 87 years on Earth had taught him that the planet was crawling with morons and it was best not to engage with any of them, particularly his wife. She was the biggest idiot of all.
Rhonda handed him the plate. She no longer expected displays of gratitude from her husband. Dying was the only courtesy that Vern was still capable of. She determined that the armchair closest to him was the best vantage point for seeing her plan unfold.
Vern raised the sandwich to his mouth. Rhonda held her breath.
He stopped.
“Smells like peanut butter.”
“You’re losing your senses, old fool.”
He peeled back the bread, revealing the peanut butter. “Bah!” he spat. Vern set the sandwich on the table between him and Rhonda.
“Why won’t you die, old man!”
“I’m going to outlive you, even if it kills me! And I got vengeance keeping me alive.” Vern did not wait for her to answer. He picked up his newspaper and continued reading.
In his advanced age, Vern had become obsessed with taking revenge on the kids. He planned to recover every cent that they had pinched from his pocket. He wanted to see them penniless. Yet, he would settle for seeing them plagued by sorrow at the death of their mother.
Rhonda sighed and reached for Vern’s rejected sandwich. Scheming had worked up her appetite. She took a large bite.
She hardly ever made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches because she hated the way that the peanut butter stuck in her throat.
She tried to cough, but made no sound. Rhonda grabbed wildly at her throat. She would have preferred for Vern to remain occupied with the sports section, but he looked up from his reading and observed his choking wife.
Not wishing to give him the satisfaction of watching her die, Rhonda positioned her fist on her stomach and pushed down hard with her other hand. After one mighty gag, the bit of sandwich sailed from her mouth and landed on the carpet. Rhonda coughed and sputtered.
“Let me get you a drink,” said Vern. With some effort, he rose from the armchair and hobbled to the kitchen sink.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 19 Once out of earshot from his wife, Vern began to grumble. Rhonda yakking on the living room carpet was another example of why she was the reason that the couple could not own nice things.
Vern added a touch of bleach to the tall glass of ice water he had poured. He garnished the concoction with a striped bendy straw before serving it to his wife.
Rhonda put the straw to her lips. Vern’s grip on his walker tightened.
She stopped.
“This drink smells like a goddamn swimming pool!” Rhonda placed the glass next to the sandwich.
“They don’t put bleach in swimming pools, you dolt,” said Vern.
Rhonda ignored him, checked the clock on the wall, and in a commanding voice she firmly said, “Shut up, and get your car keys. We’re going to be late for church.”
Vern grudgingly obliged. As he shuffled out to their old Buick, he considered how folks the same age as him and Rhonda often got into automobile accidents. He also reflected on the defective passenger seat airbags and, for the first time in 12 years, he smiled.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 20
Writing Under Deadline, by Ellis Stump
THIS DOCUMENT IS LEGALLY PROTECTED MATERIAL PROPERTY OF
LIFE OR BREATH OF FRESH AIR D.R. SERVICES
Writing Under Deadline
Handcuffs significantly encumbered writing, Leslie learned, bothered with the hand that hovered uselessly just above and behind her dominant one, her left one, closely supervising the sign-in process as it dated and autographed every form. Both appendages fed the completed stack in tandem back into a vending machine of sorts, which slurped them quick but did not offer Doritos in return, and then situated in their owner’s lap until an officer walked through the swinging doors with a jerk of her head.
The officer sped Leslie in silence down a series of white tile halls that occasionally showcased clumsy, distantly macabre art — a row of paper dolls lynched from the ceiling by yarn, a canvas of frantic red handprints, the paint smudged and scratched, an alphabet cross-stitch stunted abruptly at the letter E. The string stood jutting out, ripped.
They approached a vacuum-sealed door. The guard keyed it open electronically and led her inmate to the next available chair in a series of two dozen, half lined against each wall. Fourteen others in queue, Leslie counted, their responses ranging in personal ritual from dignified tears to manic wails. Most were still, easily mistaken for asleep if not for the parting and meeting of their shaky lips, lips that discharged song or poetry, whispered or furthered aloud. At Leslie’s arrival the few closest looked up, while the veterans appeared deadened to the routine. Out of respect, Leslie avoided laughing. If she felt capable of intense emotion, perhaps she would have found Death Row moving.
Leslie sat and was immediately assaulted by an automatic restraining systems that snaked around her chest and every limb. The guard confirmed the snugness of her lap belt like at an amusement park.
“Take this, and wait,” she instructed.
“I was actually just considering leaving,” Leslie said back, receiving a pamphlet between her hardly mobile fingers, “but I’ll stick around if there’s dessert.”
The guard stepped away, sizing up the inmate and almost chuckling. “You may fare well in there. You’re funny.”
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 21 “Funny looking, am I right?”
“And I spoke too soon.”
The woman turned swiftly, already out of earshot as Leslie aimed to explain: “No see, I meant that ironically. It was a like, decent joke because it’s such a bad joke, get it?” She sighed. “Fine, busy little bee.” The factory that produced more prosecuted corpses than any other in the country was nothing if not efficient, besides the blip that meant as soon as the next prisoner was successfully euthanized, everyone would have to be released, herded down a spot, and painstakingly relocked all over again.
“S-so, uh, ahem. What’re you in for, M-miss?”
Leslie turned to face — or, eye, with fine motor skills as much as the cage trapping her skull allowed — her neighbor. “Don’t talk to me,” she said.
“Oh shit, sorry. God, yeah, never mind.”
Leslie faltered, briefly amazed at how such a radiation of pity managed to stir nothing within her. “What’re you in for?”
“Do you truly care to know?”
“Not exactly. But, whatever.”
“I-I walked on the grass,” he blurted out boldly, then steadied himself. “The sign, it said, don’t walk on the grass, in block print, clear as day. But I was walking back from class when I spotted my girlfriend, and gee, the sun — it toasted her face, touched her hair gold. I was so excited to see her that everything inside of me just like, lit up inside of me. I hadn’t — I hadn’t seen her all day, you see, not for breakfast nor-nor lunch, not since she’s started skipping meals for pleasure, so I peacocked right straight across all those tiny green blades. May as well have been razor. It’s a courtyard, if I hadn’t mentioned that, surrounding the main building at my school? I go to Harvard, obviously. Or… oh fuck. I guess I should say I went to Harvard. I, I clearly don’t anymore. And I won’t ever again. Oh god, oh sweet mother of goddddddd.” He collapsed forward into a cacophonous clanging of chains. “What if I never see her again, you know? What if I never get to steal another kiss? Another heart? Another Xanax from my roommate Carl?”
“Jesus. Relax, lucky dude, you have a lover, that’s the golden ticket. Focus on her. Let that consume you. She is your Euterpe, your muse.”
“To be honest, I don’t think she likes me very much.”
“We’re done now.” Leslie shut her eyes.
God, if a ray of light across a significant other’s skin was all she needed to misplace boundary and self-control, why, she could have been hauled in years ago. Everyone Leslie involved herself with, and she involved herself frequently enough to form a hypothetical extracurricular club, she kept at a fair distance: contained, controlled. From afar, she figured she could seduce and spellbind while sustaining secrecy and dodging the stupid, behind-the-curtain dullness of intimacy altogether. Only one had ever snuck up close, the one who had a year ago shattered her walls the same way a day ago
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 22 she shattered the big pale windows overlooking the Charles. The one who had broken into her heart, armed and dangerous, in the same fashion she had broken into the Boston Museum of Science, the indoor zoo. The one who lured from her joyful belly laughter, not the flat-toned cynicism she flexed when a curator screamed, “Everyone, get out!” and Leslie countered, “But I just got here.” The one who, in a parallel course of reality, tomorrow she would miss, and then wonder about from up in the sky for eternity if afterlife existed.
But Leslie had not so overtly battled her way to Death Row to dwell nostalgically on what could have been. She was there to slice and dice her deadbeat life once and for all. She slapped her brain on the wrist for wandering about unattended like that and sought another way to kill time. By happenchance, the red light bulb above the room at the end of the hallway that she assumed meant it was “in use” flicked off, and a woman with nice crystal-encrusted glasses and a cashmere purple sweater cracked the door.
“David Lawrence. Inmate on Trial #256,412,677,043. Come on in, David Lawrence, we’re ready for you now.” She regarded David Lawrence with warmth as he was extracted from his confinements and invited into the chamber. The others were shifted forward in a fumbling march with some guards’ assistance, and another two were ushered in through the entrance and situated to Leslie’s left.
“Were you watching?” asked the Harvard boy with the fetish for anorexia, or more likely, internal disturbance.
“Watching what?” Leslie instantly regretted replying.
“You know, inside? Just there a second ago, with your eyes closed?”
“Excuse me?” He cocked his head, confused. “Didn’t they tell you that at reception?”
“Tell me what? All they gave me was a load of judgment for my charge and then this little brochure.”
The newbies across them began to cry. One shouted he was innocent, that this was all so unfair.
“What does it say?” Yale asked over their dramatics.
“The usual, I’m sure.” Leslie glanced over the flimsy paper then dropped it. “There are too many people on the planet, too little entertainment. These people require preoccupation, to save them from the hardship — neigh, the responsibility — of living out their dead-end yet economically prolific existences as maddeningly bored, desperately lackadaisical lumps of lard… Rather than the so much better entertained, sedated, immune to restlessness lumps of lard. Death Row is the ultimate win-win, now isn’t it, granting the condemned the opportunity to return to society what they abducted when they walked across the grass. Such goddamn justice. Such critical, compulsory redemption. And the grand climax of it all? The greatest original ideas are the children of pressure and deadline, we think. Maybe. Who fucking knows? But let’s give it all a spin, shall we? Enjoy the ride, criminals. Is this not art, a hopeless escape? A hurt, grim pain topped with sprinkles and animated graphics and spooned to the robot-potatoes that can laugh and that can cry, but who will never, ever, as long as they keep sitting about absorbing, ever truly understand?!’”
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 23 The crying had stopped. Someone coughed.
“All I really knew about Life and Breath of Fresh Air specifically was the jingle,” said Yale.
“It’s catchy,” Leslie agreed.
He nodded, humming it to himself. “But right, yeah, what I meant was you can watch other people go in, from here and all over the world even, to make sure you don’t repeat a pitch when it’s your turn. You just lean your head back, yep, like that. Now you, you close your eyes, and press against the headrest.”
***
Escorted on either side, David entered the room and shuffled, slow, to the center of the space. Jars and baskets stacked upon tall steel shelves and displayed neatly upon a long oblate operating table boasted endless options for creativity: boas and odd props for theatrical production, the latest computer models for programming and type, an orchestra of instruments for composing, loose-leaf notebook paper piled in a heap. David eyed an easel with a fresh canvas, then a tub of sculpting clay.
“David Lawrence?”
He bowed his head yes.
“You know why you’re here?”
He stalled, maybe buying time, maybe sincerely choked up. “I… I got a letter. Said I’ve been taking up too much room lately. Said I’m a waste of air, if I remember correctly.”
“You remember correctly,” encouraged a judge.
“Do you fully understand why you’re a waste of air, David Lawrence?” asked another.
David gazed at his feet. “Well, um. I’ve been out of work for a bit…”
“For four months.”
“Yes. I was laid off. Budget cuts, you know.”
“You were an elementary school teacher of… Art?”
David stood quiet. “Yes.”
“Delightful. Now go ahead, inmate, your clock is set for fifteen. We have the right to condense that, to ten minutes or less. Choose your medium.”
***
Leslie continued viewing the pitches, invested more so than inspired, well through the evening. One prisoner scored a lucky break with a pilot contract, but the rest got lethal injection on the spot. Leslie most liked learning their professions and imagining their regular lives day-in-and-day-out. Like
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 24 David Lawrence, she enjoyed art, or at least clung to it like a pathetic parasite when all else felt so drowsy and dismal she couldn’t get out of bed. She had been a student of the vast field, of writing specifically, an angry, spoiled brat with personality issues and a never whet thirst for attention who slipped by the system unflagged. She never earned a letter in the mail calling her a waste of space, however hard she believed she deserved one.
Leslie’s thoughts drifted to words, and her favorites: peccadillo, idiosyncrasy, aphrodisiac, visceral. Then her favorite artists: Roy Lichtenstein, Else Lasker-Schuler, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Sylvia Plath. Art did not save David Lawrence, though, Leslie reminded herself with a private reprimanding, and if all went well it would do nothing for her, either. To be killed was what she wanted. Death was her wish.
Harvard cleared his throat. He stood by on deck.
“What?” demanded Leslie, to which he rolled his eyes, tired of her apathy. That was the worst when that happened.
“I just want to know your story,” he said. “I mean, you can tell me now, right? At this point, who fucking cares? I’m just curious. Why are you here?”
Idiosyncrasy, aphrodisiac, Dostoyevsky, Lichtenstein, Plath. The one that shattered her walls. Visceral.
“I’m here on purpose, I guess,” Leslie said, through the clouds that were suddenly dimming her vision. “I made a scene. I fought to get caught. Tale as old as masochism.”
“Are you mad?” he asked.
“Mentally ill, yes. Duh.” She blinked back the blurs.
“I meant at something. If you wanted to die so fiercely why didn’t you just kill yourself?”
The door opened, and the woman in purple backed out, speaking still to its contents. “I’m going to grab a quick coffee; you can start without me.” She checked a clipboard. “Maxwell Green? I.O.T. #12,468,887,044? You’re up, kiddo. Knock ‘em dead.”
“Maxwell,” Leslie said, tasting the name.
“Max.”
“Leslie. I’d shake your hand, but…”
“I’m nervous.”
“You’re gonna’ kill it.”
“Will I see you on the other side?” Max half-joked.
Leslie smiled wryly. “I hope not.”
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 25 And, alas, he did not. As would be expected, unless you err on the side of optimism or devour mass quantities of romantic comedies, Maxwell’s shy pane of confidence cracked right in time with his voice during the ad lib refrain of “Across the Harvard Yard,” an ambitiously high-falsetto original country-pop song much more passionately dedicated to Harvard University than Stephanie his starving girlfriend, though neither plotline would have been considered very relatable to wide audiences. Discouraged by the judges’ reactions, Maxwell panicked, tried out some gymnastics moves, and then, in a last-ditch effort, pulled a knock-knock joke in vain. (TRANSCRIPT: “Knock knock?” “Who’s there?” “Literally no one. THERE IS NO GOD.” 4/10 for content. 2/10 for delivery.)
Leslie came in, cried for a couple minutes, and scribbled out this story. The movie will be released this upcoming May.
Life or Breath of Fresh Air D.R. Services
120 White Sand St., Summer County, CA 90001. P.O Box 4199.
“Write your death sentence!”™
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 26
CREATIVE NON-FICTION
Como Foi Teu Dia Na Escola? by Ines Martinez
We all lined up at the door of our first-grade classroom in our two lines, waiting for our teacher, Sister Rita Mary, to turn off the lights and take us outside for dismissal. Each line had 15 excited first graders, all in their green and red plaid uniforms that looked more disheveled than when they had come to school that morning. Once we listened to the announcements and said the closing prayer, Sister Rita Mary turned off the lights, and in one swift movement, led us up the stairs, out the heavy French doors, and onto the blacktop covered in the crunchy leaves that had been knocked off the trees by the strong November winds.
As soon as we got onto the blacktop, the two straight lines that had left the classroom formed into one large blob as we all told each other what we were going to do that day when we got home. Sister Rita Mary led us all to the top of the blacktop on the small hill, which, to a first grader, seemed like a mountain, every step bringing us closer and closer to the large group of parents waiting to pick up their children. The big blob had now combined with the group of parents as each kid ran around to find their parent. Once I found my mom, she took my backpack, and we walked through what seemed to be endless rows of parked cars until we reached my mom’s gray Toyota Camry. My mom lifted me into the car, buckled me into my booster, got into the driver’s seat, and asked me the typical mom question: “Como foi teu dia na escola?”
I responded with the usual, “Tudo bem,” but what she did not know was that it was not all good.
In case you did not know what language that was, it was Portuguese, and she was just asking me how my day at school went. While I might have seemed like a typical first-grade girl to most in my school, my life at home was much different. My parents are both immigrants, my dad from Spain and my mom from Portugal. Because of this, at home I spoke mostly Spanish or Portuguese with
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 27 just a little bit of English mixed in. This had never really affected me negatively at school until the first grade because that is when you begin to learn how to read.
I walked into the first-grade classroom on the second floor of the school, and it seemed like any other day until it was time for English. Sister Rita Mary pulled a white sheet of paper off her desk, and since the light was hitting it at the perfect angel, I could see my name written on the sheet in red cursive. She started reading off the names of five students, and sure enough, my name was one of them. She then told us to follow her down the stairs, past the gym and into a very small classroom that I never knew existed.
Sitting on a blue loveseat was an older woman who introduced herself to us as Mrs. Rice. She told us that while all our other classmates were reading in class upstairs with Sister Rita Mary, we would go to her room downstairs. At that time, I did not realize why I was chosen to go to Mrs. Rice’s room, but later I figured out that it was because I was not good at reading, and the other four classmates were the ones that people would make fun of when they tried to read aloud in class. Mrs. Rice helped us feel more comfortable with our reading skills, even though we were given a lot of work to do on our own and at home. While my other 25 classmates in Sister Rita Mary’s class did not have homework, we had to read at least two books a week, and one of those books had to be read aloud. Being forced to read two books a week was as bad as it seemed. It was just another thing that I had to do on my own.
For my other classmates, that was simple because their parents could help them with their reading and make sure that they were pronouncing everything correctly. For me, it was more difficult because my parents’ English was not the best. I would try and have them help me read, and while they did all that they could to help me, I knew that I was going to need to put in more effort. So, for at least half of the first grade, I stayed in with Mrs. Rice during our first recess in the morning and read many stories aloud, helping me get a little more comfortable with my reading.
Ever since then, reading has felt like a burden to me because of all the extra work I had to out into it. As a simple-minded first-grader, all I thought about was playing with my friends and doing the best I could with regards to my schoolwork. What I did not realize at that time was that all of the extra work I had to put into doing something that came easily to most caused a spark in my dedication and work ethic.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 28
Home from 195 Countries, by Isabela Carlos Alberto
I am Mongolian and Colombian. As a child, I never quite understood why it was so rare to be such a mix. Since kindergarten, I’ve been traveling around the world, spending almost each school year in another country due to my father’s work. I desired a place to call home in which I could buy things without worrying about moving. As I traveled, a part of me was reflected in each country. I was not meant to be part of a single ethnicity or country; I am a global citizen. Earth became my home.
My parents met in Mongolia through work. They both came from a big family of ten. I also grew up with alarge and loud family, celebrating Christmas and Tsagaan Sar. My parents merged all of their traditions and celebrated every single one with us, making life more fun than a child would expect. This meant twice the holidays than anyone else and more gifts
As the years passed by I saw my classmates live in one country with a settled home and a place to keep all of their belongings. I started questioning why I did not have such a place. I was not the only one in this situation. Biracial people around the world suffer from racial imposter syndrome (Donnella, 2017). It is the feeling of not fitting in any race or being perceived as a race you are not. Everything I owned was all over the place, including Qatar,
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 29 Colombia, and Mongolia. My classmates would designate home as the place you grow up, but I grew up all over the world. I started traveling before I turned a year old, unlike 82% of the world who never flew on a plane (Mandyck, 2017).
Others would say it is the culture of my family that defines where I am from. That did not apply to me either because I hold values from many cultures. All the values I collected are from all over the world. For instance, I was baptized in Colombia, but I go to temples to pray and follow the Mongolian Lunar New Year. When we lived in Qatar during Pre-K and first grade, the Islamic culture influenced my daily patterns. At school, I learned the first verse of the Quran in Arabic, and during Ramadan, I would receive gifts from my classmates’ parents. Not only did my parents implement these traditions in our lives, but I was drawn to other traditions. For instance, I was attracted to mosques and temples. They fascinated me because every drop of worry vanishes when you walk in. Everyone shuts down and watches without a single word.
Since the start, it was impossible for me to choose one religion, culture or country, so I set forth to find the true place I belonged. It did not matter whether it was a country, religion, or culture. I traveled to Colombia, China, Korea, Turkey, Malaysia, Thailand, Qatar, the United Arab Emirates, Singapore, and the United States of America. I searched where I would belong the most, where the majority of Mongolian Colombians were; however, I found another part of myself. With more than 9 million multiracial people in the United States alone(Parker, Horowitz, Morin, & Lopez, 2015), and from all the places I have been, I never heard of or met a Mongolian Colombian.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 30
Throughout my travels, I learned to respect others and their values. I ate different foods, each unique to the particular country. I realized the more you tried different cuisines the more appealing and delicious they become. In Qatar I grew fond of olives and hummus, in Colombia, I tried all the cheese and pork meat, in Mongolia I learned to make curds and tried airag (fermented horse milk), in China I tried the famous Chinese duck, and in Korea I tried every single food from restaurants to street food. In Colombia it was all about bursting salt and sugar on your tongue, Mongolia it was about the fresh juicy meat and dairy straight from the farm, and in Korea, the spicy food will sting your tongue and heat up your lips. Each culture had a core ingredient that blossomed into every single dish or course. The fresh spices and different alternative uses of a single ingredient were astonishing.
I found similarities rather than differences everywhere I went. Designs, values, and origins of different religions all had something in common. Every religion started with someone sending ‘the message’ of becoming the right person in society.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 31
The designs and historical sites showed the globalization of each country. Every country had a historical artifact or design that came from another country. Another similarity was all the alterations of religions. In every country, they adjusted the religion slightly to fit their climate, history, and national value. For example, Buddhism in Kuala Lumpur was rather mixed with Hinduism when regarding designs, while Buddhism in Mongolia resembled the Tibet culture.
The people we came across while traveling all valued respect and were curious about other countries. People always asked about the food, culture, and technology in Mongolia. It was shocking tohear people ask if we ride horses or throw newborn infants in the snow. Nevertheless, people were kind and tried their best to help others. One time in Korea we were lost in the metro station when a man near his 50’s walked us to our train; he did not speak much English and we didn’t know a single Korean word. We communicated through hand gestures. Out of 6.9 million people who ride the metro each day in Korea, rushing to home or work, he decided to help us (Kasulisk, 2017). I learned how many kind people are out there. We may not be able to communicate but people try their best to help through hand gestures. Sometimes they even got off their course and took us to our destination. Despite all the terror in the news, the good outweighs it.
With each country, I visited I discovered a new part of me. The religion and culture were implemented in me. I adapted and was within the culture wherever I went because I found similarities, a part of myself, somewhere within. I am proud to support the idea of a global citizen because I am truly a global citizen. I can relate to all cultures. I do not have a single religious belief,
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 32 nor do I have specific celebrations. I celebrate holidays from many cultures with various beliefs. All 195 countries on earth are my home (Countries, n.d.).
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 33
Listening to Myself, by Veronica Garis
When my partner and I arrived at my terminal at JFK, I pulled my tattered suitcase out of the trunk — my fingers leaving their damp prints clinging to the handle. Jayson insisted on lugging it the rest of the way to the airport. “No, I can do this by myself,” I told him. I was only referring to the suitcase, but hindsight told me that this would be one of many things I needed to do by myself over the following weeks.
The night before, I was trying to fall asleep next to Jayson in our bed. Instead, I was tossing and turning from the guilt I felt. I should be more grateful to Jayson. He helped me pay for this trip. I’d paid him back every penny, but without his help, I wouldn’t be going to Scotland at all. I was lucky that he was incredibly supportive. He wasn’t envious of my opportunity to travel even though he never had vacations from his full-time managerial position. He wasn’t even jealous that Angus would get all my attention over the next couple of weeks. He seemed content when I told him I’d video chat with him. He was so patient with me. I was lucky. And yet, I couldn’t wait to leave. No relationship was perfect, and we’d been arguing over the past couple of months.
Earlier that same day we sat in Jayson’s idling Chrysler — my tears painting my cheeks.
“I feel like things are just…stagnant,” I said, “I don’t know what other word to use. We’re not moving forward. We’re not moving backwards or anything but I feel stuck…” Relationships are supposed to stay interesting. Your partner is supposed to keep you on your toes.
Jayson’s voice shook as he responded. “I don’t know what to say. I feel like things are going well. We go on dates. We go to the gym together. We have our shows. We spend time with our friends…”
Of course he didn’t get it. He was creature of habit. Spontaneity was not his forte. We’d had this discussion several times before, and it always ended with us going inside and watching our Netflix shows. It would be like nothing had ever transpired. I’d tried for so long to mold him into what I needed. But in the back of my mind, I knew that was wrong. I knew I had to either take him as he was, or leave him. I avoided thinking about that alternative. It wasn’t an option — not after three years of both beautiful and painful memories.
And yet, I was eager to go and give us some space to cool off, so our goodbye at the airport was short and sweet. Distance would make the heart grow fonder, right? I let him go too eagerly, my mind already filling with other matters as I moved on to my gate.
After only an hour, I was at my gate peering down at my ticket. It read: Delta Flight 0409 JFK→EDI. My heart lurched as what I was doing slowly sunk in. I was leaving everything I knew, everything I was comfortable with in order to visit my best friend Angus Mapplebeck for his 21st birthday in Elderslie, Scotland. I wasn’t sure what to expect during this trip, but I knew Angus
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 34 would be there to support me no matter what happened. He had been there for me for the past six years — ever since the moment we met in an oblong swimming pool at a Florida resort. Jayson knew me best, but Angus gave me a level of support that only the purest of friends could give. The foundation of our friendship may have been our mutual love of everything DC and Marvel, but our friendship had blossomed when I’d visited him the previous summer. I hoped we would grow even stronger this time around. And yet, I was still anxious. I didn’t want to face change.
I finally had my life planned out. Like any senior in college, it was time to make decisions. Because I had Jayson, my decision was already made. Once you’ve had a partner for a number of years, everything becomes an “us” and a “we.” I had a duty to follow my other half and make that “we” permanent. The thought of this made my long-winded anxiety kick up a notch until I was sweating so profusely that I left a glistening outline of my figure on the leather chair. I got up to board the plane and looked down. It looked like a shadow. A darker version of me. But, unlike a shadow, I was able to leave it behind. For once, I wasn’t being followed and I wasn’t following. I was free.
8/11/18
Angus’s party would commence in just a few hours and my nerves were creeping back in. In a matter of hours, there would be people filling up every open space the Mapplebeck Victorian home had to offer. The corner of Main Road and Nuton Avenue would be crowded as people tried to find spaces to fit their tiny European chariots. I knew day this was coming. There were certain people I would undoubtedly meet. There was only one in particular that still made made my fists clench when I thought about him. But we’d already met. And this was not the time to allow any drama. This day was for Angus and I needed to lock away old memories. When you love someone like I love my best friend, you pack away your bullshit for a day and put on a smile.
It was three hours later when the packing ripped.
There’s always that one person at a party that you don’t know if you want to see, but you risk it and go anyways because what the hell.
I was bringing Angus’s grandmother’s cake down the narrow, ground-floor hallway, my feet slapping against the hardwood, when I jumped out of my skin. He was walking up the steps, opposite of the room I was looking for, and we locked eyes briefly. He said, “hey,” his face expressionless, and my own “hey” sounded false and high-pitched in response. My feet kept moving towards a different room without my permission and he was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief in the other room but in my mind was yelling: “Stay away from him” “Don’t talk to him.” I rolled my eyes at myself. It was a whole year since I saw him last. He wasn’t going to bite.
Over the next couple of hours, I tried to keep my distance but everything was tempting. The food, the champagne, the atmosphere and Kyle himself. Standing at 6’1”, he towered over me — his body lean despite his previous claims of a sedentary lifestyle. He was clad in a form-fitting button-down — the black a startling contrast from his sandy hair — with slim blue jeans and Chelsea boots to complete the ensemble. I could tell he was keeping a respectful distance as well, but as the minutes ticked by we inched closer and closer to one another. Before I knew it, we were sitting next to one another in matching patio chairs under the portable green tent — catching up while discussing music and literature.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 35 “Have you heard the album D.A.M.N. by Kendrick Lamar?” I asked eagerly.
“I don’t think so. Isn’t he a rap artist?”
“Yeah. He won a Pulitzer too. But I have to say, Money Trees is, by far, my favorite song of his. It’s the first one I heard, but it’s also the first one I analyzed. It’s full of hidden meanings. It even references his uncle’s death and the injustice Kendrick felt afterwards…” I trailed off. I didn’t want to seem boring. I was surprised that he hadn’t interrupted me by that point. Usually, Jayson would have distracted me with something by now or his eyes would wander away and I would be left feeling unheard. Instead, Kyle kept unwavering eye contact and nodded along without interrupting. The difference in interaction was striking.
We continued talking then, but, mid-conversation, I remembered all of the things that made me feel bitter towards him. Angus warned me last year that he was good at “pulling” girls — a term he spoke of with his own bitterness mingled in. Drinks make people bolder, so I looked at Kyle directly and stated, “I am nobody’s conquest.” He looked startled for a moment before he looked back at me, his ocean eyes piercing, and said, “I know.” I hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether or not I believed him.
It’s dangerous to take someone’s word. But that’s just what I did. Adrenaline pulled me toward him like a riptide, and sent me adrift.
***
Clubs lined each street in Glasgow, but it was still Angus’s evening and he wanted to go to a club called Bamboo. There were eight of us going so we had to travel separately. Angus and a few of his friends decided to take an Uber while Nathan and Selina, an adorable couple, offered their own ride. Kyle and I looked at each other and both hopped onto their wool blanket in the crowded backseat. Nathan and Selina smiled at each other as Nathan fiddled with his Apple Music playlist. They were both dressed impeccably. Selina wearing a form-fitting leather dress and Nathan a white button- down with slacks. Selina’s long dark hair spilled over her dress and I couldn’t help but tug at my own short locks in envy. I groaned softly to myself because it took me two years to get Jayson to stop wearing Disney T-shirts every other day. In fact, his style rubbed off on me so much that I was used to wearing T-shirts myself — something I hardly ever did before we started dating. Why couldn’t we be a beautiful couple like them?
Although, if I was being honest with myself, it wasn’t even their beauty that I was envious of. They just looked so happy to share each other’s company. Kyle and I observed quietly in the backseat as Nathan mouthed off over one thing or another and Selina would laugh as her azure eyes would roll back in her head — she was used to his antics and yet she didn’t look like she felt stuck. I knew they argued too. They had both come to me during their arguments. But, they always seemed to ride out the wave and make it to the other side without falling off the board and drowning.
***
The club was a hole in the wall that you had to enter through one of two sets of stairs. It’s dark color scheme made the lights seem so bright that I walked right by the coat room. Kyle pulled my arm and dragged me back to which point I had to pay fifty pence for what appeared to be a carnival ticket with a number stamped on it. Almost immediately, we split off into couplings. Eventually, I
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 36 went to go get my second drink and Kyle followed. The bar was long and wooden and sticky from the girl that spilled her vodka-lemonade next to us. The next song came on and it was an early 2000s bop, so I towed Kyle to the center of the dance floor. The groupings were on the outside, just out of sight. As we started to dance, I couldn’t help but think that part of me wanted isolation. I wanted this sensual and attentive person all to myself. One song blended into the next and one drink was replaced by two more. Kyle’s hands reached ever closer until he was gripping my left leg and yanking me against him. Our faces were veiled in indigo as we stared at each other, both deliberating. At the peak of the melody, he leaned down to lay his cheek against my own. My heart stuttered and picked up doubletime.
What did it mean to feel so attracted and so connected to someone that it was pulling everything you knew about yourself apart?
Just then, we were interrupted as Angus claimed he wanted to leave. It seemed like my decision was made for me. We all moved towards the exit, but then Nathan and Selina spoke up and said they wanted to stay. It was only midnight. I looked at Kyle at that moment, and I knew then that we were both thinking the same thing. This night couldn’t be over. I boldly chimed in and said that I wanted to stay too. Angus peered at me for a long moment and seemed to be deliberating himself. His expression seemed to ask me if this is what I really wanted. I still wasn’t completely sure, but I wanted to find out. Something in my face made him shrug and assent. He and most of the rest of the group left. Now it was just Nathan, Selina, Kyle and I. When we re-entered the club, Nathan and Selina sensed our need for space and left Kyle and I alone. I could sense a change in atmosphere. Everyone seemed hungrier somehow and the feeling was infectious. I walked by several couples grinding against one another. They had given in. Could I?
In the next moment, “Hips Don’t Lie” by Shakira came on and Kyle looked at each other and laughed. I began to belt the lyrics and let my arms fall free as my hips swung around to the beat — my back to Kyle. Upon hearing the sax solo, I turned around to face him. The sensation of vertigo was so strong. I was standing on an edge, and I was being pulled in two directions. I hesitated slightly, but I knew then which direction I would follow. It wasn’t necessarily right, but I wanted it badly. He seemed to sense it too. A moment’s pause followed, and then he was on me. He was everywhere. No other stimuli could leak in. Like flipping a switch, I sensed the change immediately. From here, things would never be the same. But I couldn’t find it in my heart to be sad or feel guilty. This moment was bliss, and if this was my last one then it was still worth it.
***
The next few hours were equally blissful. After dancing for a long while, we ended up outside of the club under the inky sky and pelting rain. Kyle slung his brown button-down jacket around my shoulders, and I eagerly stuffed my arms through the too-long sleeves. I took a private moment to breathe in his floral scent along the jacket’s collar. I wouldn’t forget. He immediately started shivering himself so I opened the sides of the jacket so he could slide his arms in. We stood huddled for some time just listening to one another breathe. With Jayson I had always felt pressure to fill up silences with talk. Here, Kyle and I could just enjoy one another without forced chatter. I thought about how much I cared about this person I hardly knew. But no, I couldn’t believe that. I didn’t know his brand of toothpaste but that didn’t mean I didn’t know him. Something in me ached to keep him. I wanted him in my life — in any way I could have him. I resolved to talk to him. I didn’t
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 37 know what to expect. He constantly surprised me. Something in the pit of my stomach told me I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
I was right.
8/12/18
Kyle and I had stayed up until six, when the darkness began to fade, talking about what came next. The conversation felt unfinished. Where was my closure? But this is what I gathered: that night, that was it for us. In fact, there wasn’t an “us” in the first place. I had practically begged to keep in touch, but Kyle was stubbornly set on keeping his distance. I told him that I’d made it work with Angus, but Kyle remained unconvinced. “I just don’t know how it could work” he told me, avoiding eye contact for once. My sides ached, but I had no tears to shed. He clearly didn’t see our situation in the same way that I did. I tried to tell myself that maybe it just wasn’t our time. Maybe if circumstances were different, things would be different. But delusions wouldn’t help me heal.
***
Later that day, I was sitting in a beat-up booth in a roller skating rink in downtown Glasgow. Angus was off playing airsoft with friends that came up for his party, and I was not about to endure tiny circular bruises all over my body.
The paint on the seats was chipping as Nathan and I sank into a deep discussion. When I finally admitted to him all that had happened between Kyle and I, I was surprised when he looked unsurprised. He knew I was in a relationship. Nathan gave me a knowing look. I asked him “Shouldn’t I feel guilty? Is it wrong that I don’t?” I had done something that society deemed horrible and, at in certain cases, unforgivable. My head sunk lower to the table but my eyes darted up as Nathan cleared his throat. He looked at me without blinking and asked, “Are you happy?” I knew immediately that he was referring to Jayson. I sat back and tried to find the “yes” that I thought was supposed to come out. If I could just force it out of my throat… But I’d paused too long, and we both knew my answer. No one had ever asked me that question. Friends always saw how Jayson and I got along so well — Angus especially. Angus loved Jayson. But he, among others, never saw our fights. They never witnessed our trauma. Nathan, however, had never seen us together and I think that’s exactly why he was the most objective friend to help me deal with my internal struggle.
It all came pouring out in a rush. I told him that I felt scared. I didn’t want to settle down. I was too young. And that’s where things with Jayson seemed to be headed. I told him that I felt unheard. “You know the people that you know aren’t truly listening to you because they’re just waiting for you to stop talking until they can talk about what they want? I asked.
Nathan smiled as I continued to put the pieces together. “I think Kyle represented everything I wanted and everything I wasn’t getting. It’s not like it is in the movies where I just ran off with a stranger because I wasn’t getting laid enough. Kyle gave me more than that.” Kyle listened to me. He actually listened. I didn’t know how unheard I felt in three years. I was living in the shadow of a “we”. Most importantly, I’d let myself live in that shadow. It was my fault, not Jayson’s. I got comfortable. I let myself go, and in doing so I lost my own identity. I lost a sense of self and confidence that made me, me. As I lost that confidence, I fell into a depression so deep that I had to
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 38 claw my way out. And yet, here, with Kyle, it was like none of that ever existed. “Here” I told Nathan, “I felt confident, I felt wanted, and I felt like me.” Nathan interjected with, “You deserve to feel like that. You’re too young to deal with constant drama and sadness dragging you down. You deserve to be free and be who you are.” He was right, I did deserve those things. I’d left that shadow of myself on the seat in the airport. I think for good. Now it was time to find out who I was outside of my shadow.
I had a duty to myself to be honest with myself, and that would mean being honest with Jayson. It was time to part ways. I would deal with whatever came next as long as it would mean I would get to keep my new “me”. I was like I was being reintroduced to myself. And I couldn’t wait to get to know me.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 39
My Irrational Fear, by Meghan Beakley
I remember pulling into my grandparents’ driveway when I was six years old to see the place crawling with Them. Everywhere – the scaly trunk of the giant pine tree in the front yard, the splintered and bowing railing of the porch, the elliptical leaves of the azalea bush under the bathroom window – their hard, slick bodies clung with stiletto feet.
Sitting in my Graco booster seat, a year’s worth of contraband candy wrappers crumpled into the pull-out cup holders, I stared out the window in horror. As far as I could see, everything was covered in black polka dots: black polka dots with lifeless red eyes.
My ears were filled with a sickening crunch as the car ran over the diaphanous, yellow shells that littered the driveway. The tires ground them into the shady asphalt. And all around us, there was the hissing of their chirps. It was a sizzling noise, almost like the sound of bacon thrown into the skillet on Christmas morning. But this wasn’t the beautiful sound of delicious pig fat cooking in my mother’s best Pampered Chef pan. This was the sound of something evil, something hideous. Their song rose in a creepy crescendo, punctuated by the swat of the screen door closing as my Nana loped onto the front porch to greet us.
My mom’s car door slammed. I clutched my baby doll close to my chest. I knew I had to get out of the car. I knew I had to go into the house and hug my Nana on that vermin infested old porch. My heart was racing. Tears were welling in my eyes. I whimpered my protestations.
Suddenly, my door was flung open. Leafy sunlight and the vile concerto of the bugs hit me all at once. I cried.
“You have to get out of the car,” my mom told me.
I cried harder. I wailed.
“You can’t just sit in the car.”
My tears were hot lava streaking down my face. My sobs intensified.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 40 “What’s wrong?”
My Nana had come down from the porch. She was standing next to my mother, their faces obstructing the sunlight that spilled through the trees. They were standing on them, their shoes touching the shells, the dead bodies of the grotesque creatures that had clearly vanquished my grandparents’ backyard. Why weren’t they scared? Didn’t they see how dangerous and disgusting these things were? They might as well have just bathed their shoes in hepatitis.
“She won’t get out of the car. She’s scared of the cicadas.”
“Oh for Heaven’s sake.”
They were laughing at the child, scared for her life in the backseat of a Toyota Camry while outside the world was gradually consumed – bitten off and swallowed whole – by a swarm of 17-year locusts. How inconsiderate of them.
“Do we need to carry you?”
I could sense the sarcasm in my mother’s voice. She was obviously both amused and annoyed. I nodded my blotchy, tear-stained face. With a sigh, she scooped me out of my car seat and carried me to the house, because that’s what mothers do when their children face irrational fear. They will move Heaven and Earth in the moment, and then, to blushing amusement, tell the child’s first boyfriend about the ordeal years later.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 41
Navigation, by Kacie Lee
Laughter overflowed the car and the windows opened to let it out, to let it out and for it to be lost in the wind. And lost in the drive was the mind, the mind that only left burnt rubber behind and we navigated the narrow streets of Philly with slow tires and desensitized eyes. Imagined my body narrow, I pictured my body shrunk in the claustrophobic street in hopes the car would do the same. Car doors trapped conversation trapped emotion—Google failed—and so trapped commotion when we were blind when we didn’t know which thin street to turn to next. Endless possibility watching people watching character. I walked the streets as we drove.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 42
Our Haven, by Kacie Lee
It’s in the heart of downtown, where gunfire meets corner street delis and children cross railroad tracks by themselves. Everyone knows to stay inside after seven, and even then news stories often release showing the murder of yet another fallen innocent. And yet, amidst this chaos, amidst this danger, I found my childhood safe haven. Across the tracks and down a hill, a huge flat parking lot prefaces the water. It’s as if suburbia battled nature, and grass won. Slowly, over the years, I’ve watched grass tatter the macadam and take over. The water laps against the floating dock protruding off the land. It’s rhythmic, reliable, the sound was something I knew would always come, no matter what. The Susquehanna is a beautiful river, a river that looks like a reflected staircase under the moonlight and a glittering pathway in the sun. I’ve watched children play, couples hike, and teenagers laugh while sitting by the water. And that was when I realized that this wasn’t just my safe haven… it was the city’s.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 43 Settling, by Dean Hanson
The game’s coming to an end. Quit watching that silly sport. My grandfather loved poker. He hated anything distracting me from the game, especially when it was getting late and the Sixers were on. Two dollars, he said. My grandfather had something. He never bluffed. His hands were folded over his cards. He held an even stronger hand than I’d thought. He seemed very comfortable. Five. But after thirteen years, I had developed strategies of my own. He swirled the aged wine he was drinking, peering at the fading piece of felt we were playing on. Pondering. Trapped in thought. He never takes this long, I thought to myself. Call. Whaddayagot? I lived for these moments. Four Queens. He grins from ear to ear, turning over four prestigious Jacks. Nice hand. I taught you well, young whippersnapper. He lived for these moments.
Dean, give me a call. You’re tied for the lead in the pool. Get your picks in. Alright? Alright. Make sure you get them in. And the only night I can play cards is Friday. So long. I always forgot about our family football pool. I started when I was four years old, the same age I started playing poker. Being the only grandson, my grandfather, who had five daughters, seized this opportunity to indulge his interests in me. He helped me catch my first sunny at five years old, in the Neshaminy creek. I was terrified of its sticky, prickly exterior but fascinated by the sunset reflected on its skin. My brain was a sponge back then, and everything this man said to me was vacuumed by my ears. As I grew older, helping my grandfather around the house and getting my picks in became a chore for me. This little, weightless aggravation never overcame the respect I had for this man. I still took care of his property whenever he asked, any day of the week. Except Fridays.
I haven’t bluffed yet. I remember my grandfather told me only to bluff once a couple hours. I’m all in. No, he said. This was against the rules of poker and contradicting the rules of poker is foreign to our matured game. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. If I lost, then he would have all my money. The night would be over for me. He clearly had a better hand than me. My bluff would not prevail. After checking my black, crumbly Bicycle cards, I looked up. His eyes peered deep into my soul. I didn’t see the sunshine of the sunnies anymore. He didn’t want me to go all in. I settled. Call.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 44
The Light Enters Through the Cracks, by Sami Scherrer
I. The Egg
“I say, stay in there, I’m not going to let anybody see you” – Charles Bukowski, “Bluebird”
The train, chugging towards the station, moved through a beautiful landscape of fir trees and chirping bluebirds. We were sitting at the front, soaking the scenery in. Up ahead, we noticed a mangled piece of track running parallel to ours and a crew furiously working to improve the situation. “Well, that sure is all horsed up,” he said, mocking our father’s deep Pittsburgh accent. We immediately started laughing together, reveling in memories of growing up. Once my laughter began to subside, I looked into his dark brown eyes, his face still spread with a deep smile. “Why Jimmy?” I asked. He turned to me, his smile softening.
My mind left the train. Entering consciousness, I reminded myself of the agonizing truth, “It was a dream. He’s not here.” My eyes opened, dispersing hot tears that streamed down my cheek. The white walls of my dorm room confirmed reality. I drew air in through my nose and held it. The exhale attempted to release enough emotion so my tears remained undetected by my roommate. I rolled over and picked up my phone before the alarm went off. “Happy first day of college!!” a text from my mom read. I rose from my twin bed and walked towards the vanity I shared with my roommate. I looked in the mirror, seeing myself differently than I had just a few short days ago. “Shove it down. Never let anyone see. You have to make friends,” I reminded myself.
I gave myself fifteen minutes to walk to my first college class, English 140, Contemporary Literature. Stepping outside, I felt the barrier I created enclose me. I passed unknown faces. Some with headphones in, others walked alongside friends, still more walked alone with their heads held high as they began their semester – the heavy truth I carried and protected within me unseen by all. I wondered if these unfamiliar faces were hiding anything, too.
* * *
“Luca studied entomology. He specialized in bees and was writing his thesis on their migration patterns,” Erica said as we drove to our suicide survivor group. Counseling services originally wanted to place me in a general grief share group with other students, but after I told the counselors
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 45 we had found Jimmy’s letter, they referred me to an off-campus support group for suicide survivors. Erica was a grad student reeling from the loss of her friend, Luca. Every Tuesday, she would come pick me up from my dorm in her forest green Jeep. “I am a scientist. I always look for answers, but with this, I am having a hard time finding any,” she told me during our first car trip to group.
For the majority of the week, classes allowed me to avoid processing the anger and sadness from my brother’s death. None of the people I had met so far knew, and I was able to keep this painful secret hidden behind my self-constructed barrier. Tuesdays were when support group forced my truth out. Our group was led by a woman in her mid-60’s named Jane whose mother ended her life when Jane was 17. She was a tall, willowy figure with shoulder-length gray hair. Each week, she arranged the chairs in the room in a circle and placed a table in the center covered in tissues and trinkets she would use to lead discussions. The room was painted a soft blue made darker by the dimmed lighting. Participants treated seating like church, where each person had a specific chair they gravitated towards each week. Jane sat towards the entrance of the room and leaned her body over her crossed legs, as though she were leaning into us and our stories. I always sat by a couple who had lost their son eight years before. Each week I wondered if I was still going to be sitting in my chair for the next eight years.
It was our last meeting before Christmas. The last meeting before I returned home for the first time since Jimmy’s funeral in late August. “I want everyone to take a cup,” Jane said. Small Dixie cups were stacked on the center table next to a burning candle. Jane grabbed a box from her purse, a clinking sound signaling small items inside. “You all know how much I love trinkets,” Jane said as she poured small glass hearts and plastic beads into a basket on the center table. “For our last time together before the new year, I want us to go around and place a heart or bead into each other’s cups.” She picked up a fragile red glass heart and placed it in my cup. “Sami, this is for your brother’s red guitar and his love of music.”
The hour was spent bestowing symbols of loved ones and each other’s journeys into our Dixie cups. Everyone took turns collecting hearts and beads and distributing them to each other. I remained seated, staring ahead bent over and clutching my arms as tears streamed down my face. I felt raw, as if each clinking bead or glass heart placed in my cup cut deeper into me, exposing the anguish Jimmy threw me in.
Once Jane’s glass hearts and plastic beads all found a story and Dixie cup home, she rose from her seat to blow out the candle on the center table. After extinguishing the flame, she scraped off a piece of egg-colored melted wax stuck to the table. “Here, Sami, this is for you,” she said as she placed the hardened wax in my cup. “Since you are at the beginning of your journey.”
II. The Feeding
“There is no rush to put yourself back together all at once” – Alex Elle, Neon Soul
It was the first anniversary, and I was drawn to the openness and privacy of Penn State’s Arboretum. “How do you celebrate a death day?” I thought to myself. Do I wallow? Do I cry? Do I eat his favorite tortilla soup? Do I watch an old Penguins game and pretend he’s watching too? I
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 46 reached the wooden bridge to the entrance of the Arboretum and decided to walk until I felt drawn to a spot. I walked past tall green hedges molded around the walkway blooming with white camellias. The walkway opened to a center greenspace and I became consumed by the rollercoaster of thoughts in my head.
“Did he think about how many people he was hurting before he swallowed those pills?” I thought to myself as I walked past children and families enjoying the final days of summer. My heart felt heavy, as if all my anger and pain towards Jimmy dropped into my chest. I closed my eyes and inhaled, acknowledging that I would never know the answer.
I reached the terrace on the Arboretum’s edge and sat on the grass facing the trees surrounding the property. I had been holding in my tears all day, waiting for this moment to free myself, but felt nothing. Perhaps my tears dried in the waiting. A monarch butterfly flew past my face, catching my eye like passing a recognizable face you struggle to name. Familiar, its appearance stirred feelings of significance from an unknown place. It flew around as if it were a protector or reminder of a part of my identity. A subtle smile spread across my face, acknowledging the mysterious connection between us. I knew he had something to do with my linkage to these insects, but the answer as to how or why had yet to come.
* * *
“I want you to have this. It was my mother’s.” Ms. Naomi handed me a butterfly brooch with blue gemstones. I ran my fingers over the brooch. Raised metal bumps texturized the surface and the dark gray coloring gave evidence of the pin’s maturity. Ms. Naomi had found me crying and shaking in Thomas Building when my father called to tell me my brother died and she walked me back to my dorm. A few months later, I received an email from her asking if I wanted to go to lunch. We formed a peculiar bond. She is a renowned statistics professor whose presence at the most pivotal point in my life forever linked us. Throughout my freshman and sophomore year, she continued to reach out and take me to lunch occasionally.
This month’s lunch was at The Deli downtown. It was the first Thursday of the spring semester and Ms. Naomi had buried her mother over the winter holiday. She always wore a piece of jewelry or accessory from one of her travels, and today was wearing a pastel striped headband from Thailand. I knew this butterfly was connected to the one I saw at the Arboretum on the first anniversary without Jimmy. I put the brooch in my backpack and carried it with me until I returned home to my dorm.
I picked up my framed picture of Jimmy and me on my desk when I returned to my dorm. The image was from his high school graduation almost fifteen years ago. His dark brown eyes were beaming underneath his graduation cap and he was holding me on his hip. His bright smile would fool anyone into thinking he could never meet such a tragic end. I glued the butterfly brooch to the corner of the frame.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 47 III. The Chrysalis
“What is stronger than the human heart which shatters over and over and still lives” – Rupi Kaur, Milk and Honey
“You do not need to carry him with you,” Pastor Owens said. Tears were streaming down my face, acknowledging the truth of his statement. I quickly brushed them away, nervous that a visitor would come in and see the receptionist crying. Sitting in his motorized chair, Pastor Owens was eye level with me as I sat behind the front desk. It was nighttime and the darkness streamed through the windows, darkening the entire room. No one had called or entered the facility for the past hour, as if the universe kept everything on hold until I heard Pastor Owen’s words.
It was the summer after my sophomore year and I had returned to my receptionist job at a local nursing home that I had held since my high school days. Pastor Owens was an Iraqi War veteran undergoing rehab at the facility after having his leg amputated. He was only 45, but his hair was almost completely gray and he had deeply set lines on his forehead. I never asked, but always assumed his experiences in Iraq aged him. We had met the previous December while I was home working during my winter break. He came up to my desk and began talking to me, sensing there was a truth I kept buried within me. He eventually pried me open and allowed me to release the pain and anger that had festered within me since my brother’s suicide.
“You are not going to do what your brother did,” Pastor Owens said to me. My chest began to feel lighter, as if a weight had been removed from it. For the past two years, I found myself depressed and easily agitated for no reason. Although seemingly fine from an outsider’s point of view, I was incredibly unhappy with the life I was living and had no logical explanation as to why. “This is your life to live. Never let your past take from your future,” he said as his eyes locked on mine. I looked at the clock and noticed my shift had ended a half hour ago. My eyes dry from the release of my tears. The evening news continued to blare in the corner, reminding me that the world has continued to move for these past two years. I stood up and hugged Pastor Owens, feeling every piece of guilt and loneliness from Jimmy’s death leave me.
I felt drawn to him when I returned home that night, as if I needed to tell him to become completely liberated. I walked downstairs to the basement, past my grandma’s old flower embroidered couch and Jimmy’s red guitar that had not been moved since he left it leaning next to the door of the storage room. Wreaths for every holiday, old little league and soccer trophies, dusty stuffed animals, and other forgotten items occupied the shelves of the storage room in the back of the basement. On the top shelf next to my father’s ski poles was a bright blue urn with three white doves pictured flying on the front. The gold rim of the lid glistened amongst the brown cardboard boxes of old family Polaroids and black luggage.
I lifted the urn off the shelf and ran my hand over the three doves. “It’s you, Bobby, and Jimmy,” my dad had said when we picked it out. One bird flew above the other two and I could not help but think that it was Jimmy watching over my other brother, Bobby, and me. My shaking hand twisted off the gold rimmed lid to reveal the cement colored ashes.
“I forgive you,” I said into the urn.
* * *
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 48 She was running around, giggling without a care in the world. “Watch me do this!” she said as she began to spin around in circles. She looked just like me. Blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin. I was sitting in a small room as the little girl circled around me. So full of life and energy, she made me feel ashamed of myself. How did I not know I had a two-year-old daughter? How could I neglect her for two years? She was so young and precious. Where has she been for the past two years?
A tight feeling in my chest woke me up. Realizing I was back in my bed at my apartment, I took a deep breath. I stared ahead at the white ceilings, relieved that my two-year-old daughter was nothing more than an invention of my dreams. “Why did I have this dream?” I thought to myself. I did the math in my head. Two years ago, I was incredibly lost, reeling from Jimmy’s suicide. I refused to process what happened for two years, opting instead to run away and hide from the grief and anger festering within me.
My eyes widened, and my heart began beating quickly. The little girl was me.
IV. Emergence
“And tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” – Mary Oliver, “The Summer Day”
“Look at you, thriving!” Ms. Naomi said as we sat and ate Creamery bagels. I relished her words, knowing for the first time in almost three years I was alive and thriving. The Creamery was bustling with students stopping for a quick coffee between classes and tour groups waiting in line for their first taste of the famed ice cream. We sat at a table in the center and I was excitedly telling her about dancing in THON and my upcoming internship.
Ms. Naomi had retired at the end of the previous school year and was now traveling across the U.S. with her husband in their RV. She had stopped in State College for the night and we met at the Creamery for lunch before she left with her husband for their next RV excursion to Florida. It was the beginning of the spring semester of my junior year and I had never felt stronger and more capable.
“While we were in Mexico, we went to a monarch butterfly sanctuary,” Ms. Naomi told me. “They really are stunning creatures. They migrate to warmer climates during the winter and somehow always know when it is time to return and begin the next generation.”
I thought about the butterfly brooch Ms. Naomi gave me two years earlier. “I wonder how they know when it is time to emerge from their chrysalis,” I said to her.
* * *
At the beginning of our senior year, my childhood best friend, Matt, and I decided to participate in our city’s suicide awareness walk. Matt’s family had a history of mental health illness and suicide and we both felt ready to participate in the walk. The event was my first time publicizing my connection to the death. I previously shied away from admitting the cause of my brother’s passing, not willing or ready to accept his decision. Upon entering, we were greeted by a tent filled with various colors of plastic beads where each color represented a different connection to suicide. Red signaled loss of a
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 49 spouse, green for those who struggled personally, and a bright orange for participants who had lost a sibling. I proudly selected two bright orange beaded necklaces to wear, the cheap coloring soon rubbing off on my neck.
We roamed the sponsor tents offering free lip balm, reusable bags, and keychains, taking as many free items as we could. The last tent we came to offered no cheap plastic souvenirs from sponsoring companies, but rather small monarch butterfly stickers. “What do these butterflies signify?” I asked the woman working the table.
“Hope. Having the will to keep going,” she responded. I soon learned monarch butterflies serve as a prominent symbol of the suicide awareness movement, encouraging people to continue to grow and realize the opportunity and redemption of life.
I looked at the detailed image of the monarch. The vibrant, bright orange coloring contrasted beautifully with the butterfly’s black trim and white spots that line the edges of its wing. “This kind of beauty takes time to create,” I thought to myself.
Indeed, this kind of beauty takes sadness, acceptance, and forgiveness to create.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 50
POETRY
1,3-Dichloropropene, by Nicholas Everett Chasler
Murky pond, full of frogs and phage Abnormal cell division, progression through each stage Shiny clubs, polo shirts, a landscape glitters green Insidious destruction reflected in the sheen Superficial beauty and a latent 1,3-D Sickeningly sweet, a muffled, muted plea Mind on equal par—not chemotherapy Crystal pond, not full of frogs or phage Unaware a much worse game is being played
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 51
Air, by Jacob Lazarow
The day was much too cold for ice cream When the familiar tune echoed down the street Renouncing winter, embracing spring But, since Dad was visiting He bought us both cones We sat on the side of the road Teeth chattering, bodies shaking Yet, in that moment I’d never felt warmer
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 52 All I Desire Surrenders, by Annie Murphy
To your 260pound body, On top of my 90. Icicle Fingers leave burns, Like that of dry ice. -109°F
Against my 98.6°F. Mouth Ajar, door knob locked. Paralysis knows best Against my underdeveloped Breasts.
Salty sweat drips on my trembling thighs. Manipulate the fragile, weak, like a rag doll.
Another command. Dampened palms cover My pleading cries. Ready To boil and erupt. I resist. Brother tightens his grip.
Fragile, by Annie Murphy
A frail magpie at the bottom of the cage. our hidden affliction building like blood clots.
Lured from your cologne, I wonder what it’s like to be the limp bird. To be maimed, my kinked wing against the concrete, yours for the taking, still—
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 53
You, In November, by Annie Murphy
Burgundy leaves, same internal clock buzzing, The routine repeats. The tune alerts the sleepers, That their dreams will stay as such, that the misfortunes
Of this cataclysmic space, makes the cool air crack, mid blow. Iridescent howls bring us back to the time we became the wolves. The shed of our skin and tears.
Yellow leaves, the happy toddler plays in the pile, stumbles right, wobbles left. Lemon faces scrunched up at the sight of a prospect not fine enough for the decadent eye, a warm cup of earl grey.
I often find it hard to focus, on Autumn days, while burnt orange leaves shuffle in every direction and woosh viciously through the air, to reach the ground in a still swift swoop.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 54 Demise of Giants, by Sumner Drain
Evergreen traps my nostrils, fumigating my sense of smell, forever lingering within.
The needles, tickle the air, my face, my nose, as I walk through the towering woods.
The bark is aged; rugged and degenerate peeling here and there will be no more.
The naked wood exposed to the rain; nature has a new living playground.
The roots, buried under dirt and death, flourishing from the excess of the dead.
These giants grow whilst we destroy. All gray, Never green.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 55 Dyscalculia, by Nicholas Everett Chasler
Getting so frustrated Trying to stay afloat Silently being the one Who doesn’t understand
Fooling the teacher Will have to do But the class is moving On without you
Light Therapy, by Nicholas Everett Chasler
December, the last of them all A bleak, dead finale To the year’s stagnant drawl Gray snow in the alley Summer hope has disappeared Replaced by winter’s grip It’s what I’ve always feared
Chapped, bleeding hands Winter’s cruel demand Numb toes, long nights, Salted street, Northern Lights
Deaf through my earmuffs Time frozen in this frigid feeling My mind in handcuffs Often too good at concealing
Take me to the sun’s golden rays I need to see the pure white sand The brightness seems to hide these days I can’t recall when my skin was tanned This bitterness is getting old Each season brings its own theme It’s best to sleep away the cold Now that summer’s just a dream
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Nefariously Me, by Nicholas Everett Chasler
Rationalization, regression, displacement, denial Learning how the mind copes with each and every trial
Unwanted mental content, like sadness and pain? Repression is one weapon utilized by the brain
It quarantines thoughts—protects me from disease But there’s no room remaining for this nefarious breed
Chaotic and messy, the brain is magical yet real Possessing intellect and an ability to feel
There isn’t good without some bad, a duality I’ve come to know Unconcerned with being strong or scared weakness will show
I understand this balance, and because of this, I’m free No vaccine or fixture—just nefariously me.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 57 On the Wall, by Nick Miller
And it is somewhere in this great expanse of life that we find ourselves lost. Floating, spinning, with no recourse, splattered on the side of the world. We are paint waiting to dry. We do not know the finished piece till veins run arid, and tears can no longer precipitate; till our eyes are blinded by experience, and the paint drips down our faces. This is all we have waited for: to stand at that gate and see our lives mural once more.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 58
Pennants, by Patrick McGovern
I’ll never have time for these bland, dusty halls That border my stumbles and cold, quickened paces Six crusty buildings and three loving calls Then a tube on a rail moving ten thousand faces
Under stories and stories of friends sharing stories Cockroaches and dachshunds wait for stylized tenants To sleep in the wake of their effortless glories In a city so tall it has moved on from pennants
More than two hundred years has created a labyrinth Made from mountains of glass that are thick like long femurs In the air her torch is an old shimmery synth Making colorful chords for the ships holding dreamers
There is life in the boroughs and bricks looking on, I am breathing in the palm of a hand up at dawn
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 59
Picture Day, by Talia Potochny
Hollister shirt, mini skirt and Ugg Boots. I can’t believe that I look this cute.
Braces shiny with blue rubber bands perfectly matching my eyeshadow and it’s my turn to sit on the X. Back straighter, chin out, turn my face, cock my head.
I glance back at the mirror showing the zits I need to pop and say a quick prayer that the picture lady uses Photoshop
She snaps, tired of our hormone overload, but lady my picture’s gotta be good so the cool kids talk to me, maybe.
And then it’s over.
The lady points to the next in line displays my picture and I think: this can’t be happening.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 60
Love, Art, And… by Jared Mcanany
do i love th’ art for i love the Artist? or love the Artist for i love the art? indeed, they are the same. would that i were His muse, for then we should be as one flesh; while in His own eyes myself reflected, an expression of Himself within me. yet, should i conflate muse and love as such? do not they coincide? if He love me, He should use me; and if He use me (oh! let Him use me!), surely too He loves me. still, am i merely muse, and nothing more? an object to be painted? oh, villain. your reflection was just that: your own face staring back at you. (Exit all but Him).
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 61 Memories, by Kylie Wright
Lonely shadows dance along my wall Illuminated by the street lamp outside Playing out a well known tale Memoirs and sonnets from another life The shadows twirl and step in time To a song that I know but can’t hear This ends only one way, I know I’ve met him—this charming puppeteer The darkness crescendos around me And engulfs me on the hour The beautiful shadows fade from my walls As the street lamp dims in power I need not watch the climax It’s a very scene that I have lived I hum a song from the soundtrack of us One that he once wrote for me As I lay my head back in the pillows And roll over lonely onto my side I yearn for a peaceful night’s rest Without our ghosts stealing the night
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 62
Nature Undone, by Parmis Solaimanian
Light a fire, I say. If you don’t, then the sunset will do it.
Embracing a rich and romantic atmosphere, How long it stretches across the empty sky Will only be a matter of time.
Watch the chemistry of colors, As they blend simultaneously into one, Hugging each other, Complexion at its finest. And the sky will be proud.
Light a fire, I say.
Watch the horizon’s eyes shift like the delicate woven intricacies of a spider’s web, Back and forth, fierce and raw— Like love burnt and then set on stone, Complexion at its finest. And the sky will be proud.
Some people think of the world as if what matters the most Are only bright flowers, Tall green grass, Cloudy aquamarine of the sky, Outcome of straight up, pointy towers. But is this really how it works?
Is it the destination of a journey Or travel that counts?
Light a fire, I say. Light a fire.
If you don’t, then the sunset will do it, Opening the world’s eyes To wilted white flowers and almost dead grass. Only then, will the sky be proud of its own creation. I invite you to watch. I blinked.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 63 Warped Reality, by Parmis Solaimanian
How different would it be, If by default there was another me, Just one of many on a ribbon of infinities, Too wrapped up in a daydream full of colorful commodities.
How lovely would it be, If I could change the art of sin, But life begs to differ, as time can never be unhinged, Loosely based on a craft that God ordered to truthfully behave.
How crazy would it be, If I could jump from this worldline to another, Just to get away from the evil in this one, going further, Because we all know how deeply cruel life can be sometimes.
How interesting would it be, If my life played out abnormally, Maybe this time, I put my pieces together differently, The circumstances would be challenged, as I didn’t know before.
How tragic would it be, If it isn’t what I’m looking for, Where every turn I make, ends in someone else’s forlorn demise, And nothing I do can change it regardless.
How terrible would it be, If I only felt numb to the events that play out, Because whatever I do will never change the game around, I guess we’ll never know.
But will it hurt if I dare to disrupt the neatly organized universe?
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 64 Scenes From a 30 Century Man, by Brett Wachtel
Everyone is paying a life made of dues. Everyone is running but no one’s wearing shoes. We all know the ending it always has us lose.
Everyone is eating not noticing their food. Everyone is driving without a wheel to use. We all know the ending it always has us lose.
Everyone is spending with money overdrew. Everyone is praying to something misconstrued. We all know the ending it always has us lose.
Everyone is wedding but never holding true. Everyone is learning information never used. We all know the ending it always has us lose.
The world is a movie with a never-ending plot. Our cup that we’re filling will never reach the top. One thing that I’m seeing is that life is just a clock.
Take life for granted, and you’ll watch it unfold. Live empty-handed, and you’re bound to implode. To live is to take chances, what comes next is unknown.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 65
Scheme of Things, by Stephanie Levine
if it’s important then it matters if it matters why is it so hard to admit? in the scheme of things, there is much more to it. doesn’t it feel like words can change the world? if everyone listened, I think they could. in the scheme of things, it matters more than it should. the purity of thoughts at 3 am the scenarios playing over in my head. my dreams, thoughts, desires, ideals it makes it hard to rest comfortably in my own bed. you kill me, love me, take me, then leave me. what kind of person do you want to be? up the wall, down again… 3 times over 1 step back 10 times forward i will not crack all your nonsense, brilliance, integrity, lies… so much apprehension behind one set of eyes. i’ll write, create, produce, think… in the scheme of things, it’s only one more drink. you are exactly how I take my coffee, light, sweet, a bit dark, a little bitter. in the scheme of things, I’ll play my part. the recurring question: what do I do with my heart? in the scheme of things, I am one beating heart of nine billion… the insignificance scares me. if every soul has a story, what will mine be? my curiosity and eagerness may get the best of me. if I lose my head trying, I know i’ll eventually be fine. in the scheme of things, it is only a matter of time.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 66 Should These Lips Count as Lips My Lips Have Kissed? by Hannah Cardona
My first kiss was with a guy who was gay on stage at a New Jersey acting camp. My sister’s curiosity clawed its way into the nightmare. She tossed her question into the air, hoping I’d catch it on the other end of the phone call and answer.
Girl, did you feel anything at all? A tornado of detail spun its way through my mind.
It felt hurried and heavy, like a procrastinated assignment he had to get done and over with.
His lips felt hard and overly puckered, wrinkled up and cringed like crumpled up sandpaper. The curls on his chin and cheeks poked at my face mockingly.
He pulled away and chuckled, but kept his hand in mine. I suppose this was his way of saying sorry.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 67 Yo Soy Puertoriqueño, by Hannah Cardona
They look at me as if my caramel color leaks all over their white pavement, tainting the ground underneath the soles of their feet.
As abuelita and I speak on the phone about her new rojo bandana, they listen to me as if my Spanish words are bulleting out of my mouth and tearing through the oxygen around them.
They touch me as if they are sinking their hands into wet mud, letting some sort of germ creep under their fingernails and infect.
I am a speck of dust in their white Christmas. I see one more person of color in the room and instantly feel more worthy. My tongue and hips resurrect every time “Preciosa” pops up on my playlist.
Pase lo que pase, yo seré puertoriqueño. Yo seré puertoriqueño.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 68
Sunflowers, by Elizabeth Melliand
This unlikely shimmering sea of petals towers tall. The flowers flow in the breeze, standing tall.
Emulating the endless hues of the sun They reach for their admirable muse, stretching tall.
The seeds on the sunflowers’ heads look like A gentle eye, gazing above the others, reaching tall.
Even through each strenuous, stressful storm Of the summer, the golden sunflowers remain tall.
Their giant green stalks simply swaying in the wind Permitting the flowers to flex, but never falter; they are forever tall.
And as the storm ends, the flowers turn back Gazing upon the sun, once again stretching up tall.
Without knowing, the sunflowers speak to us That we are always to smile and rise tall.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 69
The Day That Got Away, by Kelli Scerbo
The weight of the glass. The transparency of the drink. The liquid taste of mass. The coldness, tickled pink. Oh, how do I sip? Sip and sip. Losing my mind, Like a long, lost trip. The bottle is my fix. It could be one or six. Mom and dad cry. Oh why, oh why? Silent room. Barely a peep. First one stands up, says he can’t keep. Trouble, defeat, failure, sadness. Why can’t I control all the madness? Life is slipping away so fast. I need to find a way to make it last. I board the plane, Even when I do not feel sane. Walking in to that cold white room Writing that letter goodbye to alcohol was a monsoon. Staring at the ceiling, Unsure of my feeling. There is no looking back. It is time to stay intact. Hopefully this will help, if I stay. This is that day that got away.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 70 The Night Hag, by Olivia Sarkisian
She only meets you In your dreams, the repulsive witch Who crowds your conscience, Breaking the breadth of you mind Like the burst of a vein. Each night she visits The edge of your bed. Paralyzed, you watch With throbbing eyes As she dances rituals Right into your thoughts.
Belting incantations She summons each demon, Pinning them to your shirt, heavy brooches adding weight to a blood-dense body, drowning You deeper and deeper Into the nightmare. Frozen in terror you wait As she clings to your sheets And rips them away like Velcro With nails withered as rotted wood grain. She crawls on top of your aching body As your dying limbs attempt to convulse With their last exertion of life. She chooses her rightful seat On your chest, ribs crunching As brittle cartilage snaps like wishbones, lungs collapsing Like deflating balloons. You yearn for air as she watches You choke with every faint gasp, The fear building in your bloodstream Punching your eyes out from behind. Organs imploding From inside, your body cannot bear The pressure of her presence.
Does she possess you, Or do you possess her?
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 71
Wanderlust, by Jacob Lazarow
I like to sit by the window in my classes But I force myself not to most of the time Because usually I find my eyes wandering Out through the window And While it’s incredibly liberating It turns out that When my eyes return from their sabbatical Class is over And I’ve missed the entire lecture
I find myself compulsively checking the door Of any one-person bathroom In any restaurant Because I refuse to believe that I’m safe There’s nothing more vulnerable Than being at the mercy of someone else That has to shit
My parents moved just when I left for college So on breaks I don’t have the benefit Of refamiliarizing myself with my own bed So I sleep in many I often wake up confused Unsure of where I am An alien pillow supporting my head I don’t sleep particularly well anymore
I remember an elementary school sick day Entombed in blankets Suffering through illness and TV commercials I decided to remember that moment And I made it a point to think about it Every day for months And it’s still there A useless piece of myself retained solely to have it
I opened up Snapchat yesterday To the front facing camera And I found myself watching my own eyes Flit from side to side
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 72 In a mad attempt to process the truth That it wasn’t my face on the screen
Having completed their journey My eyes float back into the room Through the open window I reconvene with the lecture As everyone takes their leave Class is over
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 73 Water Under the Bridge, by Madeline Rose Cameron
The river by my house Always reeks of decay A sickening stench, always accompanied By the droning sound of flies.
I stare over the bridge, trying to see Through the murky mess of water But I know what lies underneath A vile monster, that eats things thrown over.
An older man walks past, And tosses a cigarette over the edge. It floats and floats with the current Until the surface breaks with the monster’s head
It has skin like gravel, crusted with grime Its barbed tail whips through the water Slime trailing in its wake And teeth, jagged like the glass of broken bottles.
It looks at me, its eyes demonic Slitted like a snakes It swallows the cigarette, gurgling My skin crawls, and it slithers away
I wonder if the man knows he just fed the monster. I wonder what else it has eaten today.
I wonder if the monster would eat me If I fell in. I peer over the bridge at my reflection Broken by the ripples of the water.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 74
Weeping Willow, by Rachel Yakima
Her branches touch what he cannot reach And, oh, the wisdom she could teach To men who hold no misogynist soul: One that belongs to a cave-dwelling troll.
Her leafy exterior falls to expose her in winter But if he touches her skin, he will yelp from a splinter. Strong, yet vulnerable, her life is brutal by nature. She is used for houses, décor, and other forms of pleasure.
The tree huggers are mocked but admire her presence Like the feminists who praise and march for all women. What she truly deserves is a warm, friendly “thanks” For the air, shade, and relief she gives every day.
She protects and shelters us, maybe not by choice. And if only she could use her voice To proclaim her ideas and all her knowledge That humanity chooses to not acknowledge.
But all her life, she stands firmly in place. That weeping willow, full of grace.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 75
When Upon The Beach One Night, by Tyler Gerber
I saw beneath the pale moonlight On ebony sand like painted glass A most unwelcome fire’s light Whence from it came I could not guess
I knew at just a passing glance What I could see as the light neared And in my vision fire danced It came to feed upon my fear
Vermillion tongues flicked at my gaze Thundering waves crashed all around As darkness filled the crimson haze I cried no more a single sound
The fire ever brighter roared My eyes no longer served me Blackness clamped down upon my soul Locked tightly for eternity
Sand fell away my ground to stand Replaced by empty endless space Alight I had to come to land To find a final resting place
Then suddenly the vision ceased My soul and eyes once more set free In moonlight shining on the beach I saw just sand so ebony
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 76
You Didn’t Know, by Veronica Garis
You didn’t know how America would mold us. You didn’t know the falsehood of the American Dream. Your Russian tongue slowly lost its song and shattered China Decorated the floor as you stood Practicing the same words over and over.
You turned the blame inward and cursed at the mirror. Your eyeliner would smear and Your mascara would clump as Your fiery tears turned to ashes on your cheeks and it was me you left alone as you turned to dreamless sleep.
But, every now and then you would rise without rest your petite shoulders hunched as you clawed at your chest. Shouts replaced sobs and your voice echoed against our wood-paneled walls and travelled through the ears of the reckless drunk you’d call—only to find out that you’d need bail or bond. After the third time he was gone.
You didn’t know how we’d lay in the snow, mother and daughter, trying to make angels that we didn’t believe in. We’d rise together and solidify flakes while giving him a scarf and gloves for the sticks but Frosty wasn’t my father
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 77 Nor a companion for you.
You didn’t know you’d go through another husband or two.
Waiting for a love that I could never provide you. But you kept on searching as any mother would do while trying to cover our lavender bruises and two gaping wounds.
You didn’t know how much I looked up to you.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 78 ART
Fun, Games & Sons LLC, by Daniel Kozar
As we all grow older, this piece is a kind reminder that the more things change the more they stay the same. And that is okay.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 79
The Abbey, by Daniel Kozar
This is a rendition of a door at a convent I came across this past summer. It made me think of the middle ages and the plague. Plague = rats = Charlie Brown.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 80
The Wheel, by Daniel Kozar
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 81 Baby Driver, by Hannah Foster
plastic, paper, plaster, tape, fabric, poly-fil, acrylic paint, wood, wire
This work shows the humor and whimsy that frequent my work. I began with a loose sketch and a play of materials. Having materials at hand, typically found or inexpensive, is one of the most important aspects of my process. Baby Driver is titled after a Simon and Garfunkel song that I couldn’t get out of my head as I was creating this.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 82 Take a Peek, by Hannah Foster
found wooden stool, paper clay, tape, fabric
This was the first piece I made after considering the similarities of objects and humans. The legs of a chair, the lip of a glass, the belly of a bow…we relate the human body to objects through language, so the question arose, how can I develop a visual language addressing this concept?
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 83 The Swell, by Hannah Foster paper clay, tape, fabric, wood, wire, acrylic paint
I’ve always used found and common objects in my art. Spotting a pile of chair legs at a resale shop pushed this idea forward. I was watching a lot of 80s sci-fi films at the time, and the thought of creating a long-legged creature thrilled me. I typically situate familiar objects in unusual situations to guide the viewer into my wacky world where materials and objects exist in transition rather than in a final state.
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Reflection, by Joy Blazofsky
My recent work has been a study of objects that come of some importance to me, and how those objects are translated through the shadows they cast onto surfaces. Through tracing the shadows of these objects, I am able to create an entirely new composition that is virtually unrecognizable from what it is in reality. These compositions have allowed me to explore not only the shapes that these objects can make, but how my body interacts with them, and in the end creating a portrait of myself in a new way.
KLIO 2018| klio.psu.edu 85
See Me, by Joy Blazofsky
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Self- Portrait, by Joy Blazofsky
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Self- Portrait II, by Joy Blazofsky
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MUSIC
Follow the link embedded in each name to hear the music of each of these artists:
Chris Eichlin Danger Barry Dariya Intermission Improv Kristen Nodell Palmlines Prince Adaburgh TV Dinners
For bios, blog posts, and feature articles on musicians, visit: klio.psu.edu.
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